You could really hear the rain here, really hear it, not like you could hear it in Chicago, where it was kind of there, kind of in the background, all dit-dit-dit against the window. Rain here was big, it was loud, drumming on the roof and slamming up against the shutters they'd closed last night against the possibility of hail. You could smell it too, wet wood and wet earth and even the smell of winter coming on. Fraser'd said he'd learn that, learn to know the difference, which Ray'd thought was bullshit at the time, just Fraser humoring him. But turns out it's true: something about the quality of the air and the way it feels that changes.

Winter. Which means storing up on wood and figuring out a final fix for the roof on the barn--maybe even a new one, with wider beams, and even a bit of a loft if Fraser thinks the walls are strong enough--and getting the last of the pemmican cured so Fraser has it for patrol. There were probably a hundred things he could've started working on today, before this storm blew down from the north and put the kibosh to all that.

Ray's socks are thick and slide easily against the worn wooden floor. Dief looks up at him with lazy eyes and rolls over on his rug so Ray can get past and build up the fire. Ray doesn't have the lights on--Fraser's patrol ended late last night and he's still sleeping. Surprise of all surprises, left to its own devices, Ray's internal clock wakes him up before dawn these days, and he finds he enjoys these moments when Fraser's still asleep. It's times like these, when everything's still dark and quiet like nothing in Chicago was ever quiet, that it feels like it's him and Fraser and Dief in the world and that's it.

He knows his way around the cabin these days, so the dark doesn't stop him from starting up the stove and getting the coffee going. He runs a hand over his face--beard's getting kind of thick now, maybe he ought to trim it--

"Ray?" Rustling sheets on the bed behind him and he can just make out Fraser looking over at him from under the pile of blankets. Ray goes over and crawls back in, crossing paths on his way with Dief, who's decided to haul his ass on over to his water dish, where he starts drinking, the quiet lapping sound offsetting the sudden gusts of wind.

"Charlie's gonna owe me five," Ray says, feeling smug, propping his head on his hand to look down at Fraser. "I told him this storm would hit us before morning."

"Mmm." Fraser lets his head drift back down against the pillow, although his hand comes to rest on Ray's elbow.

"We're not gonna be able to work on the roof today."

"Mmm." Fraser's eyes close and he looks like he's drifting off to sleep again, although his hand stays in place. Four days on patrol and not back till way after midnight, hauling in a couple of poachers.

"You listening to me, Fraser?"

"Hmm-mmm." Fraser opens his eyes and rolls closer, slides his arm around Ray's middle. "Rain. We are richer by Charlie Henderson's five bucks." He yawns, settles his forehead against Ray's chest.

"Damn rain."

"Mmm." Fraser's arm tightens. "Guess we'll have to stay inside today."

"Yeah. Guess so." Ray smiles. "Fucking rain."

Part of the Great Drabble Meme of 2004.
Requested by Lynn: Kowalski
Quote: "Fucking rain."
Beta: By the sterling Estrella