ds_team_romance | If a tree grows in this post, how many hearts will be carved in its bark?

slidellra.livejournal.com posting in

The prompts will be available on Monday, so we have a nice little handful of days left to play around and get ourselves in fighting/loving trim. How's about we start off with one of those drabble trees, eh?

1. I'll kick it off with a little bit o' writing.
2. You guys can reply to that with your own little bit o' writing that plays with something from the first (a line, a phrase, a scene, mood).
3. The next drabblers can reply to any of the above comments, and so on. Until we have a lovely, sturdy, romantic tree, with many ficcish branches all growing out of the first comment.

Have fun! Despite the name, for this drabble tree any length goes. Comment two, four, as many times as you like. Feel the romance, baby.

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From:

brynnmck.livejournal.com

Ray sighs and rubs his eyes, trying to make the letters on the paper in front of him resolve into something vaguely resembling coherence. It's after midnight and it's been an incredibly long day, involving a lot of running and Fraser jumping off of things and powdered sugar in places Ray doesn't want to think about, and he's tired and he wants nothing so much as to go back to Fraser's place and curl up with him in his crappy, too-small bed and sleep for about a month.

But Fraser is a man of principle, and one of the umpteen million things he apparently had principles about was paperwork. Which Ray had learned the hard way, one night when he had insisted on going home with his reports still sitting unfinished on his desk. Fraser had tried to lay the guilt whammy on him, with the big eyes and the well, Ray, if you really think that's best, and for once, Ray hadn't caved, had walked out of the precinct without looking back, determined to show Fraser that the sun was going to come up the next day just the same whether he'd dotted every i and crossed every t or not. Fraser hadn't said a word about it all night, but he'd looked so damn uncomfortable--more uncomfortable than he ever looked in that starched sheep he called a uniform--and he'd kept looking over his shoulder every ten seconds, like he was afraid Ray's key witness statement was going to sneak up behind him with a machete, or a seal spear, or whatever. It had been sort of pathetic and depressing, and incredibly frustrating, and Ray had finally given in after a couple of hours and gone back and finished his damn paperwork, after which Fraser had smiled at him like he'd just saved a whole village of Inuit children, hurried him back home and given him a blowjob that Ray swore he could still feel the aftershocks from if he closed his eyes and concentrated hard enough, so. Yeah.

Now, he doesn't go home until he's finished his paperwork.

And--though he'd never admit it to Fraser--it's not so bad, these days, with Fraser to keep him company, always there at Ray's elbow with the form he needs or a fresh cup of coffee or an apple from the vending machine. Of course, he's also constantly correcting Ray's typing and Dief ends up with the apples a lot more often than Ray does, but Ray gets the coffee and the forms and Fraser's eyes crinkling at the corners when he types dirty words to tease him, and Fraser gets the satisfaction of Ray's job well done, so it's a pretty good system.

Except when Ray's in the middle of muttering about how a confectioner could possibly have mistaken cocaine for powdered sugar, and he reaches out for the next form he needs and there's... nothing.

From:

brynnmck.livejournal.com

He looks up, a little jolt of adrenaline zinging through him, like he just walked down a set of stairs that had one less stair than he'd expected and come down hard on concrete. Fraser's still there, though, sitting on the opposite side of Ray's desk, his uniform unbuttoned at the collar and a dusting of sugar in his dark hair. Only his head is tipped back, resting against the wall, his mouth slack, and he's snoring ever so faintly.

Ray grins. The Mountie falls asleep while the Chicago flatfoot soldiers on into the typewritten wilderness. Oh, he's never gonna let Fraser hear the end of this one.

But he finishes typing as quickly and quietly as he can, careful not to dislodge Dief, who's somehow fallen asleep with his head on Fraser's foot and his ass on Ray's newly-polished loafers (typical). When he's done, he slides his chair back gently so he can get to his feet--Dief barely moves--and walks around the desk.

"Hey," he says softly, putting one hand on Fraser's shoulder; Fraser doesn't always wake calm, Ray's learned that, too, and he doesn't want to startle him. But he stays relaxed, his eyes just kind of fluttering open, long, dark lashes over sleep-blurry blue. His pupils are unfocused--he's still half-asleep--and he smiles a little, and when Ray leans down and kisses him, he opens his mouth easily on a low, lazy moan. Ray closes his own eyes and lets himself fall into it, Fraser's mouth sweet and slack, his tongue tasting faintly of sugar, the curve of his jaw warm under Ray's hand. When Ray pulls back, Fraser smiles again, unguarded and so bright that Ray almost stops breathing.

