Date: Wednesday, February 09, 2000 9:30 PM
This is what happens when I'm home sick for 3 days, living onNy-Quil, watching "Eclipse" over and over so I canwrite a review. Thanks to Audra for a rapid and insightful beta.She really deserves co-author credit on this, as much as shetightened up all the sucky spots.
Disclaimers: Benton Fraser & Ray Kowalski belong toAlliance, goldarnit. Rated R for naughty thoughts of boys andtoys.
Feedback to: matthewk@colorado.edu
Snoop
(c) 2000 Kellie Matthews
Benton Fraser feels relieved when Ray's landlady finallyleaves him alone in the apartment. Well, alone save forDiefenbaker, who is just as curious as he is. It's only been ashort time but he feels an odd sense of frustration, an inabilityto get a handle on Ray. He feels he ought to know more,understand more, and he doesn't, although they work extremelywell together. One thing he has noticed, because wolves, evenhalf-wolves, are not known for their subtlety, is that Dief seemsto be very fond of his new partner. He's exhibited what is reallya startling degree of affection, far more than he ever exhibitedwith Ray Vecchio. And despite a rocky start, Ray ... this newRay... seems to like Diefenbaker as well, also unlike RayVecchio, who at best tolerated his companion. Fraser finds thedifference to be surprisingly... pleasurable.
He stands for a moment in the middle of the living room, notcertain what to do next. He knows he should leave: time is of theessence and he's discovered the information he came for. But . .. his eyes are drawn again to the photograph on the roll-topdesk. The one of Ray and an attractive blonde woman. He frowns,wondering who she is, feeling an odd twinge of dislike for thiswoman he's never met, who has never done anything to earn hisdisfavor. Yet there it is. Undeniable. Sister? No, there's anintimacy to the pose that seems to preclude that, and apart froma similarity in coloring she and Ray look nothing alike. Thatnarrows the possibilities to girlfriend... or wife. He doesn'tthink it's the latter, though. He's overheard Ray asking some ofthe women at the 27th if they would like to go out, and he knowswith an inner unshakeable conviction that Ray is not the type tocheat. He's not sure how he knows that, or why, when admittedlyhe knows very little about this man but there's no dislodgingthat certainty and he's not inclined to try. Of course, Ray'sdating game could simply be part of his cover. Ray Vecchio hadcertainly considered himself a ladies man. What he doesn'tunderstand is why Ray isn't more successful in his attempts. Ifhe were a woman . . . but he isn't.
His frown deepens, and he finds himself in the bedroom, at thecloset, which is open, relieving him of the necessity of havingto open it himself. He catalogues the contents quickly, mostlyjeans, khakis, twills, a few sweaters, one good suit in anunusual olive shade, a gray linen blazer, a charcoal blazer,shirts of various types, bowling, polo, even a few dress shirts,one in a rich teal that he suspects would bring out the goldenflecks in Ray's blue eyes. This Ray's wardrobe is not extensive,also unlike Ray Vecchio's. He moves to the bureau, its topscratched and scarred from a thousand nights of having a policeofficer's accoutrements tossed casually down on its surface asRay undresses after work.
Undresses.
He swallows, once more disconcerted by his reaction to thisman. He's been drawn to men before, been aware of this facet ofhis personality, both as a youth on the brink of manhood, andlater, as a man. Mark, Eric, he had felt a version of this withboth of them. But not like this, never before so strong, so . . .demanding. His gaze flickers toward the bed, and he drags itback. There's nothing there that will assist him in his quest. Heavoids looking at himself in the mirror over the dresser, notreally wanting to see himself here, see the expression hesuspects his face holds. He quietly opens a drawer, discovers itfull of t-shirts, multi-hued, haphazardly pushed in with littlecare, some folded, some. . . wadded. Another drawer revealssweatshirts, sweatpants. A third holds socks-- unpaired andrandom. A fourth reveals a jumble of underwear, a startlingvariety, everything from boxers to boxer-briefs to briefs tobikinis, in all manner of colors, and fabrics as well. He wondersbriefly what that might mean about Ray, psychologically speaking.He thinks of his own wardrobe, everything neatly sorted andfolded, his own underclothes, t-shirts, tanks, boxers, nearly allof it white cotton, the occasional gray, or blue. Dull. Clearly,Ray is not dull. He could not, Fraser suspects, be dull if hetried.
