No. Not ever.
Hitting alderman Orsini with a car door and throwing a knife at Girard notwithstanding.
Of course, it would be easy to insist that a case where someone is being unkind to you is more than enough incentive to return the hostility, but I don’t think that’s true at all. I’m not suggesting that it isn’t tempting, or that I myself have not fallen victim to and acted on that desire a few times. But in those instances, both parties are then in the wrong, and that solves absolutely nothing. All it does is successfully continue the cycle. The individual in question isn’t justified in it and retaliating with similar behavior in return is hardly justified, either.
It just might be slightly worse, actually, allowing yourself to be lowered that particular level, giving someone else the power necessary to… control you, in a way.
I know it’s a bit cliché, but, really, treating others with the same sort of respect you yourself would expect to be treated with is generally the best rule of thumb there is, I think.
It seems obvious enough. In my line of work, though, I know that doesn’t happen nearly as often as it should. Not only are human beings capable of being unkind to one another, we’re fully capable of being downright cruel.
What, on purpose?
Perhaps it’s just me, but I find the idea more than a little… well, odd, for the lack of a better word. Why would I, or anyone else for that matter, really, feel the need to sit down with another individual with the sole purpose of getting this person drunk at the back of my mind? That doesn’t sound completely on the up and up if you ask me.
What am I expected to want to do with a drunk? They aren’t exactly the best conversationalists, and left unattended they’re bound to injure themselves or someone else.
Honestly, the only thing that jumps to mind to ‘do’ with someone in that condition is to simply see that they got home in one piece.
What else would I do?
And not in order to do anything with her -- I really dislike how that question is worded.
She works hard, twice as hard as a man with the same job would have to, as she might say, and I just think a drink or two would help her… loosen up. Yes, I’m aware that coming from me that probably sounds terribly hypocritical.
I’ve seen her slightly inebriated. She wasn’t so serious. She wasn’t The Ice Queen or Dragon Lady at all, just a slightly tipsy, happy Inspector Thatcher.
I'd say Ray, because I'm allowed to, but the day I have to get him drunk in order to do anything with him is the the day I have to stop and question the direction in which this marriage is headed. That's probably the day I'll need to get drunk.
(Dated to 3/27)
It was Thursday, but even if he and Ray didn’t have to be at work early the next morning, Fraser would have likely still opted to stay in and cook instead of going to a restaurant. He could have saved himself the time, effort and Ray constantly asking if there was anything he could do to help, but he doesn’t really mind either all that much. Even if he was tempted to hit Ray with the closest utensil every time he did ask that. He’s yet to follow through with the urge, though, and it would probably stay that way. There had to be some unwritten law that made it wrong on a normal day, and to break it on Ray birthday of all days wouldn’t have been very husbandly of him.
He’d taken Ray out to lunch earlier in the day, and had given him most of his gifts before work. What he expected a grown man to do with not one
, but two
toy cars was beyond him, but they had made him feel better about not being able to afford the real thing
. Tracking down any Steve McQueen movie that Ray didn’t already own was tough, but not completely impossible since he managed a few, and while soapstone turtles
weren’t traditionally Inuit, it had made Fraser smile.
The table was set, dinner was on its way to being just about done and Ray hadn’t asked to help in at least five minutes. Diefenbaker was at his heels the entire time, hoping Fraser would drop something, or possibly hoping to trip him up in order to make
him drop something. Either way, it wasn’t going to work. Fraser was on to him.
"How the...-- hell does she...-- do that--?" Ray asks, attempting a nose twitch a la Samantha Stephens, but really only succeeding in making himself look like a rabbit, or possibly as though he was trying to suppress a sneeze. "That just ain’t normal," he decides, tilting his head up to look at Fraser, a sleepy smile on his face. "Can you do it?"
Lifting his head from the arm of the couch, Fraser meets his gaze curiously, brow slightly arched and his mouth forming a small ‘o’ as he just stares at Ray for a moment till he decides to break the silence. "You’ve just declared it an abnormality, so, clearly, it must be something that I’m capable of?"
Half lidded eyes or not, the look Ray offers him in response just then is a pointed one, smile broadening a fraction before his head is back against Fraser’s chest again. "Doo-do-dododododo. Do-do-dododododo..."
The little ditty is accompanied by a dance number, Ray wriggling side to side against him. Delirious with oncoming sleep and he still has more rhythm than Fraser could boast on a good day while he was wide awake. “That’s the wrong show, Ray,” he informs him in a hushed tone, smiling fondly and smoothing a hand down between his shoulder blades.
Fraser doesn’t answer. He laughs quietly, pressing a kiss to Ray’s hair and continuing to stroke his back. Had Ray been a bit more alert, he fully suspects that the other man would have kept at it until he got an answer out of him or, even worse, a demonstration, but it’s only a few more attempts at nose twitching later that Ray is sound asleep.
He tries the nose twitch for himself; he can't manage it either.
1. Think of the first word that comes to mind when you think of me.
2. Go to http://images.google.com
and search for that word.
3. Reply to this post with one of the pictures on the first page of results -- don't tell me the word.
4. Put this in your own blog so that I can do the same.
Write a ficlet inspired by the following image: Ring/Book
Fraser’s lost track of just how long he’s been lying there, but he does know that he has no immediate plans whatsoever to move from his spot. Productivity really is the furthest thing from his mind. It was a Sunday, he and Ray don’t have to get up and get ready for work, and so he’s content to lay there, just a bit longer, decidedly unproductive
, but more than okay with that fact.
He’s there behind Ray, his chest pressed tight against his back and his arm draped over him. And he’s still -- completely still -- as he tries his best not to wake him. There’s a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips, one that he isn’t quite sure has left his face since the night before.
Ray had proposed to him. He’d taken Fraser to the harbor where their first case together had come to an end, the place where Ray had stepped in front of a bullet for him just hours after meeting him. He proposed
, Fraser accepted, and, now, there’s a still unfamiliar weight on his finger that he just can’t for the life of him seem to stop spinning over and over again. Not until he’s forced to.
The ring is still in motion, still being spun full circle, but he isn’t the one doing it anymore. Fraser lifts his head from his pillow, propping it up on his hand, just high enough to be able to see over Ray’s shoulder, watching as he twists and turns the platinum band around his finger. From his position, he can just make out Ray’s eyes crinkling slightly at the corners, the way they tend to do when he smiles and, even if Fraser can’t see
that smile, knowing it’s there is enough to broaden his.
Leaning forward to press a kiss to Ray’s shoulder, Fraser relaxes against him again as Ray threads their fingers together.
Benton Fraser has never been a materialistic person, but given the circumstances and what that ring stood for, he doesn’t think anyone can blame him for being more than a little attached. It meant he belonged to someone, that someone loved him enough to make a promise to him. Not just any someone, but Ray
; Ray loved him enough. And that was more than he could ask for.