(m)pollitt (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} pollitt) wrote in ![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} ds_flashfiction,@ 2003-06-07 04:51:00 |
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| Current mood: |  tired |
The other one
As said in my previous post, I had another story I'd been working on. Well, it seems the muses didn't want me to rest until the other story was finished (I had a page of notes), so I listened. So I can sleep now *g*
Thank you to linda3m and especially to ardent_muses, who hashed this story out with me until the wee hours of the morn. A, you rock, hun, another really late night story hash is now under our belts *g*.
By Pollitt
6.6/7.03
--oo--oo--oo--oo--oo--oo--oo--oo
'Dammit', Ray thought to himself as he listened to the buzz of dead cellular air, 'this was not how it was supposed to happen.'
Fate must've been laughing its ass off at him. It appeared his debt of near misses and quick cover-ups had finally come due. Ray's out-dated cell phone, which had been the size of a shoe (though not as cool as Maxwell Smart's), had finally gone to the cellular circular bin. Which meant he'd been forced to endure a lengthy sales pitch from a salesman whose smile made Ray want to grind his own teeth. After hearing that phones today could do almost everything but cure the hiccups, he'd finally just bought the top-of-the-line model the kid had been holding to avoid having to listen to one more spiel.
Damn his new cell phone and all the fucking extras! All he'd wanted was a stupid 'end' key, not all the buttons that let him check out the time in Tokyo, the weather in London and the latest news in Brussels. Just end, as in conversation done, good-bye, done with talking, farewells said, finito.
He'd just been talking to Fraser, talking about their day - Fraser recounting Turnbull's near-suicidal dash to save the picture of the Queen from some well-sugared brat who had been wielding a paintball rifle.
Nothing was different - they'd talked, laughed, made plans to do pizza and watch the hockey game on TV later that night and then said good-bye.
And just as he usually did, Ray whispered, "I love you, Fraser" into the silence after he'd disconnected. Only this time, instead of reading 'call ended', Ray was informed in flashing LED numerals that it was 12:34 a.m. in Tokyo, and from the slight hitch of breath and the slight crackle from the earpiece, Ray knew Fraser'd heard him.
After three minutes and counting, it was now 12:37 in the land of Godzilla and a ball of tension the size of that radioactive lizard was currently doing an angry tango in Ray's stomach, because Fraser had yet to say a word. Not an "I'm sorry, Ray" speech, or an "And I, you" qualification, not even an "I beg your pardon." Just dead air. In his head, Ray could almost hear the cartoon 'zip' of Fraser high-tailing it back to Canada, or the distant sound of a door slam on any possibility of anything more than a friendly arm over the shoulder or brotherly hug.
'Way to go, Kowalski.'
Fucking cell phone.
Looking at the blue-lit faceplate, Ray poked the 'end' key, this time successfully killing the call.
At 12:46 Tokyo standard time, the sound of Ray's door opening jerked him out of his wallow. The sound of nails on the floor made him aware of the lupine presence and the pound of feet told him a human companion was a mere few steps behind.
Ray thought of saying he was sorry, that he didn't mean it like it sounded, that he loved Fraser symbolically or like a brother and every other variation of the truth he'd said before, but Fraser's mouth stopped his and Fraser's hands found his, gripping them tight. When they separated, both breathless, words that were waiting to be said fell into the shadows as first Fraser and then Ray smiled, then laughed, and finally kissed again until they again were breathless.
All words were forgotten save three, which were said over and over again throughout the night - whispered into each other's ear and into each other's skin.
"I love you."
Meanwhile, back at the Canadian Consulate:
The receiver of the phone in Fraser's office hung from its cord over the edge of his desk, exactly where he had dropped it, and where it would remain until early the next morning when Turnbull, confused as to why the Consulate had yet received any calls, entered the closed, empty office and placed it back on the cradle.
