Livia
Copyright May 26-August 2, 2000 by Matthew Haldeman-Time
Rating: NC-17 for graphic male-male sex
Pairing: Ray Kowalski/Renfield Turnbull, Benton Fraser/Ray Vecchio
Disclaimer: "due South," with its characters and themes, belongs to Paul Haggis and Alliance, not to me. I make no money from this venture.
Dedication: This slashfic is for Ewan McGregor.
Wherein Mounties conspire to drug one of Chicago's finest; Vecchio has a dirty mind; and Kowalski averts a feeding frenzy with Mountie on the menu.
Notice: Yes, I made Turnbull say "ablutions," in honor of the first RK/RT fic I read.
Pulling weeds wasn't as easy as it looked. The roots tended to grip hard in the dirt, and it was all too tempting to yank off what one could and just leave the rest. As long as the leaves were gone, who cared about what was stuck unseen in the ground, right? But then, no matter how pretty the flowerbeds looked, there were those weeds, those nasty choking weeds, right beneath the surface, deeply rooted, and no matter how nice the outside looked... Well, it was a metaphor thing, right? Like...like Stella, maybe, how she was all surface pretty but inside not always as perfect or even as nice, and it'd taken him a while to figure out that one. Or like Fraser, maybe, yeah, like Fraser. Fraser was all choked up inside, smothering under those weeds, but on the surface it was all, "Thank you kindly." Ray wasn't sure where the blame went for that one; was it Fraser's dad? Victoria? Vecchio? Maybe there was just something about Fraser.
Fraser was doing a lot better these days. Not so much of that uptight choking thing, not all tense and rigid, not all snarky and such a complete jerk sometimes. Fraser was happier now. Somehow, Fraser had come to some sort of peace with his dad, which Ray didn't quite get. And Fraser of course had that wonderful friendship and partnership with Ray, which really had turned into the best thing in Ray's life, at least. And now, against all odds, maybe to prove that Fraser deserved a break in life, Vecchio was back.
Ray didn't know what was wrong with Fraser and Vecchio. They were in love with each other, and they had been before he'd ever showed up on the scene. But for one reason or another, most likely Fraser's beautifully flawed personality and Vecchio's religious background, they hadn't done anything about it. Then Vecchio had run off, and Fraser felt abandoned and betrayed, and they didn't see each other for a long time and maybe never would. But Vecchio was here now, and staying. Ray got to stay, too. Ray made it clear to Vecchio, as clear as possible without actually saying it outright, that Ray and Fraser were the best of friends and the best of partners but weren't having sex, never had, never would. Vecchio covered the shock pretty well.
Welsh partnered Ray and Vecchio. It took them a little time to sort out their personalities and working styles, and at first they both had a jealousy and possessiveness of Fraser to get over, but they got along really well, now. So Ray had two working partners and two good friends and his life was just swell, thanks. And Fraser and Vecchio had worked out their own issues and now they were, well, if Vecchio's hickey was any indication, they were just fine now.
Except then Ray got shot. And almost died. Came really really really really close to dying. He went through the E.R., the O.R., crashed on the table a few times, lapsed into a coma, etc. Not his finest hour. Not his finest three weeks, really. Then he opened his baby blues and the first person he saw wasn't a nurse or a doctor, or his mom or his dad, but Fraser. Which was a good thing, it made him feel good, knowing that somebody cared that much, knowing that Fraser cared that much. They were partners, and that was good, and he didn't need to be jealous of Vecchio, because there was enough of Fraser to share.
He had to stay in the hospital and heal. His parents wanted to stay and fuss over him, but he made them get out. Stella came by once, and he didn't know whether it was the near-death episode or not, whether somehow he'd figured out his priorities or something, but he could see her and not get all worked up, he could see her and be okay. It was nice to see her and everything, but it wasn't a big deal, which was a pretty cool development. About time, too.
Vecchio smuggled Dief into the hospital not once but twice, and that was great. Fraser wouldn't do it, because of rules and regulations and respecting the hospital, but Vecchio would.
He got the requisite counseling after being shot in the line of duty. Then he was told to take some time off from the job. Take some time off? Wasn't that what he'd been doing, lying there in this hospital bed? But no, Welsh insisted that he relax and recuperate somewhere away from the job, preferably away from the city.
Ray whined to Fraser about it, but Fraser wasn't sympathetic. In fact, Fraser thought that it was a wonderful idea. Ray was due for a vacation, and should recover from his injury and ensuing illnesses. Ray muttered something about if it was such a great idea why wasn't Fraser going? He didn't mean it, but Fraser looked at him and smiled, and suddenly he did mean it, and Fraser agreed with him, and Fraser got some time off, too.
Well, Vecchio was none too keen on Fraser running off with Ray somewhere, so Vecchio said that he needed time off, too, to adjust to normal society after lengthy undercover work. So now the three of them, and Dief of course, were off in a cabin in the woods. No city, no traffic, no paperwork, no perps, and no Mountie uniform. Just three off-duty cop-types and one deaf half-wolf.
"Ray."
Ray looked up. "Yeah, Fraser?" Fraser was standing before him, dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved button-down flannel shirt and boots, all crisp and proper. Casual clothes for Ray meant ratty old jeans and a T-shirt, but this was dressing down for Fraser, all buttoned and tucked and starched and ironed.
