not_that_ray | (no subject)

Entry tags:

dief,
fraser

(no subject)

"Coffee. God, somebody please get me a cup of coffee."

He rubs absently at his ear, glancing out the window briefly, his tongue running over his bottom lip. He seems to almost be steeling himself for what comes next. When he speaks again, his tone is a little softer than usual, his eyes fixed firmly on the tea in his cup, and the spoon that circles its bottom slowly. "I was six years old when my mother died." There's a brief shake of his head. "I don't know the how, or the why. I don't even remember much about that time, except ... " He getures to his face, "my father's beard. It grew longer, and thicker ... and he became thinner ... paler. He stopped going to work."

His gaze lifts from the cup to look at Ray, but he doesn't hold his partner's eyes for long. "My mother died, and ... my father stopped living. And then, one day ... I woke up, and breakfast was on the table. Oatmeal, with, uh ... sliced banana. And he was sitting at the table, and he was crying. I'd never seen him cry before, or since." A pause, another look down into his tea. "I hated oatmeal. Hated it with a passion." There's an almost wistful smile up at Ray, as he sets the spoon down, and steeples his hands over his mug. "I still do. But I sat down at that table, that morning. And I ate every last spoonful. For my dad. Because I didn't know what else I could do for him."

A silence hangs between them for several long minutes. What does a man say to a story like that? How can he convey his remorse? Once in a blue moon, Ray will have the sense to just keep his mouth shut. Now is one of those times.

When his order finally arrives, Ray has it packaged to go.

It's a fact that doesn't go unnoticed. Fraser watches his friend, as if gauging the change in the conversation's mood. He's the one who finally breaks that silence. "The answer is yes, Ray. I would." He pauses, and a smile ventures forth. "Just as long as it's not oatmeal."

Nothing to worry about there. In the apartment of one Ray Kowalski not an ounce of Oatmeal shall ever be found.

"Stuff's nasty," he adds without reservation or tact.

Fraser's smile widens, as he lifts the mug of tea. "Yes, it is. Especially when it's made with orange juice."

It would surely be a 'spray coffee across the table' moment if he had any in his mouth. Instead his face scrunches up in disgust.

"Orange Ju- No. No, that's just not right, Fraser. I have a perfectly good appetite. Don't ruin it with stories of gross mixed with yuck."

He blinks, then comprehends. Just about. "Oh. Sorry."

"S'alright," is the immediate reply.

There's something he's forgetting. He was supposed to-

Dammit. What is he forgetting? BING BING BING BING BING LIGHT BULB.

"The latte."

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