[ His own discomfort was one thing, but Fraser becomes aware almost instantly that for Ray, this is a much more unhappy scenario. The bed, the carpets and towels and champagne and bathrobes; the balcony and the loveseat and the furs. This isn't Stanley Kowalski, but it is Stella, and it is Ray Vecchio. Through and through, style and sophistication--and that's not to say Ray isn't sophisticated, in fact compared to Fraser he's sophisticated beyond measure, but he fit into this room no more than Fraser did.
Ray was built for fixing engines and oiling leather and racing snowmobiles across sea ice; for shooting bad guys and performing handbreak turns and knocking people out with a jerk of his head; but he also danced, and appreciated fine film, and had a good heart, proving that sophistication didn't have to be silk and chiffon and featherdown pillows. Fraser appreciated those qualities more than he would ever appreciate a fine suit, or a good taste in wine.
But this--this place was what Stella wanted, like she'd wanted Ray once. She'd run from the extravagance and safety of her childhood to the wild adventure that was Ray, lived a hard but rewarding life with him, won back her old way of life through hard work, proving to herself that she could do it and then what? Ray hadn't changed. He'd never needed to, never wanted to, had he? He was still Stanley Ray Kowalski, a working man, a public serviceman, a damn fine cop who didn't want or need to be anything more than that because what he had he'd earned; fought for; shed blood for.
Earnest, beautiful, wonderful Ray, who it was impossible not to love once you saw beneath the thorny exterior to the heart of the man beneath--and she did still love him, want him, but she wanted this - all of this - that much more.
That was what the room said. It was one last 'See, you can't give me any of this, you never could', and Fraser had to be sympathetic, had to be a good friend, and help Ray be okay with that.
So he stepped into the room as Ray did, taking the piece of wood and following him toward the bed. No matter his own feelings about intruding, this was being done for Ray's sake, not his own - not for the new Vecchios - and he intended to do whatever it took to square this.
Even if it including drinking the champagne. ]
Please. I've never had any, is it any good?
[ Fraser dropped his things onto the coverlet, then stripped off his jacket, climbing up onto the bridal bed and sitting cross legged on top of it. He unrolled his knives and began to scrape at the wood, carelessly leaving little ringlets of wood shavings in his lap. ]
Just bring the bottle. [ He patted the bed beside him. ] Come on, Ray, sit down. This is going to take me a while. And bring some of those chocolates while you're at it--are there any hazelnuts?
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Ray was built for fixing engines and oiling leather and racing snowmobiles across sea ice; for shooting bad guys and performing handbreak turns and knocking people out with a jerk of his head; but he also danced, and appreciated fine film, and had a good heart, proving that sophistication didn't have to be silk and chiffon and featherdown pillows. Fraser appreciated those qualities more than he would ever appreciate a fine suit, or a good taste in wine.
But this--this place was what Stella wanted, like she'd wanted Ray once. She'd run from the extravagance and safety of her childhood to the wild adventure that was Ray, lived a hard but rewarding life with him, won back her old way of life through hard work, proving to herself that she could do it and then what? Ray hadn't changed. He'd never needed to, never wanted to, had he? He was still Stanley Ray Kowalski, a working man, a public serviceman, a damn fine cop who didn't want or need to be anything more than that because what he had he'd earned; fought for; shed blood for.
Earnest, beautiful, wonderful Ray, who it was impossible not to love once you saw beneath the thorny exterior to the heart of the man beneath--and she did still love him, want him, but she wanted this - all of this - that much more.
That was what the room said. It was one last 'See, you can't give me any of this, you never could', and Fraser had to be sympathetic, had to be a good friend, and help Ray be okay with that.
So he stepped into the room as Ray did, taking the piece of wood and following him toward the bed. No matter his own feelings about intruding, this was being done for Ray's sake, not his own - not for the new Vecchios - and he intended to do whatever it took to square this.
Even if it including drinking the champagne. ]
Please. I've never had any, is it any good?
[ Fraser dropped his things onto the coverlet, then stripped off his jacket, climbing up onto the bridal bed and sitting cross legged on top of it. He unrolled his knives and began to scrape at the wood, carelessly leaving little ringlets of wood shavings in his lap. ]
Just bring the bottle. [ He patted the bed beside him. ] Come on, Ray, sit down. This is going to take me a while. And bring some of those chocolates while you're at it--are there any hazelnuts?