"I'm not certain that you should be engaging in this sort of activity. Perhaps it will aggravate your injury."
"Pulling weeds isn't going to pop my stitches, Fraser."
"Ray-"
"Fine. You're the outdoorsy Canadian, you want to do it?"
"Perhaps that would be for the best, Ray."
Hey, anything to get him out of pulling weeds. He wasn't sure why he'd started. After-effects of the hospital's pain medication, maybe. Ray rose carefully, with Fraser watching and dying to help him, and ambled into the cabin. He washed his hands in the kitchen sink, trying to get the dirt from beneath his short nails, when he heard a car engine.
A car? Here? He glanced over at Vecchio, who was rising from the sofa. Vecchio tossed him a wary glance in return and they headed for the front door.
A black SUV was heading up the lane as Fraser stood by the flowerbeds. Ray stepped onto the porch, Vecchio at his back. "That's Grace's," Vecchio said.
Ray nodded in recognition. Grace was the owner of the small store where they'd gone for supplies on their first day here, five days ago.
"You want to sit?" Vecchio asked him.
Truth be told, Ray wouldn't have minded a chair right this second. He almost denied it, but decided that there was no reason to act all tough and macho. Casually, he said, "Don't let me miss anything exciting," and strolled back into the cabin. He relaxed slowly onto the armchair and closed his eyes. He heard car doors, Dief's bark, voices... As he slept, he half-heard low voices, the thud of boots - - Fraser's, yes, and someone else's? Cooking sounds, cupboards and pots and water running.
"Ray." Fraser's voice. "Ray. Ray."
He opened his eyes. Fraser was standing in front of him. It was darker, later, but not much. He smelled food, some Italian pasta sort of food. Vecchio was setting the table. Fraser wasn't the only one out of uniform; no Armani in this cabin. Then he saw someone else, someone crouching down by the table and petting Dief, a male someone, and he frowned and squinted, and then he did a double-take.
"Turnbull?"
Turnbull stood up fast, turned bright red, and swallowed. "Yes, hello, Detective Kowalski."
"Fraser, am I hal...hal...seeing things?" Ray asked.
"You are seeing Constable Turnbull, Ray," Fraser said. "He will be staying here for a few days."
"Oh. Okay. The more the merrier. So long as I'm not gone loony. Wait a second. This is my vacation time, right?"
"Certainly, Ray," Fraser said.
"Okay. No curling. I don't want to hear one word on curling, not one, or I'll kick you all in the head. Got it?"
"Yes, Ray," Fraser said, patiently.
Ray eyed Turnbull narrowly, then decided that there was no danger. He moved to stand, but sat back immediately. He caught Fraser eyeing him with concern. "Hey, don't worry, Frase, I'll be back on my feet in no time. Just gonna, you know, sit here for a second."
"Are you in much pain, Ray?"
"No, I'm not in much pain, Fraser," Ray said. "You know, not much pain for someone who's been... You remember that new Star Wars movie we dragged you to see?"
"Yes, Ray, The Phantom Menace." Fraser obviously didn't know where this was going, but was humoring him.
"Remember that part where Obi-Wan totally sabers Darth Maul right in half?"
"Yes, Ray."
"Feels pretty painful, don't you think?"
"Oh, Ray."
"No, it's not that bad, Fraser." Ray clenched his hands over the padded armrests and tensed himself, beginning to stand. Suddenly he had one concerned Canadian on either side of him, holding onto his arms, hands on his back, carefully helping him over to sit at the kitchen table. Through his pain and surprise, he glanced over to Vecchio, who raised an eyebrow in return. What was he, a damsel in distress? Well, he was blond and the smallest person in the room, and these Mountie people sure liked to help, so what was he expecting?
"Ray," Fraser was saying now that Ray was reseated, "perhaps you'd like one of those pain pills that-"
"Perhaps I wouldn't," Ray said.
"You are in pain, Ray."
"Look, it's not like I could even if I wanted to," Ray said. "I told you I left them back in Chicago."
"Yes, Ray, you did. However, Constable Turnbull was kind enough to bring some with him."
Ray whipped his head around and glared at Turnbull. "Was he." Turnbull just turned redder and looked guilty, ashamed, and horrified.
"Yes, Ray," Fraser said firmly. "You were released from the hospital with the understanding that you'd remain in Chicago close to emergency care. Leftenant Welsh and your parents agreed to your journey here with the understanding that proper medical care would be available. Constable Turnbull has medical training."
"A walking first aid kit, that's great. I don't need medical care," Ray said, turning back to Fraser. "I need food and sleep, and tomorrow I'm going to the lake, and then I'll be all recovered recuperated rewhatever, okay?"
"The lake, Ray? Is that a good idea?" Fraser asked.
"What's a good idea," Vecchio said, "is us eating this before it gets cold."
