Chicago Pale

Completely un-betaed. Written in response to some talk on Serge, that I thought neglected to consider the effects of the Big City on our favorite Country Boy.

I write this stuff for love. You couldn't pay me enough to do this for money. They belong to Alliance.

Quinn watched from a park bench while the wolf begged for -- and received -- a chili dog from one of the pushcart venders.

"He's gone soft," Fraser commented.

Quinn looked out of the corner of his eye at his friend, but said nothing. Ben had put on weight, and it wasn't all muscle. His face was pale and he smelled of garlic, of spices, of the variety of foods he ate. Quinn could remember him as a boy, when he smelled of lye soap, pemmican, and innocence, before the hormones kicked in.

"It's from living in the city," Fraser continued. "I do my best, but city life is no good for him."

Quinn gently grasped Ben's wrist, turned the palm up, and ran a thumb across the his fingers. The skin was smooth. The callous on Quinn's thumb rasped and caught on the soft skin, like sandpaper on silk. The older man nodded. "It's hard to take care of yourself right, in the city."

END

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