killclaudio: (Fraser's Office)
[personal profile] killclaudio
I'm sorry I've been quiet this week, but I've been busy unpacking, not to mention that my brain is being surreptitiously invaded by Snape/Lupin. It's very odd. I don't even like Harry Potter.

I'm rapidly discovering that other fandoms do not have the consistent quality and originality of dS. No offence meant to the HP fandom, it just seems that dS has some kind of arcane magic surrounding it. And why this strange trend for merging people's names in pairings? 'Snupin'? WTF? Can you imagine if we went around calling our pairings 'Fray' or 'Statcher'? *shakes head*

So, in an effort to get myself writing again, a meme! Feel free to let me know which one you'd like me to write.

When you see this, post a little weensy excerpt from as many random works-in-progress as you can find lying around. Who knows? Maybe inspiration will burst forth and do something, um, inspiration-y.

Well, first up, Spuffy and I have a genderfuck fic to finish. *looks guilty*

Then there was an idea I had for an AU in which Fraser and RayK met when they were thirteen. Maybe Ray's father was a travelling salseman or something? Anyway, they move to Inuvik for a couple of years, and when they move away again Fraser and Ray, er, correspond. So the story opens, like the Pilot, with Bob Fraser's death;

I was standing at the back of the church, staring across at my father’s coffin, when I heard a voice behind me.

“I saw him once. He was a goodly king.”

“He was a man.” I replied. “Take him for all in all, we shall not look upon his like again.” And then, without turning around, “Hello, Ray.”

“Hey, Ben.” His tone was soft and tentative.

I turned. “I didn’t realise you knew Hamlet.”

“Lots you don’t know about me, buddy.” He winked, and the looked serious again. “How are you holding up?”

“I-” No way to answer that, not without bursting into tears or in some other way disgracing myself. Ray seemed to sense this, for he held his arms wide and wouldn’t take no for an answer.


I went to him gladly, grateful for his strong arms around me. It was a brief, back-slapping hug of the kind the other RCMP members would not think untoward, not the comfort I really wanted, but for now it was enough to have Ray at my side again.

“It’s starting.” He whispered, gently guiding me to my place at the front. I starched my spine once more, conscious of the eyes following me across the room. I would have time to grieve properly later. With Ray.

I think my problem with this story was that it always seemed vaguely improbable. So I got stuck.

Then there's the Physiotherapist AU. RayK as the physiotherapist in Letting Go, remember? Which is poorly planned and still lacks a plot, or even any entire scenes, really.

After he’d finished his rounds for the day Ray dropped into Ben’s room, and found him staring out of the window, craning his neck to look up at the sky.

“See any 747’s?” Ray asked.

“I was looking for stars, actually.”

“Won’t see many of those here, buddy.” He went to stand next to Fraser anyway, leaning over him to peer up at the patch of sky sandwiched between two buildings.

“No, I fear the light pollution is too strong. Still, I think I see a glimmer just at the corner of that building there.”

“Yeah?” Ray perched on the window ledge. “When I was little my Mom used to tell me that the fairies had cut little holes in the night sky like velvet, and the stars were where the light was shining through the holes.”

Fraser laughed. “When I was seven, my grandmother took me outside and pointed at the stars. She told me that they were massive balls of fire bigger than the earth, billions and billions of miles away, and that the light took thousands of years to reach our eyes. So the star we were looking at might have died thousands of years ago. To a little boy, that seemed far more incredible than any fairy-tale.”

“Were you shocked?”

“I was thrilled. My universe expanded so far with that one revelation. And I seemed so small.”

“Bet you were a cute kid.” Where the hell had that come from? Ray tried to swerve the conversation again. “I was a holy terror. Turned my Mom’s hair grey in a couple of weeks.”

“No kidding, Stanley.”

They both turned to see Ray Vecchio standing in the doorway, grinning smugly at them.

“It’s Ray.” Ray growled.

“Hey, you remember me, I’m flattered.”