Turnbull had cooked. Turnbull served. Turnbull cleaned up afterwards, politely refusing Fraser's help. Fraser backed off, seeing that Turnbull really would prefer to clean alone. Ray lounged on the sofa with Dief, letting his food digest while his thoughts drifted. Turnbull obviously was the best cook of the four of them, so a welcome addition in that area. And Turnbull was trying to stay out of the way, not interrupting their group dynamic. Sort of like having a servant. Ray didn't know what to think of that idea. Turnbull was younger, and worked for Fraser, so it was sort of like the old boss men at their cabin retreat inviting the office geek along for service not companionship. That really wasn't fair to Turnbull, who'd come obviously at Fraser's request just to be here in case Ray, what, went into another coma or something? How likely was that?
"Diefenbaker," Fraser said firmly. Dief huffed and stalked off of the sofa across the room. Fraser stood before Ray and said, "Ray, are you in much pain?"
"No." Actually, he wasn't. He was feeling sort of sleepy, and sort of... "Shit." Oops, hadn't meant to swear out loud. But damn it, he deserved that one. "Fraser, you drugged me. What'd you do, slip me a mickey? What're you doing, trying to get me drugged up so you can have your merry way with me? What's Vecchio going to say to that?"
"Ray, really," Fraser said, trying not to sound amused and failing. "Turnbull supplied your portion of manicotti with one of the capsules from-"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Blame Turnbull, that's fair."
"Ray, you are in less pain?"
"Yes, I'm in less pain. Now you can feel as smug as a bug in a rug. No, that's something else."
"You're something else all right," Fraser agreed, smiling. "Would you mind an examination of your wound?"
"Why?"
"To ensure that you are healing properly. Ray, will you please remove your shirt?"
"You aren't a doctor, Fraser. How are you going to know if it's going right or not?"
"I assume that Constable Turnbull will be able to discern whether-"
"Well if Turnbull's doing the discerning, why are you standing here?"
"You are correct, Ray. Please remove your shirt and I will fetch the constable." Fraser walked away.
"Remove my shirt," Ray muttered. "Get me all naked for the Mountie men." Vecchio chuckled from the armchair, and he glared. Then, cautiously, carefully, he lifted the hem of his T-shirt. This was not going to go well. He'd barely gotten the thing on this morning. He worked his way out of it. Vecchio knew better than to offer help, and he was grateful for the painkillers. Finally he was free of the cotton, and Turnbull was standing in front of him.
Turnbull was dressed like Fraser was. Didn't these people ever just get untidy? Well, not in front of other people, no. Ray sighed. "Discern away."
Turnbull crouched down in front of him, off to one side. There was a long silence. Ray was gazing at the ceiling. "These are very neat stitches, Detective Kowalski. Your scars should be relatively minimal."
"I'm the only one looking at this body these days, anyway," Ray said. "But I guess my career as a nude model is over."
"Too bad," Vecchio said.
"All my loyal lady fans will be disappointed," Ray sighed.
"Detective Kowalski," Turnbull said, "will you begin now to take your medicine regularly, or shall I continue to force you into it unwittingly?"
"I don't want to take that stuff," Ray said. "It messes with your head."
"You should not force yourself to live in pain, Detective Kowalski. I do not believe that you could get into much, if any, trouble here in this place among these people should the drugs 'mess with your head.'"
"Turnbull, could you call me Ray?"
"Yes, I could do so should you wish it."
"Good. You call me Ray." Ray closed his eyes and fell asleep.
Ray opened his eyes. "Holy shit! Don't you think you're taking this damsel in distress thing too far?"
Fraser let go of him. "Ray, you really should sleep in your bed. You will not be as comfortable on this sofa."
Ray checked the clock. "Great, you wake me up to send me to bed."
"I was going to carry you there, Ray. You needn't have wakened."
"Now you're carrying me off to bed? That's just great, Fraser."
"On second thought, Ray, perhaps I am not the person best suited for this task," Fraser said.
"Vecchio, could you get him out of here?" Ray asked, and closed his eyes. A moment later, he was being picked up again, and this was not Fraser. He opened his eyes and found himself looking at the side of Turnbull's face. "Okay, now we've all gone loony."
"I'll have you settled in a moment, Ray," Turnbull said. Turnbull was blushing again, and was pretty damned strong, and Ray felt like a bride being carried over the threshold or something, except wasn't the bride supposed to be the one blushing?. Turnbull carried him to his bedroom at the end of the hallway and laid him down carefully on the bed like he'd break or something. He wanted to get up to brush his teeth or pee or something, but he was asleep before he could do any of that, before he could even thank Turnbull.
Saturday:
Ray woke up when it was pretty early. His stitches itched, and he could use another painkiller, and he really had to pee. So he got up like he was ninety years old and out of shape, and he shuffled to the bathroom which luckily was right beside his room, and he peed. He showered just to wake up, and decided that shaving was out of the question, then shuffled back to his room in his towel, carrying his boxers in his hand. Then he paused.
He'd taken off his T-shirt on the sofa, right? He hadn't put it on again, so that explained why he'd been barechested. But when he'd been deposited on his bed, he'd been in his jeans and his sneakers. He'd woken up in his boxers. So somebody had undressed him, had stripped him down to his underwear. Which wasn't embarrassing, was it? More like proof that these Canadian people were just a little too nice. They also had weird ideas of personal boundaries; they got all uncomfortable over the littlest things, but then they took other stuff totally in stride, like undressing another guy.
