Ray gets out of the shower to the sound of the six o'clock news. The sun's setting--he can see the light coming in all golden through the high-up bathroom window. The birds are going crazy out there.
He gets dressed and goes out into the living room. Fraser's on the couch, already showered, concentrating on cleaning up his hand. He has it resting on his own knee and he's using the other hand to pull all these tiny little slivers of glass out from under his skin. Has a pair of tweezers to make it easier; has the lamp turned so its light falls right where he needs it to. His face has no expression on it at all, except maybe concentration. Every time he gets a new sliver un-stuck, he drops it into a saucer on the coffee table in front of him: chink.
Ray goes into the kitchen so he can make sure Dief's fed and watered (yep) and also so he can put on a kettle for Fraser and a pot of coffee for himself. Then he digs his glasses out of the pocket of his jacket and clears stuff off the coffee table, stacks the old bills and newspapers and flyers on the floor. He pushes Fraser's gross saucer to one side and sits down in its place, right in front of Fraser. Fraser looks up but he doesn't say anything, not even when Ray takes the tweezers out of his good hand and lifts the hurt one in his own, so he can see it better. And--jeeze, what a mess.
He pushes his glasses up with the back of his hand and gets to work. Fraser sits quiet and watches him do it. On the news, they say that employment is up and crime is down. They say that there is trouble in Sierra Leone and an earthquake in Iran and that some famous kid of some famous celebrity was caught with a shitload of drugs. Fraser clears his throat. "Well, thank goodness for the intrepid reporter who brought us that last story," he says.
Ray grins and drops the latest bastard sliver into the saucer beside him. Pain makes Fraser sarcastic. Good to know.
"I think there's one there," Fraser murmurs, tilting his hand so Ray can see the bloody scratch on the knuckle of that pinky, and yeah, shit--at least two or three more. He works those free, carefully, then examines Fraser's hand again, looking for any he missed. He can't see any.
"Make a fist," he tells Fraser, and Fraser obeys, gently, squeezing Ray's hand in his own. Ray looks up at him. "What do you think?"
Fraser squeezes a second time. "I think you may have found all of them--that feels much better."
Ray huffs a laugh, his eyes on the mess that is the back of Fraser's hand. "Yeah, well," he says. "Good. But don't get up yet--we're not done." He finds the antibiotic cream Fraser brought out of his bathroom and spreads that over everything, then wraps the whole hand up with a bunch of gauze, tapes the end of the gauze in place. And that is pretty much that. Except it isn't, because he is still holding Fraser's hand, and he is still sitting there on the coffee table with Fraser's knee resting against his own and Fraser's sock-clad foot nudging the toes of his bare one, and in his head he is still seeing Fraser's face when he put that fist through the window of Jarte's burning garage so he could get Ray out. There was something huge, there, and it is not a thing which Ray expected, and thus it is not a thing with which he is sure he knows how to deal.
So instead of dealing, he sits there looking at Fraser's bandaged hand like maybe it can tell him what steps are next, and he listens to the way that Fraser's breath is speeding up and his own is speeding up and then he nearly has a heart attack when Fraser's good hand touches the back of his neck. Those fingers just brush him there, gently, then move down to squeeze his shoulder.
Fraser clears his throat again. "Ray," he says.
Ray lifts his head, meets Fraser's eyes. "Yeah?"
Fraser licks his bottom lip, like he's nervous, which, Jesus--he better be. But when he speaks, what he says is, "I think the kettle's going to boil dry." And damned if he isn't right.
Ray laughs, because he can't help it, and he gets up to pull the stupid kettle off the stove, and then he stands there in the kitchen for a couple of minutes, breathing, looking out at the darkening street, before he heads back into the living room to change everything.
Sliver, due South, Fraser/Kowalski, unsaid
He gets dressed and goes out into the living room. Fraser's on the couch, already showered, concentrating on cleaning up his hand. He has it resting on his own knee and he's using the other hand to pull all these tiny little slivers of glass out from under his skin. Has a pair of tweezers to make it easier; has the lamp turned so its light falls right where he needs it to. His face has no expression on it at all, except maybe concentration. Every time he gets a new sliver un-stuck, he drops it into a saucer on the coffee table in front of him: chink.
Ray goes into the kitchen so he can make sure Dief's fed and watered (yep) and also so he can put on a kettle for Fraser and a pot of coffee for himself. Then he digs his glasses out of the pocket of his jacket and clears stuff off the coffee table, stacks the old bills and newspapers and flyers on the floor. He pushes Fraser's gross saucer to one side and sits down in its place, right in front of Fraser. Fraser looks up but he doesn't say anything, not even when Ray takes the tweezers out of his good hand and lifts the hurt one in his own, so he can see it better. And--jeeze, what a mess.
He pushes his glasses up with the back of his hand and gets to work. Fraser sits quiet and watches him do it. On the news, they say that employment is up and crime is down. They say that there is trouble in Sierra Leone and an earthquake in Iran and that some famous kid of some famous celebrity was caught with a shitload of drugs. Fraser clears his throat. "Well, thank goodness for the intrepid reporter who brought us that last story," he says.
Ray grins and drops the latest bastard sliver into the saucer beside him. Pain makes Fraser sarcastic. Good to know.
"I think there's one there," Fraser murmurs, tilting his hand so Ray can see the bloody scratch on the knuckle of that pinky, and yeah, shit--at least two or three more. He works those free, carefully, then examines Fraser's hand again, looking for any he missed. He can't see any.
"Make a fist," he tells Fraser, and Fraser obeys, gently, squeezing Ray's hand in his own. Ray looks up at him. "What do you think?"
Fraser squeezes a second time. "I think you may have found all of them--that feels much better."
Ray huffs a laugh, his eyes on the mess that is the back of Fraser's hand. "Yeah, well," he says. "Good. But don't get up yet--we're not done." He finds the antibiotic cream Fraser brought out of his bathroom and spreads that over everything, then wraps the whole hand up with a bunch of gauze, tapes the end of the gauze in place. And that is pretty much that. Except it isn't, because he is still holding Fraser's hand, and he is still sitting there on the coffee table with Fraser's knee resting against his own and Fraser's sock-clad foot nudging the toes of his bare one, and in his head he is still seeing Fraser's face when he put that fist through the window of Jarte's burning garage so he could get Ray out. There was something huge, there, and it is not a thing which Ray expected, and thus it is not a thing with which he is sure he knows how to deal.
So instead of dealing, he sits there looking at Fraser's bandaged hand like maybe it can tell him what steps are next, and he listens to the way that Fraser's breath is speeding up and his own is speeding up and then he nearly has a heart attack when Fraser's good hand touches the back of his neck. Those fingers just brush him there, gently, then move down to squeeze his shoulder.
Fraser clears his throat again. "Ray," he says.
Ray lifts his head, meets Fraser's eyes. "Yeah?"
Fraser licks his bottom lip, like he's nervous, which, Jesus--he better be. But when he speaks, what he says is, "I think the kettle's going to boil dry." And damned if he isn't right.
Ray laughs, because he can't help it, and he gets up to pull the stupid kettle off the stove, and then he stands there in the kitchen for a couple of minutes, breathing, looking out at the darkening street, before he heads back into the living room to change everything.