Summary: Ten hundred-word drabbles about Mounties, Vecchios, Kowalskis, and the ways in which they relate.
Pairing: RayK/Fraser, Stella/Thatcher, and Stella/RayV.
Warnings: m/m, f/f, implied m/f. Experimental style (of writing, not hair). Rated R.
Notes: I do hope this makes sense.
He's my best friend. Truthfully speaking, he's my only friend. One wouldn't think that nationality could make such a difference, but I simply do not speak the language of this city. The Queen's English and Chicago Street Lingo seem to have only a passing resemblance. I am a foreigner here and, having happened upon a native guide, I cling tightly. Perhaps he isolates me by offering to stand as a buffer between the full force of millions upon millions of Americans and one lone Canadian Constable, but I take his help gratefully.
Still, I would rather stand on my own.
Hot damn, check this out. The guy's got style after all. Nice jeans, nice jacket, he can order his chinese food in Chinese -- I think I'm in love.
Like, really in love.
Which is stupid, I know that. If anyone should know better than to believe in love at first sight, I should. Once bitten...not really shy, never mind, scratch that. Hell of a contrast between this guy and my ex, too, like just for starters he's willing to give me the time of day and a dinner date too.
We've got a duet. I think we're singing here.
In the midst of this police station she stands out for her elegance.
Here, the detectives are almost as noisome as the criminals: wrinkled at best, filthy at worst, always overlaid with an odor of burnt coffee and sweat. To think I used to let that one touch me -- perched on the edge of his desk, papers overflowing, muddy boot kicking at air. He cracks his neck, a repulsive habit, and leers at his partner, who would reek of wet wool and wet dog if I deigned to approach.
I must know this lady's name. She inclines her head: hello.
Her apartment is beautiful; I already know that she appreciates elegance, wishes to be surrounded by delicacy. She is a touch of class in this ugly American city.
I've brought the right wine, which is good. I have said the right things, I have smiled the right way, and now, I believe, this is the right moment.
Her bedroom curtains are brushed silk, as are the light cries we make.
In the morning, she'll put on her suit and a light perfume and leave for the office. I'll return to my apartment to do the same. We fit together well.
He is desirable, delightful, and delicious. He gives and takes and laughs out loud the entire time. We have rubbed bodily fluids all across his thin cotton sheets and three times landed on the floor in our exuberance -- the third time neither one of us noticed until much later. We existed in a sublime state of bliss.
I did come courting. He did accept my flowers and dance slowly with me across his floor to the strains of beautiful music. Once my suit was fully accepted, the consummation was a complete gratification of every impatience.
I reach for him again.
Here we are, holding hands in a dark movie theater like kids. They've never seen Star Wars in the theater -- sometimes I feel like the tour guide for half the damn Consulate, but that's cool. Necking's more fun when you might get caught by someone's boss. Later we'll hit the diner, just us, and I'll feed him french fries with my fingers and he'll complain about the salt but lick my hands clean anyway. It's a blue-collar romance, supermarket flowers and cheap dates and waking the neighbors all night, and we both love it.
This guy is just so cool.
She's been out with the boys again; I know that irritated look. I know what she wants, and I'll meet her halfway. Her hands over my breasts are warm and knowing, and her mouth on my neck is demanding. She'll straddle me in the dark, hold me down with her narrow hands, gasp in desperate pleasure when I touch her -- I won't ask her why.
Some questions should not be asked. Some desires ought not be explained. Someday this affair will end, and we need to keep the i's dotted and the t's crossed in readiness for a clean break.
It was always hard to understand how a woman so refined and graceful could bear such ridiculous subordinates, so puffed-up and arrogant in their stiff uniforms. She would sigh and admit it was a burden, mitigated by their slavish obedience that offered such titillating possibilities.
"I'm past that," I told her, but I lied. He said I made him dizzy; he said he wanted to leave his brutish past behind. I let him touch me with his elegant blood-stained hands. He wants a bowling alley and six children, but I know better than that. He'll look nice on my arm.
So he's going back to Canada, that's good, that's where he belongs. I'm going to Florida myself. Maybe that's not where I belong, but it's better than Vegas. Anything's better than Vegas. I don't know where I belong anymore, and he's not helping, not with his nervous smile and his lousy new partner. It's over, it's done, I did what I could and I want my fucking reward now. I'm taking this lady and I'm making her mine and we're going to Florida, okay?
It'd better be okay. Golden bullet and a Gold Coast girl, this is my real life.
He's not a tourist, he's a colonist. It's an amusing thought; to the best of my knowledge, Americans have colonized no lands other than their own before this. It is somewhat unclear as to whether it is Canada or myself which is being claimed in his name, but as I have no objection to either, I encourage him to proceed.
As for myself...well, I've brought home an exotic foreign lover. It is positively titillating to watch him dancing in my rough-hewn cabin or to see the locals staring as he walks through town with me.
I thank him kindly.
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