He couldn't just shimmy into his clothes like normal, since he was still an out-of-shape ninety-year-old, so he forfeited the idea of boxers altogether and just pulled on his jeans, which took longer than it should have. He worked his way into a T-shirt and decided that he'd just walk around barefoot for awhile until he felt like tackling shoes. He took a careful breath and walked down the hallway to the main cabin area, which was half kitchen/half living room.
Turnbull was making pancakes.
Ray could totally get behind that idea. He wasn't into the coffee thing anymore, thanks to being in the hospital forever without it. However, that left him without anything to look forward to in the morning. Now, if he could have pancakes in the morning, that was worth getting up for.
Actually, once upon a time, he'd thought that waking up for morning sex was even better than coffee, but that had actually happened only three times, a long time ago. A really long time ago, which just made him feel old. Thirty-eight. Thirty-eight was almost forty. Forty was old. Forty was middle-aged. Ray didn't want to be middle-aged. He didn't feel middle-aged. To be honest, he didn't act middle-aged, either.
"Good morning to you, Ray," Turnbull said, turning to face him. "I trust that you slept well?"
"Yeah, thanks to your magic pills," Ray said.
"Perhaps you would like another?"
"Perhaps I wouldn't," Ray said. "Wouldn't mind some pancakes, though." He grinned.
"Of course, Ray. Here, take as many as you'd like."
Ray marveled. The table was set, there were hot fresh pancakes ready and waiting, Turnbull was pouring a glass of milk for him, there was fresh fruit ready and sliced, it was like living in a bed and breakfast. Not that he'd ever been to one, but this seemed like that sort of thing. "Wow. Thanks, Turnbull."
"You're certainly welcome, Ray."
"Don't tell me Fraser's still sleeping," Ray said.
"Constable Fraser took Diefenbaker out for a morning jog," Turnbull said. "He should return shortly. You're sure that you aren't in pain, Ray?"
"I'm still breathing, it can't be that bad."
"Really, Ray, you mustn't joke about the severity of your condition."
"You mean since I almost died and all I should be grateful that I'm still breathing," Ray said. "Okay. You're right. Doesn't mean I gotta take any more pills."
"I wish that you would, Ray. No one enjoys seeing you in pain."
The door opened; in walked Fraser and Dief. "Hey," Ray said. "Dief, you want pancakes? They're real good."
"Diefenbaker, restrain yourself," Fraser said. "Ray, how are you this morning?"
"Me, I'm just great, Frase. Tomorrow morning I'll be out there jogging with you."
"I trust that you're joking, Ray. Have you taken your medication?"
"Why don't you go wake up Vecchio or something?" Ray asked.
Fraser turned red but refused to be distracted. "Ray, you mustn't forget your antibiotics. Have you taken your pain pill?"
"Okay, antibiotics, that's probably a good idea," he consented. As soon as his mouth closed, Turnbull set pills by his plate. "Uh, thanks," he said, and swallowed the antibiotics. "Satisfied, Frase? Now run along with you."
"Ray, your pain medication," Fraser said.
"Hey, Turnbull's the medic here, and he hasn't given me any, so obviously I don't need them, right?"
"Ray, I am quite certain that Turnbull has encouraged you to-"
"Hey, maybe you all want to see me drugged out and feeling no pain, but that's not my thing, okay?"
"Ray, are you truly concerned about being in an uninhibited state?"
"No, I'm just, you know... I'd just rather do it my way."
"Ah." Clearly Fraser sort of got it and sort of didn't. Fraser got the doing it his way part, but not why this was his way. Then Fraser just gave up and went down the hallway. As soon as Fraser was gone, Ray handed Dief a pancake.
Ray kept eating, and then Vecchio and Fraser came to the table. Ray and Vecchio tossed brief good morning smiles to each other. Ray felt like smiling some more, and that made him frown. "Not again."
"Ray?" Fraser asked.
"Okay, the first time is one thing, but a second time?"
"Ray?" Fraser asked.
"You put that stuff in my pancakes, didn't you?"
"Turnbull?" Vecchio asked.
Turnbull began, "I am afraid that I did lace your pancakes with-"
"He's not cooking," Ray said. "From now on, he doesn't get near that stove."
"Ray, I assure you, Turnbull has proven himself to be an excellent chef," Fraser said. "Last night's dinner-"
"Was drugged," Ray said.
"Only your portion, Ray," Fraser said. "And I assume that this morning, again, only your pancakes-"
"So it's okay if he's doping the food, as long as I'm the only one eating it."
"Yes, Ray," Fraser said.
"And it isn't illegal to drug people against their will or knowledge?"
"It is for your own good, Ray," Fraser said.
"And I can't judge for myself what's for my own good?"
"Apparently not," Vecchio said.
"Oh, you just like Turnbull because he cooked Italian last night," Ray muttered. "That's it. I'm going to the lake. Dief, you coming with me?"
"The lake, Ray?" Fraser asked.
"Why not?" Ray asked.
"Not alone, Ray. I will come with you."
"Oh, you're not coming anywhere with me," Ray said. "You're the one who started this." Fraser's face went white. Ray frowned.
"He means by calling Turnbull," Vecchio said to Fraser.
"What else did I mean?" Ray asked. "You called Turnbull, he comes and starts doping me up and now I can't even walk two feet outside of the cabin alone."