“My name is Ray…”

“It says Stanley on the badge…”

And then later...

“Nah, my dad didn’t like Stella too much, he wasn’t too upset when she dumped me.”

“I see. And...after the lady?”

“The lady.” Ray snorted. “After the lady I started dating again. Just casual, y’know. And then after a little while I met someone else that I really…connected with. My dad didn’t like this person either, but this time I was stubborn.”

“Ah.” Benton was smiling. “And was she worth it?”

Ray took a deep breath. Maybe this wasn’t exactly the moment to out himself to a patient, but he was in too fuckin’ deep to lie now. “Yeah, Benton. He was.”

The smile dropped off Benton’s face. Fuck. Ray started backing away, hands help up, palms out.

“Look, I’m sorry…”

“Ray, please forgive me…”

“…I mean, I’m not sorry, but I…”

“…I made an unwarranted assumption…”

“…didn’t mean to come out with all that…”

“…your sexuality is a private matter, of course…”

“…maybe I should just leave you alone for a bit…”

“Ray!” Benton tried to get out of bed to follow him, Ray tried to push him back in, and the following tug of war shut them both for a few minutes. Eventually Benton got back on the bed, breathing slightly faster than Ray would have liked, and held up his hand for silence.

“Ray. I made an unfair assumption about you, and I apologize. I, of all people, know that one’s sexuality is never that…straightforward.”

“It’s not, huh?” Ray cocked his head to one side, examining Benton. “Ok. Cool.”

Then there's something I wrote months ago, which has somehow become completely dissociated from its plot in my mind. It was supposed to be the opening of something, but I have no idea what.

Ray’s first thought when he woke (ok, ‘thought’ was an exaggeration. Impulse, maybe. Instinct.) was to scoot over and cuddle up next to Fraser. He rolled. And kept rolling. And had to grab hard to the side of the bed to stop him from falling out when it became apparent that there was no big, warm, Fraser-shaped wall in the way.

But ok, that was fine, he wasn’t worried. Fraser was just using the can or making tea or helping some random old lady rescue her fortune in diamonds from a desperate criminal with a bad Russian accent. A typical Fraser-type thing. He’d be back soon. Besides, it was warm under here, and the sheets still smelled a bit of Fraser, and Ray had the memories of last night to relive. Nothing like finally getting laid by a guy you’ve been fantasising about for weeks to put a spring in your step. Ray settled down under the covers a bit further so he could have a nap. He’d need his strength when Fraser came back.

He couldn’t get back to sleep. The apartment was…too quiet. There was no noise coming from the kitchen or the bathroom, so Fraser wasn’t showering or making breakfast. He might have taken the wolf for a walk, but it wasn’t like him not to leave a note. Ray got up to check.

A ten minute scramble around his apartment turned up zip, zilch, nada, nothing. Fraser had wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am’d and high-tailed it out of there. Well, fuck.

And finally, something that would have been about Canada Day, except not. I really can't remember where I was going with this either.

Ray was standing in our bedroom doorway, a shy and nervous expression on his face. He looked nearly as exhausted as I felt, his eyes two hollows in the soft light from the lamp.


“Hey.” I crossed the room towards him, and the nervous look softened in to a wry half-smile.

“Done celebrating?”

“Not by a long shot.”

The kiss was warm, sweet and clinging. Ray tasted of toothpaste underlain with Chinese takeout and beer, and I brushed my lips against his over and over. He carded his fingers gently through my hair, twisting the tips to make it stand up, and wrapped the other arm around my waist. I slid both hands into Ray’s back jeans pocket, an adolescent gesture that amuses him no end.

After a few minutes we pulled back, and Ray pointed to the garish decorations.

“I wanted to do something to celebrate. For you. Since, you know, you can’t actually celebrate Canada Day in Canada.”

“Oh, Ray.” I buried my face in his neck. How to explain that after a day at the Consulate I am heartily sick of maple leaves? That coming home to him is a joy and a pleasure, never more so than when his straightforward attitude and pragmatic good humour afford me an escape from a world of diplomacy I was never interested in?

