little-b (buzzylittleb) wrote,

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DS fic: Something In The Water

This is post number 250. My how time flies when you're having fun (or peddling your own brand of depressing depression) and the fiction bunny chose this very day to awaketh and kick one of my WIPs until it quit wipping and started working.

So consider this repayment for your touching fealty. Sorry, comic fans, it's Due South again, I will try and talk to my comic muses when they come back off holiday.

Anyway, it's my first attempt at fic with anything beyond kissing...

So here's the handy summary bit:
Pairing: Fraser/Kowalski. (no, it's not daring, but hey!)
Rating: T for “things” happen. Yeah.
Words: about 2700 of the little buggers

And an author's note:
This was my first Due South fic. I am now very glad it didn't make the appropriate ds_flashfiction challenge as this gave me an opportunity to kick it in the head and hopefully make it work (for a change). This hasn't stopped my isane first person Kowalski voice much though.

Something In The Water

Rating: T for “things” happen. Yeah.
Disclaimer thing: These visions of loveliness belong to Alliance/Atlantis, not me. Actually, I think they belong to each other, but hey!

If you’d told me last week that Fraser was going to lose his voice, I’d have just spun round and said, “Well, yeah, silence is golden.”

I mean it’s not as if you can ever get him to shut up. I’m normally up to my ass in Inuit stories and useful information about Canadian Impressionism or how to catch a Caribou with only a piece of twine and a toque. Sure, it could be halfway interesting, but normally I don’t want to hear about any of these things when we’re staking out some illegal Llama smuggling operation, not if I want to stay alive at any rate. Those Columbian Llama Barons are mean, and they have really good hearing. Must be all that fresh air up in the Andes, like Canada but in the opposite direction. And all these badass smugglers have, like, hunting rifles, just in case those Llamas are rabid or something, and all I have is a mental Mountie, a ballistic wolf, and a gun in the hands of a cop who can’t shoot straight minus glasses. And where are my glasses? In the wolf-basket. The wolf’s not just a florist, he’s a freaking optometrist.

But now, Fraser can’t talk and it’s driving me nuts. How nuts? I haven’t been this nuts since the great peanut heist. What do you mean you never heard about the great peanut robbery? It was the duck boys’ finest hour. All I can say is never offer a cop from the 2-7 nuts. The least that could happen is that you end up in the freaking nuthouse, and from what Vecchio’s files say, that is so not a good place to be. Unless, of course, you have a Mountie, who can cut you out of a rubber room with his hat.

And if this silence thing is driving me nuts, god only knows what it’s doing to him.

The thing is, it ain’t just Fraser, it’s the whole freaking consulate. All three of them.

Sure, with Turnbull that’s a small mercy. No more conversations about curling or the divine beauty of her majesty the Queen – just his handy little flashcards, which are cute if clearly the product of a disturbed mind. Let’s see there’s the one with the maple leaf and a big tall tower, there’s the one that says “No, I don’t sing ‘coo loo’, ask again and I will show you my curling memorabilia” (so, Turnbull’s more self aware than I thought, maybe he just takes a perverse joy in boring the pants off folks), and finally there is that classic, a quite good picture of Dudley-Do-Right with a big fat cross through it. Clearly a lot of thought and effort has gone into those.

But Thatcher, she’s another matter entirely. I’ve seen the memos she’s been sending Fraser – via Turnbull, that’s how icy she’s got – she was saying, insinuating (a Fraser word, I’m compensating), that it was the tea Fraser bought that did it. Yeah, right. I think the Ice Queen’s brain has finally frozen.

“I really think they ought to get one of those handwriting/personality analysis people into the Consulate.”
	Graphologists, Ray, They are called graphologists.

“Yeah, thanks, Fraser. Quick on the pen there. See here’s my case in point, not at all like the Ice Queen, all spiky and aggressive, or all limp like Turnbull.”
        There are times when I think that the application of that appellation to my senior officer 
is deeply inappropriate.  I think you’re referring to the lack of definition in the formation 
of Renfield’s…

“Fucking well everything, Fraser. It’s a wriggly line with the odd dot on top. And you’re not objecting to me calling her the Ice Queen now, are you? You’re mad as I am. The Mountie with the magic tongue would know if his tea was contaminated with anything.”
	That’s very flattering, Ray.  But I still can’t talk.

“Yeah, don’t think I’m not making the most of that. Don’t look at me like that, Fraser, I’m just fooling. Back to the programme, unlike the other two reprobates working on approximately 300 thousand cubic feet of Canadian soil, Fraser has readable writing, what it says, though, is another matter.”
	Really, Ray, what do I say?

“It’s so old fashioned, what with all the loops and shit, it’s practically prehistoric.”
        If my writing were prehistoric, Ray, I’d be painting pictures of buffalo on cave walls.

“I don’t mean that! It’s kinda Victorian, starchy, repressed.”