"It's quite a longer distance than two feet, Ray," Fraser said, a little less white now. "In fact, I would estimate-"
"Fraser," Ray said, "I don't care if it's ten miles, I'm going to the lake. Dief'll go with me to make sure I don't get eaten by the sharks."
"Ray, I am certain that sharks-"
"Fraser," Ray said. "You're sort of missing the point here."
"Ray, you cannot go to the lake alone. Diefenbaker is not entirely a suitable companion for such a venture. I am not confident in your ability to-"
Ray was having fun in cutting off Fraser, and now he did it just to be irritating. "So Dief's not good enough? You can stay here and eat pancakes and play with Vecchio. Turnbull, you busy?" This way, Fraser and Vecchio could have some time alone, which Vecchio at least would know how to appreciate. And Turnbull would probably be an okay companion, if he absolutely had to have a baby-sitter. At least maybe he could get Turnbull to be quiet and not chatter at him the way Fraser did. Not that he disliked Fraser's stories and conversation; Fraser was his best friend. He looked to Turnbull from his chair.
"Would you mind accompanying Ray to the lake?" Fraser asked.
"I would be pleased to go, Constable Fraser, Detec - - excuse me, Ray, thank you," Turnbull said.
"Great," Ray said. Fraser and Turnbull exchanged some sort of glance, and Turnbull moved off down the hallway. Turnbull returned with a small bag and Ray's socks and shoes, then left again. Ray glared at his socks and sneakers. Well, probably he should wear them. So he clenched his jaw and drew his foot up onto the chair with him, knee bent. This being drugged stuff wasn't all that bad, actually. He was still in pain, he just didn't care about the pain anymore. Turnbull returned, picked up the bag, and waited. Ray said, "See you guys later, unless those pesky sharks get me." He stood and said, "Come on Dief, Turnbull, pitter patter."
"Enjoy yourselves," Fraser said.
Ray turned and grinned. "Yeah, you too." Vecchio smiled back at him.
The path to the lake was a thin, half-obscured dirt path. Dief went in front, Turnbull in the back, Ray in the middle, probably so Turnbull could catch him if he collapsed or something. Ray said, "Dief, I know you're smart and everything, but you be careful. If something happens to you, Fraser's never gonna forgive me." Dief barked and ran ahead. Ray hoped that Dief was listening and not deliberately running off to disobey him. They reached the lake, and it was bigger than Ray had expected. He walked down to the edge and toed out of his sneakers, pulling off his socks. Now that he was here, he wasn't sure what he was doing here. He wasn't so pain-free that he was willing to run in for a swim.
"Ray, perhaps you would like some suntan lotion?"
"I'm not going sunbathing or something, Turnbull. I'm just standing here."
"Yes, Ray." That was an agreement, but not a concession. Pretty nifty; Ray wondered if it'd been learned from Fraser, or if it was a Canada thing in general.
"Fine, gimme some." He held out his hand and Turnbull handed him a small bottle. He sighed and smeared a little on his face, just to pacify the Mountie. He remembered the back of his neck, then handed it back to Turnbull. "Thanks." He stepped forward until the water was at his ankles. Cold, but not too bad. He'd swim in it before they left, maybe; by then he should be feeling better. It wasn't just the bullet, although that pretty much sucked; he'd been lying in a hospital for a while, so he wasn't exactly in top physical condition. He was skinnier than usual; no wonder Turnbull could pick him up and cart him around the cabin. He glanced over; Turnbull was pretty buffed anyway. Not like Fraser; Fraser was strong and solid. Turnbull was more, like...taller, okay, sure, but seriously buffed. Ray was not. Ray was about the same height as Fraser, but skinny. Slender, lean, lithe, whatever, face it, he was thin. Thinner, now.
He walked into the water a little farther. He was drenching his jeans, but that was okay, they weren't, say, Armani jeans or anything.
It was nice not to be Vecchio anymore. He was Kowalski now. It was a relief to be himself, and not have to worry that with one small mistake he could fuck up everything and end up killing Vecchio. Still, he found himself occasionally almost answering the phone with someone else's name, or turning when someone called for Vecchio, or even thinking of Frannie as his sister.
He ran a hand over his stomach. Beneath the cotton, he could feel the ridge of his wound. Yeah, that'd leave one dandy scar. But, like he'd said, who was looking? Ray's sex life consisted of Ray and his right hand. Maybe a skin flick once in a while, just to keep the monotony from being too monotonous. And his turtle was the only witness, and it wasn't like the turtle cared. Although now that he thought about it, he wasn't so sure that jerking off in front of a turtle was good for the turtle. He'd have to stop that. Mustn't corrupt the turtle.
"Ray?"
"Yeah?" he asked absently.
"You're smiling."
"Yeah, I was..." Um, now what? "I was thinking about my turtle."
"The one that you left with Miss Vecchio?"
"Yeah."
"Does your turtle have a name, Ray?"
"Nah. If he does, he didn't tell me." He glanced around and saw Dief nearby. Good. Didn't want to lose Dief. Not that Dief really needed his supervision.
"Perhaps you could give it a name."
"The turtle? Sure. Like what?"
"The decision is yours, Ray."