He sighs and pushes the drawer closed, turns, only to have thebed catch his eye again. Rumpled, unmade, he imagines Ray there,tangled in the patterned sheets, pale skin lightly flushed. . .no. Resolutely he moves to the bathroom, finds a prescription forsedatives in the medicine chest, an old one, only two pills used.It's out of date, Ray should throw it away. He wonders if it waskept deliberately, or just forgotten. Aspirin and ibuprofen. Aneatly rolled Ace bandage with a safety-pin instead of a clip.Band-aids. Antibiotic ointment. Rubbing alcohol and witch hazel.Deodorant. A full bottle of after-shave, its top and shouldersdusty. Razor. Shaving cream. A tube of hair-gel. The usual sortof things one expects to find in a medicine cabinet. Nothingtremendously revealing.
Moving on to the kitchen, Fraser finds himself bemused by thepattern of Ray's china, which is clearly intended to look likethe hide of Holstein cow. Rather peculiar. Oddly, the kitchen ismeticulously organized, while very little else in the house is.Ray has a good assortment of cookware, of spices, even ofcookbooks. Yet a glance into the refrigerator reveals mostlytake-out food containers. He wonders why, when it's clear thatRay knows how to cook, he obviously rarely does. All in all, theapartment doesn't reveal much, other than that Ray is not aparticularly good housekeeper, which fact does not surprise himin the least, considering the usual state of Ray's desk. Onething is clear, whomever the woman in the photograph is, shedoesn't live here with him, nor does she visit frequently enoughto have left spoor. There is no sign of a woman's touch here,nothing in the closet, in the drawers, in the bathroom, allplaces where he would have expected to find traces, were thereany to find. But that does not rule out less frequent . . .visits.
He frowns, takes a step toward the bedroom. Stops. Heshouldn't do this. It's bad enough that he's invaded Ray'sprivacy to this extent. What he's considering is completelyunethical. All the rest of his investigations he can excuse,however distantly, under a genuine need to know. This he can't.But this need is stronger than the other. Deeper ... Personal. Hemoves slowly toward the bedroom again, glancing around as if tobe sure he's not observed. Dief watches him, neutral, neitherencouraging nor discouraging. He has to make this decision on hisown.
He stands beside the bed, looking at the nightstand. A singledrawer, uninvestigated. He sits, on the edge of the bed, tellinghimself not to. He knows better. He should not. Unconscionable,unforgivable . . . irresistible. His baser nature prevails. Hehas to. His fingers seem to tingle as he eases the drawer open,just enough to see what he half expected to see.
He reaches in, removes the open box. Crown. 12, natural latexrubber . . . he slides his fingers into the box, pulls out thecontents, counts. His eyebrows lift, and something eases insidehis chest, though he realizes it's silly to try to make anythingout of the fact that so few have been used. The box could havebeen purchased as recently as the previous day. He reaches to putit back, and his fingers encounter something that feelsstartlingly like flesh. He tugs open the drawer further, and hisjaw drops. Now this is . . . revealing. Extremely so. He picks itup. It's translucent, the color is slightly disconcerting-- arather lurid shade of magenta. But its weight, and thenaturalness of its size, and contours and . . . feel surpriseshim. It yields slightly to the pressure of his fingers, much likehis own sudden erection might, were he to touch it now. A littleshiver goes through him as he imagines just what Ray might dowith this, and he has to shift to accommodate his thenow-uncomfortable weight between his thighs. The picture is fartoo vivid. . . naked, straining, sweating, and so beautiful, so .. . vibrant. He has to shake his head to rid himself of thevision.
He tells himself again that it's useless to extrapolate. Thereare many reasons why a man might keep such an object in a drawernext to his bed, many if not most of which could involve thewoman in the photograph. But he has. . . a hunch. His lips aredry, and he moistens them, and is suddenly tempted to taste.Closing his eyes, he lets his tongue slide up the underside, muchas he would like to do to . . . or for . . . or with. . . theobject's owner. Disappointingly he tastes nothing but latex and ahint of detergent. He sighs, and opens the drawer wider so he cancarefully return both his finds to their original places, andwhen he does, he notes that there is also a bottle of lubricant,and smiles. His hunch is suddenly much stronger. He is, bynature, patient. He's good at waiting. With just a trace of hope,he can wait for a very long time. Perhaps someday he'll discoverif he is as good at imagining as he is at waiting.
*** finis ***
Kellie Matthews // matthewk@colorado.edu
http://spot.colorado.edu/~matthewk/Home.html
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Love that stutters, that stammers, is apt to be the love thatloves best. -Gabriela Mistral
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