not_that_ray | (no subject)

He's already moved the stack once. It doesn't stop him from moving it again. From one side of the desk to the other. This time though he takes the time to rifle through the layers, looking not just under but between the loose sheets of paper. The stack hemorrhages paper clips and scraps of small scribblings as he does so. Some land on his lap. Others fall onto the floor or into the trash can.

"Gotta..."

The whole thing teeters. Ray is, of course, oblivious. It's abandoned in favor of the top drawer of his desk. He yanks it open and thrusts his hand in, moving the mess inside around with no rhyme or reason. The contents haven't changed since the last time he looked five minutes ago.

"... be here..."

He slams it home, causing the entire desk to stagger. The vibration in turn causes the precariously perched collection of papers to slide in every direction. His eyes grow to the size of saucers as he dives for the unwieldy monster.

"Shit!"

The paperwork just seems to glide right past his hands, his efforts mocked.

From one small mess to one gigantic mess. Nice, Ray. Nice.

"... somewhere," he breathes out in defeat.

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He casts an unmistakably dubious look at the toppled stacks on his partner's desk, but thinks better of pushing the issue, straightening as he finishes collecting the errant papers on the floor. "Your prescription isn't strong enough to proclude the notion of contact lenses as a viable option."

The answer is barely loud enough to be heard. "Can't get 'um in."

Fraser seems patently oblivious to his discomforture, suddenly, while the bustle of the station continues to flow around them. "It's really not that difficult, Ray. It's simply a matter of practice."

"I have practiced, Fraser. Not like I didn't tried or something."

His voice is still purposefully low.

He glances at him briefly, a not unsympathetic look reflected in his eyes. "Understood." Fraser plucks his Stetson from the chair, tucking it into its usual place under his arm before thinking better of it, and sitting down. He then reaches for one of the devastated folders on the desk, and begins reassembling it. It's like a reflex action, almost. A compulsion to put things into a sense of order. Something else is bothering his friend, but it's unclear what, and he has no desire to push. He'd rather it be a voluntary act. "Were you planning on going to the range this afternoon?" he asks eventually, fully aware that his friend tends only to use the things when he has to shoot accurately, or for stakeouts that require being able to see further than approximately thirty yards ahead.

Why does this job have to include so much paperwork? He reaches for the waste basket, takes a second to dump it into another larger basket not that far from his desk, and then proceeds to start shoving sheets into the emptied receptacle.

"Yeah. Was thinkin' about it."

His own special way or organizing. Making piles within piles within piles.

"Look, I- Wouldn't mind some company. That is if you're-"

Fraser watches the activity with no small measure of inward despair. The librarian in him feels affronted by the wanton abuse of information. He hides it fairly well, however, choosing to look away from the crime and fidgeting with his Stetson instead. "I took the early shift this morning."

That's his way of saying 'Yes.'

Ray's in that odd state between desires. On one hand, he wants to be alone. On the other hand, he's pretty sure he shouldn't be. If there's anybody he trusts while in this kind of a funk, it's Fraser.

"Lunch? Then the lanes?"