"I don't know, can I be trusted with a big decision like that? I'd just end up naming him something stupid like...like...Burgundy Hayseed. Or Sally."
"Sally is a fine name, Ray." A pause. "Not for a male turtle, though, I believe. I see your point."
"Exactly. What's a good turtle name? Bob. John. Joe. Frank. Mike. Ed. Fred."
"I see, Ray, you would like what is considered a solid, masculine, American name for your turtle."
"Sure. I don't want some sissy name like Brett. Although maybe I can't find a good name, maybe it's genetic. My parents sure don't have any good naming instincts. What were they thinking?"
"You have a fine name, Ray."
"Can I ask you something?"
"Yes, Ray."
"Promise you won't get mad?"
"Yes, Ray."
"Promise."
"I promise, Ray."
"What's your first name?"
Pause. "Renfield."
Ray turned and looked at him, finally. "Renfield? Renfield." Maybe Canadian parents had something against their kids. Benton and Renfield. What were these people thinking? What happened to naming kids John? Benton and Renfield. Ben and Ren. Benny and Renny. He looked across the water again. "Renfield. So does anybody actually call you that?"
"I've been called Renny, Ray," Turnbull said, trying to be helpful.
Well, that was better. Renfield Turnbull. Renny. "Not a turtle name."
"No, Ray, I don't suppose that it is."
"You got any ideas?"
"Well, Ray, perhaps 'Keith' would suffice."
"Keith. You know, that's it. Keith. Thanks. That works." Keith the turtle. He smiled. "Hey, you think we can head back to the cabin, or should we..." He paused. Did Turnbull know about Fraser and Vecchio? There was no good way to ask. "Let's start back, but take it nice and slow. Stop and smell the roses, or whatever's blooming. Hey, Dief!"
They walked back to the cabin, and he made sure to make noise when they got close, so the cabin's occupants could zip up again, and he sent Dief in first. When he walked in, Vecchio was all casual, standing by the sink drying off a plate, but Fraser was flushed and a little wide-eyed, obviously not in the middle of washing dishes like it seemed. Ray grinned at them and said, "Turnbull named my turtle."
"Is that a euphemism?" Vecchio asked. Then it registered. "Your turtle. The one Frannie's watching while we're here."
Ray wondered briefly what activity could be described as "naming the turtle." "Yeah, that turtle. You got a dirty mind, Vecchio." He sat on the sofa, resting a hand on his stitches.
"Let me give you a hand with that, Detective Vecchio," Turnbull said.
"Benny, let Turnbull take over there," Vecchio said. "Go sit with Kowalski." Fraser looked embarrassed and ready to refuse, but Vecchio gave him a look, and Fraser walked over and sat on the sofa.
"How was your walk, Ray?" Fraser asked.
"Not real exciting. Later I'm going swimming, when I'm, you know, all recouped or whatever."
"Recuperated, Ray."
"Right. Turnbull named the turtle. Keith. Dief had fun barking at fish or whatever. Got my jeans all wet. Turnbull made me put on my suntan lotion. Hey, did you know his real name's Renfield?"
"His real name, Ray?"
"You know what I mean."
"Yes, Ray, I am well aware of Constable Turnbull's given name."
"Does anybody ever call him anything else besides Turnbull?"
"I don't know of anyone who does, myself, Ray, but I am certain that others must. His parents, perhaps."
"Doesn't seem right, you know? Everybody calls you Fraser, but you got Vecchio, and he calls you Benny. Seems like somebody ought to be calling Turnbull Renny. Fraser?"
"Yes, Ray."
"Does it bother you that I call you Fraser?"
"No, Ray."
"What if I called you, I don't know...Ben." He tried it on his tongue.
"That would be fine, Ray."
"You don't got a preference?"
"I'd like you to address me in whatever manner makes you most comfortable, Ray."
"Come on, Frase, you gotta have a preference. I mean, I got the manly cop thing going on, so everybody's a last name. But we're not just cop friends, we're like real friends, you and me. You and I, whatever. I can't call you Benny, 'cause that's Vecchio's territory. But I could call you Ben. Unless you like Benton. Unless you got a real, what's the word, perversion - - aversion, sorry, aversion, to being called by your first name, and you want me to call you Fraser, which is cool too. You gonna step in here, Frase?"
"Well, Ray, perhaps if it doesn't make you uncomfortable, you could call me Ben."
"That wasn't too hard, was it?"
"No, Ray. Thank you."
He decided that things were going so well, he wouldn't tease Fraser about what'd been going on in the cabin while he was down at the lake.
Ray fell asleep, thanks to his lovely painkiller. He was awakened for lunch, which was made by Turnbull but unmedicated. Then Fraser took Dief out, and Turnbull left, too, while Ray wasn't looking, which left him alone with Vecchio. So they sat there talking, which was cool, since they were friends now. Fraser and Dief came back, and Fraser took a shower, and Vecchio disappeared, and Ray shared a knowing look with Dief. Apparently when people were stuck in a cabin with nothing to do, they started to fill their time with sex. Ray could totally get behind that idea, except he didn't have a partner for sex. His painkiller was wearing off, and he didn't feel like sitting on the sofa while Vecchio attacked Fraser, so he went onto the front porch and sat there not thinking about his stitches. Dief settled at his side, and he petted Dief idly with one hand. Then Turnbull came trotting up the path from the lake.