The words were out before I could think and now Fraser’s sulking, he’s just retreated inside himself and he’s blanking me out. Somehow, that he can’t talk just makes it a hundred thousand times worse. I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut, and my best friend hasn’t just called me as a repressed Victorian guy, if I was him, I’d seriously consider trading the idiot best friend.

Heck, if I was Fraser, I’d kick the idiot best friend in the head.

But then I wouldn’t be mister repressed Victorian guy with the handwriting that speaks of restraint and desperate control. That and it must be really hard to kick somebody in the head if you’re wearing the pumpkin pants.

Somehow I talked forensics into checking out the water supply over at Little Canada. I told them that it took out our freaking language specialist and Canadian liaison officer, and boy, those Canadians can be hard to liaise with. Somehow I kept a straight face through that little speech; me liaising with Fraser. I wish.

Too right it wasn’t the tea; there was some kind of microbe colony living in the pipe work. That stuff is out of the freaking ark. I wonder if the Ice Queen is skimming off the maintenance budget or Turnbull’s spending it all on deluxe curling kettles. They probably have pink diamond encrusted handles, will do some detection work on that front.

I stuck my head into the mortuary to ask Mort, Mr Cheerful Morbidity himself, about the micro-whatsit. Heck, he’s the only medical person I know.

I nearly chickened out though when I found him munching on what looked like some baby wieners whilst going through an entire jar of pickled and detached fingers. And yeah, he was doing the whole opera thing. With his mouth full of pseudo wiener. “Ah, Detective Vecchio, what can I do for you this fine morn? Would you like one? They’re chicken!”

Then my stomach decided it was leaving the room and whether I was leaving the room with it was my own choice to make.

So, Mort and the mortuary freak me out. And not good freak, like my freak, the Mountie, who is currently heading up the freakometer. I mean, what are the chances that the mortuary guy would be called Mort? Or maybe he just changed his name. All he needs now is tomb of Dracula music and he’s made. Maybe it’s a bit like those “comic” gravediggers in Shakespeare. Heh, I’m not a total idiot, Fraser isn’t the only guy who knows the greats of English Literature. Shakespeare, Dickens, Stan Lee; I know them all.

Fraser, library boy, where is he? I can’t leave him in the wilds of Chicago, unable to speak for himself, unable to snark his way out of any situation. Sure it’s subtle, but I know snark when I hear it, stealth-snark that’s it, it sneaks under radar and is all sharp angles and darkness, but it can’t hide from me. So what do I have, that everyone else doesn’t? Snardar sounds so sucky, beyond-the-valley-of-suck sucky. Doesn’t work like Gaydar, say, that sounds great, but I don’t think mine works all that well. I mean I keep getting these weird signals round him, and I don’t have any idea what they mean, ‘cause since when did I read the handbook to anything? No, “Canadian Impressionism For Dummies” does not count. No, it’s not the handbook to the Mountie. Look, Impressionism is simple; what they saw, you get. The Mountie isn’t simple what you see, you don’t get, especially if you have a blind spot for sarcasm like most people round here. Or was it irony? See that’s why I prefer “snark”, it leaves linguini, linguistic analysis aside and goes to the heart of the matter. The smile means nothing, the Mountie is probably dreaming of feeding you to a friendly neighbourhood Polar Bear and writing it off as a tragic accident that happened to some poor ignorant Yank who was foolish enough to wear white in Bear-season, and is surely on his way to a better place, like the bear’s small intestine.

Oh Jesus, there’s Frannie taking advantage of my Mountie while he’s all incapacitated. I’m trying real hard to concentrate on Frannie here, rather than that I just called Fraser “My Mountie”. I do not own Benton Fraser RCMP, I need to write that on a blackboard a few dozen times. He’s rubbing his eyebrow, make that a few hundred. Fraser is his own Mountie, realise that, Ray. Doubt Frannie realises that, or that Fraser can’t talk, or that sure as polar bears don’t eat penguins, Fraser is not interested.

Actually, what does interest Fraser? And I don’t mean like Tim Hortons, the Dudley-Do-Right hate club, and cooking with Caribou. I know exactly what I mean. And looking at Fraser point at me and give a genuine smile that so knocks the crap out of the one that he usually wears, I realise he knows exactly what interests him.

It’s me. Oh fuck. It’s me.

Sure, everything’s greatness. Really. Honest. Told Frannie that Fraser was staying at mine ‘cause there are no water borne contagions there and I do a mean macaroni and cheese. Used a donut on a stick to lure the wolf, who can still howl, dammit, from under Duey’s desk, where he was munching on god knows what. Got a little note from Fraser that said, uh:
 	the amount of snack foodstuffs that the good detective consumes  probably attracts 
mice, and I  could confirm it if only I could lick the desk, since mice are basically incontinent
 and urinate everywhere.