“Thank you, Ray. They’re beautiful.”

“Freak.” He sounded embarrassed but pleased, and I hooked my fingers back in his pockets and danced him inexpertly over to the sofa.

“I believe I need to find a way to thank you properly.”

“Yeah, you do.” We collapsed on the sofa in a tangle of limbs, and he managed to end up on top as usual. I am not fool enough to complain, not with his warm weight anchoring me and his tongue gliding around the edge of my ear.

“How do you still taste good after spending all day at the Consulate, huh?” he whispered in my ear.

“I’m not sure that I d-, ah, Ray!” He bit my earlobe then laughed in my ear, long and low.

“Ever think about going back?”

“Not really.” It wasn’t a lie. Thoughts of Ray outshone everything else, and I could ignore the occasional eclipse.

See? It's a mystery.

There was also an idea I had while chatting to [ profile] aingeal8c a while ago;

Fraser is not a Mountie but a doctor. I'm thinking he goes to Chicago for...a conference? About the value of folklore in modern medicine? He's made a name for himself promoting traditional remedies as just as effective as Western ones, and the organisers have asked him to give the key-note speech.
Then some big pharmaceutical company decides that he's threatening their profits, and suddenly his life is in danger. Who does the establishment assign to guard him? Ray!

That's fandom. Still here? Good!

Manchester Literature Festival are running a competition for short stories based on urban myths. The word limit is 250. Yes, you read that right. I'm struggling with writing a story that compact, but I had a couple of ideas.

She’s leaning in the stairwell and gasping, so unbelievably, monstrously pregnant that it’s a wonder she’s still at work. I contemplate telling her that the fifteenth floor of a burning building is not the place to be taking a breather.

“Are you ok?”

She stares back at me in mute supplication, too puffed even to speak. Briefly, I calculate our odds of survival. Light, framed tube structure, already beginning to buckle. Fire spread from the third to the tenth floors. Lights failing. Risk management theory dictates I should get out of here as fast as possible. Stay and we both die.

I hold out my hand. After all, I’m the best financial risk manager in the city. I’m allowed to break the rules. We manage one more flight of stairs before I feel everything tumbling down around me.

I wake up in the hospital the next day, some painfully cheerful, asinine nurse telling me how lucky I am to be alive. What does she know about chance?

The doctor told me later that the building collapsed around us while we were still on the tenth floor. The fall did a lot of damage, he said, but if we’d been on the ground floor we would have been crushed under the weight of the rubble. One unprecedented act of kindness saved my life as well as hers.

So what was it? Divine intervention? Fate? Blind coincidence? No. It’s simply that we never know exactly what we put at risk.

And also;

I work in a baked bean factory. Ideal place to get rid of a body.

You can laugh. Chopping him up was the hard part. You have to really loathe someone to be able to saw their corpse into bite-sized chunks. Sneaking bits of him in to work? Covertly dropping them into a vat of beans? Piece of cake.

Nobody notices a smear of blood on my apron. They think it’s tomato sauce.

And among all the squishy orange beans no-one notices a small piece of squishy orange flesh. With a bit of luck the first tins will already be finding their way onto the shelves.

Been to the supermarket recently? Eaten baked beans on toast?

They’ll never piece my brother’s body back together. Oh, lots of people have written in to complain; to demand their money back, god help them. But none of them are at all inclined to hang on to the evidence. Besides, the acid in the tomato sauce has already started to do its work.

Can you imagine what that stuff is doing to your insides?

Ninety-two percent of murders are committed by a relative. And since I’m a blood traitor, I’m going to spend eternity keeping Cain company in the ninth circle of hell.

Then again, my brother is going to spend eternity covered in baked beans.

As well as all this, I have Remus Lupin and Severus Snape wandering around in my head. And are they fucking? No! They're arguing.

I hate my brain.
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June 2008

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