Okay, first of all, who went exercising in a sweatsuit in this weather? Besides lunatics?
Secondly, the guy had been gone for a long time, obviously had been out jogging or running or whatever, and had barely broken a sweat. Who could run around, in this weather, in that outfit, and not be pouring buckets? Clearly, Turnbull was not human. Or not male. According to Stella and Miss Manners, women didn't sweat, women glowed. Maybe Turnbull was a girl.
Well, of all the people that Ray had seen, at least fully clothed, Turnbull was definitely of the male persuasion.
Turnbull greeted him and started stretching. Cool-down sort of thing, probably. Real exercising people did warm-ups and cool-downs, they didn't just break into a run and then stop short, like Ray tended to do.
"You don't get hot in all that stuff?"
"I am accustomed to wearing layered clothing, Ray."
"Like the Mountie suit."
"Yes, the RCMP dress uniform is a good example."
Ray caught that proper correction, that little bit of pride eking through there. Yeah, Mounties were really into their jobs. The sweats Turnbull was wearing had the little Mountie logo on them, too. "So you normally go running? Or you do other stuff?" Nobody got that body just by running. Of course there was curling, but they weren't going to go into that, were they?
"I enjoy varied physical exercise, Ray. I run, walk, swim, bicycle, and take advantage of various gym facilities. The Chicago lifestyle is not very physically rigorous, so I have joined a health club to compensate." Clearly Turnbull wasn't pleased about this fact, but was trying to hide the displeasure out of politeness.
Ray felt like a scrawny invalid beside all of this healthy outdoorsy masculinity. He was the little puny guy that people built like Turnbull kicked the snot out of. Just thinking about it, Stanley versus Turnbull, the outcome was obvious. But Turnbull sure didn't act like someone who could beat up anybody. (And, really, Ray was cop-trained to win any physical enounter.) Turnbull acted like someone with no self-confidence whatsoever. Turnbull took pride in being a Mountie, but not in much else. It was depressing.
Well, what reasons did Turnbull have to feel confident? The guy wasn't overly popular or anything. He seemed smart, but he wasn't in-your-face obvious about it, so Ray couldn't be sure. He wasn't drop-dead traffic-stopping slip-and-fall-in-your-drool gorgeous, but Ray thought that he was handsome, and he sure had a good body. But he didn't act like someone with a good body, he acted like someone who was trying to hide.
"Excuse me, Ray, I ought to get inside for ablutions before I begin dinner."
"You're cooking again?"
"Yes, Ray, I... You'd rather I didn't?"
"No, no, I just feel sort of guilty. You made breakfast and lunch already, and last night's dinner."
"I don't mind cooking, Ray. You're in no shape to handle the task yourself, if you don't mind my saying so."
"I'd argue with you, but you are the best cook here, so go ahead."
"Thank you kindly, Ray." Turnbull turned pink and entered the cabin. Ray remembered Fraser and Vecchio too late and hoped that they'd cleared the bathroom by now.
Dinner was good, and Ray got dosed again. He passed out on the living room sofa in the middle of a conversation. He woke up in the dark, in his bed, Dief curled up at his side. Wow. Hiking around probably wore him out a lot, on top of that drug. He got up to pee, got back into bed, pet Dief for a minute, and went back to sleep.
Sunday:
When he woke in the morning, he had two thoughts:
If he kept this up, he'd ruin his teeth.
He was shirtless and shoeless and sockless. Which meant that someone had undressed him last night. He was still in his jeans. Which meant that someone, probably, had tried to strip him to his boxers, realized that he wasn't wearing boxers, and left him in jeans. Which meant that someone did respect at least certain personal boundaries. "Someone" was Turnbull, most likely. When he got up for good, he skipped the shower but shaved, then pulled on more clothes and went out to the kitchen. Fraser was there, making pancakes.
"Good morning, Ray. I hope that you slept well."
"Slept great. Turnbull put me to bed?"
"Yes, he carried you from the sofa, Ray."
"Pancakes again?"
"Yes. We are trying to, how does one phrase it...fatten you up?"
"That's real nice of you, Ben." Ben. Nifty.
Fraser smiled, probably pleased for the same reason. "Tomorrow morning Turnbull will make waffles and, with any luck, bacon."
"Where's everybody?"
"Ray is asleep. Turnbull has taken Dief for a run."
"Taking turns?"
"Yes, Ray. Turnbull has done a great deal of the cooking; I felt it only fair that I provide a meal. And Turnbull will make a fine running companion for Diefenbaker."
Turnbull came in with Dief as Vecchio was coming into the kitchen. The first thing Turnbull did was fetch Ray's antibiotics. The first thing Vecchio did was kiss Fraser. The first thing Dief did was go over to Ray for a free pancake. So Ray took his antibiotics and fed Dief and figured that if Turnbull hadn't known about Fraser and Vecchio before, now Turnbull knew. Fraser and Vecchio weren't real touchy, probably for a few good reasons, but anybody paying attention knew they loved each other. Fraser wasn't touchy with anybody, really, but Vecchio had that stereotypical Italian thing happening. And it was one of those hey, first thing in the morning, first time seeing each other, probably waking up after falling asleep together after sex, being in love, good morning kisses. Ray used to get those from Stella, but that was a long time ago. Then he got the occasional dry peck. Then he got eye contact. Then he got the cold shoulder. Then he got divorce papers. Then-
"Ray?"