But it's late, and Fraser's probably starving, and Ray's got leftover ziti in his fridge. "C'mon, Benny," he says, sliding his hand down to link Fraser's fingers through his, "let's get you home."

From:

slidellra.livejournal.com

Sometimes Ray doesn't sleep so well.

And sure, okay, maybe he shouldn't drink so much coffee, and the cigarettes he sneaks don't help either, but mostly he figures it's just the way he's wired. A night owl.

He gets feel tired, kind of, but it's like his body is wired for electricity and the switch just doesn't turn off the way it should, so he'll lie there in the dark and vibrate, then get up and go back to work, or put some music on and dance, or flip through the channels until morning.

When Fraser stays over, Ray sleeps a lot better. Maybe because he has somebody to burrow in next to, and maybe because a good hard fuck works a hell of a lot better than warm milk.

And when he still can't sleep, when his eyes pop open in the middle of the night and his body just won't understand that it's off time, not on time, there's Fraser. In his bed, sleeping like the prettiest Canadian log you ever saw.

He figures Fraser gets mooned over plenty during the day, and him making googly eyes at his partner wouldn't fly for long down at the 27, but nighttime is his time. He fishes his glasses off the bedside table, props himself up on an elbow and takes his time, getting as close as he needs and just looking, memorizing Fraser's nose, counting his flaws, watching him breathe.

Sometimes Ray doesn't mind not sleeping so well.

From:

mondschein1.livejournal.com

When Fraser wakes up at seven a.m., he doesn't even bother to try and wake the men curled on either side of him. Ray and Ray are notoriously ill-tempered when subjected to sleep-deprivation, and Fraser's found it easier to simply let them be as slothful as they can be. Frankly, he's sometimes impressed by it; even if he'd wanted to, he'd never be able to sleep 'til three in the afternoon.

At a quarter past eight Fraser catches a glimpse of blue pinstriped pajamas out of the corner of his eye, and looks up from his morning tea to see Ray standing in the kitchen door. He's barefoot and rumpled, and only says, "It's Saturday, Benny," before making his unsteady way to the bathroom.

"Sorry, Ray," Fraser calls softly after him, and goes to turn on the coffee machine.

At half past ten, Ray's lounging on the couch and going on about Saturday morning cartoons, which have apparently suffered a tremendous decline in quality over the past three decades, and Fraser's getting somewhat impatient. If they could all just learn to wake up at a reasonable hour, this household might actually get something accomplished on the weekends. However, as Ray and Ray have both explained many times, American weekends aren't meant to accomplish anything at all. So Fraser waits, and Ray smirks at him every time he twitches.

At noon, Ray says, "Okay, c'mon, let's get the bum out of bed." Fraser couldn't be happier to hear it. He strides down the hall with a sense of irked purpose, crosses the bedroom, flings the curtains open, and gives the blanket-wrapped lump on the bed an expectant scowl.

The lump hardly moves.

"Aw, c'mon," Ray says, coming through the door. "You've got to know better than that. Here, let me show you how it's done. I've been doing this for Frannie for twenty-five years." He grasps the edge of the blanket and yanks it back, leaving Ray terribly vulnerable, all of his golden skin exposed except for the narrow rectangle beneath his boxers.

And still Ray sleeps, though he does curl a little bit tighter than before. "Uh. Benny, have you ever considered that maybe we might need professional help?" Ray suggests, quite seriously -- but when he turns to look Fraser in the eye, his control falters, his eyes soften, and a soft chuff of laughter escapes his lips.

Suddenly, the bed creaks, and Ray's bolting up, eyes wide and panicked. "Hey, no wait, don't start without me, 'm up, just let me -- " He blinks at them for a few seconds, squinting myopically at them. "Wait," he croaks, "you've got all your clothes on."

"Yes, Ray," Fraser agrees. "We woke up several hours ago, in fact."

"No, that's not what I mean, I mean I thought I heard Vecchio, uh -- "

"Oh, you did, did you." Ray grins. "You know what I think? I think you need a refresher course on what I sound like when I -- "

Of course Fraser protests, but in the end, it makes hardly any difference. At least this way, he thinks, they won't be entirely unproductive.