Told freaky Mountie that licking mouse piss was an unnatural and perverted desire and that I had a natural and totally not perverted desire, that wouldn’t get sorted unless he got into the goat fast. Considered doing pizza, rethought it, would be doing Mountie instead, and pineapple only has so many attractions. Remind self that I’m going to tell every pizzeria in town that Vecchio likes pineapple on his pizza but can’t admit it for fear of being taken in by the Mafiosa for unitalian activities. Drive through five red lights. Get stopped by traffic, show badge and say I have an urgent mission. Yeah, he’s in the seat next to me and likes licking things. Think about licking. Decide I have to drive more slowly because I can’t frick- fucking concentrate. Think about licking and new uses for pineapple rings, sticky sticky uses. Finally reach the apartment minus road crashes and plus Mountie and deaf half-wolf, thank God. God might hate gays, but right now I freaking love him.

Fraser pulls his notebook out of the Sam Browne, how he does that I’ll never know, it’s like some Mountie utility belt, and looks at me. He hasn’t opened it yet, or got the cap off his pen, he’s waiting, isn’t he? Waiting for me to say something. So I do, “nah, Fraser, nice gesture, but that’s an absolute passion killer”

So what do I do? Fraser’s still incommunicado. He might believe that actions speak louder than words, that his father being a good Mountie was better than a single fucking “I love you, son”, which makes me ask myself what I am doing with somebody more fucked up than me, besides planning on, yeah, fucking. But, thing is, I don’t. If Fraser can’t talk, can’t make a sound at all, how am I meant to know if I’m doing things right? It’s not as if he can say “Fuck me kindly, Ray”. Okay so I’ve fantasised about getting him, but that doesn’t make me a sick son of a bitch, hey everyone’s doing it, so he’s my partner, look even if Schwarzenegger was Fraser’s partner, even then he would be thinking about him naked and sweaty and the world’s most polite fuck. The only person who ain’t doing it is Vecchio, ‘cause from what I know of the man… let’s just say I think it’s impossible, okay?

And then I look on the bright side, something hard to do when you’re hurtling to the ground with only a dumpster full of fish heads to break your fall, but easy when you know you’re going to lay or get laid with a sexy Mountie. Hey, Sexy Mountie, S and M, okay maybe I shouldn’t go there, but there is nothing wrong with that. There is nothing wrong about lusting over your buddy, when he lusts right back at you, just more politely and quietly. And course, I said that actions speak louder than words (though he’s got a load of those too) for Benton buddy here. So all I do is stop him prevaricating, procrastinating or any other type of ating. Actually I can think of a real good type of ating, possibly with pineapple, but that’s putting the sledge in front of the Dief, and I haven’t got that far yet. Christ, I need to remind my dick that I haven’t got that far yet, that or get that far, fast. Guess which I prefer.

So yeah, procrastination, First Nation, and every other type of nation stops now. Like this.

I just back him up against the door (fuck the neighbours, I’m fucking the Mountie –hopefully), and grab his head with my hands, tangle my fingers in his hair, and blammo, kiss him like he’s examiner of the advanced buddy breathing class. And his mouth is hot and open against mine, and his lips are so fricking soft, girl soft almost, is that lip balm I can taste behind the pemmican and the bark tea?

The warm hands making their way under my snazziest bowling shirt and moving slowly around my spine and pulling me in close, now that’s not too repressed, maybe he’s learning from me, maybe he’s loosening up. And then one of those hands goes walkies (maybe not the best choice of word, makes me think of Dief and unsexy licking) round to my front and down, and oh fuck, not repressed at all. Ghosts his hand down the front of my shorts, really not repressed, and I push hard against him, trying to suck his mouth to death before I go all happy on him. And then that hard, dry, hot and cold hand takes the plunge and squeezes and it’s sayonara brain cells.

Waking up to the first light of dawn as it creeps across the city like something poetic, now that’s romantic. Waking up to a beautiful, awake, and very horny Mountie, who just has to open his damn mouth, that’s sexy. I just didn’t expect him to use it like this.

“Oh Ray, I trust you found our amatory escapades as enjoyable and satisfactory as I did. I do hope that you reciprocate my feelings in this matter and…”

I open my mouth to say that I love him too, and how I’m now going to make all that dictionary talk go away, and nothing. Nothing comes out. And my throat feels all kinda scratchy. And are those my tonsils? I thought they were a pair of curling kettles, the pink diamante ones that Turnbull’s pushed down my throat for safekeeping until the auditors go.

Oh crap. I so shouldn’t have chickened out on my little talk with Mort. I should have checked that the water-borne strephacockathingy bacteria weren’t communicable. Though really, would my favourite dead people and spare limbs guy tell me that it could only be transmitted orally? More to the point, would he tell Walsh?


You know the drill, crit of all varieties welcome.
p.s if any of you can think of a better way to render the good constable's writing, it would be much apprecaited, too much buggering around with < pre > tags here, and they ignore window sizes if you're not all that careful.
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