"Having one of those Stella moments," Ray told Fraser. "Forget it. More pancakes? Hey, you haven't drugged me."
"No, Ray. I would prefer for you to take the painkillers of your own volition."
"What, Ben? Speak English. You know, there's no alcohol in this cabin."
"You are quite right, Ray. Do you feel the need for alcohol?"
"No, I'm just noticing. But you don't drink, and, Turnbull, you drink?"
"No, Ray."
"We should go out somewhere," Ray said. "A restaurant or something, so Turnbull doesn't have to cook again and no one drugs me and I can get a beer. There's one around here, right?"
"Yes, Ray, there is a restaurant approximately-"
"I don't gotta get it in centipedes, Ben. Centipedes - - centimeters. Kilometers. Stop laughing at me. Let's go tonight."
"Sure," Vecchio said. "You paying?"
"Hell, why not?" Ray asked. "Assuming I got any money left after those hospital bills." He watched Fraser go white again, and made a mental note.
Ray made the extra effort of changing clothes before they left. They had four people and a wolf to take, and two cars. Ray wasn't allowed to drive, so Vecchio took Fraser and Dief while Turnbull drove Ray's GTO. Turnbull seemed more worried about the prospect of his driving the GTO than Ray was, which made Ray feel better about it.
The restaurant was quiet and dark and pretty empty. Dief got to come in, too, and they took a table in the corner. Ray could have used a painkiller or five, but he kept quiet about it. He wanted to be good company and keep Fraser from worrying, but he couldn't muster the energy for much conversation. Fraser and Vecchio did most of the talking. He ordered one beer, but it didn't do anything for him so he ordered a second, and that one did help just a little, so he ordered a third. Then he realized that he should have stopped after the first, so he didn't get any more.
When the bill came, Ray reached for his wallet. Fraser said, "No, Ray, I will pay this evening."
"No you won't," Vecchio said. "Benny, no. I'm paying."
"Ray-" Fraser tried, but Vecchio said, "Benny, I'm paying."
Ray wondered how that had happened. He was supposed to pay. Then Fraser wanted to pay. Now Vecchio was paying. Who next, Turnbull? Dief?
He was drunk and his stitches hurt and he was bored and he felt restless. Antsy. When they got back to the cabin he knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to dance. But he couldn't dance because it hurt too much. Damn it. "Damn it."
"Language, Ray."
"Easy for you to say. You didn't get shot. You could dance all you wanted if you knew how. And you get Vecchio whenever you bat your lashes - - I'd kill to get laid. Do you know how long it's been since I fucked somebody - - I would hand in my badge for a good blow job."
Fraser was looking too shocked and disturbed to answer, not to mention having gone all white before turning red. Vecchio said, "Kowalski, is this the beer talking, the pain, or you?"
"I don't think that if I were thinking straight I'd have said 'blow job' in front of Ben."
"Probably not," Vecchio agreed, hiding a smile. "You'll be feeling better soon, and then you can dance all you want. You can take pills for the pain. As for sex, you could get some whenever you want, Kowalski."
"Yeah, 'cause I'm so popular."
"You could have any woman you wanted if you tried. And, just so I can stop wondering, you are bi, aren't you?"
"Why, you interested?"
"Ray, really," Fraser said, finding his voice.
"Ben, relax, I'm not about to steal your boyfriend. Yeah, I'm bi. I'm so easy I'll take anyone."
"Ray, that is hardly the-"
"Ben, I'm joking. You need to relax. Besides, you know I've only ever really been with Stella."
"Really?" Vecchio asked.
"Yeah. Seems sort of pathetic now."
"On the contrary, Ray, it speaks very highly of your-"
"You know, I'm not going to let you finish any sentence ever again. You're too easy to interrupt. I'm gonna go to my room, play some tunes, and sulk. You all have fun." He walked to his room down the hall and closed the door. He plugged in his portable CD player and put on some Nine Inch Nails. Then he laid down on the bed and closed his eyes. Now that he'd started thinking about getting a blow job, he wanted one, he wanted one so badly he'd let Keith the turtle do it if he could.
Blow jobs were supposed to be the best thing ever for a guy to get. He'd only gotten them from Stella, who never tried to deep-throat and never swallowed and thought the entire process was pretty gross. She liked sex, and she liked it when he licked her, but she'd rather jerk him off in her hand than put her face down there. Still, in the beginning, when they were young and horny and liked each other, she'd sucked him off a few times. That had felt so good, so damned good, her tongue, her hot wet mouth, licking around a little, sucking at the head. He'd always wanted to come in her mouth, but she'd back off and finish it in her hand. He'd tasted his cum, out of curiosity, wanting to know what he was asking her to do. It wasn't delicious, but it wasn't bad either.
Ray opened his jeans and pulled out his half-hard, cradling it in one hand, eyes closing. The CD ended after a while, and he drifted lazily in and out of sleep, wondering how drunk he was. He stroked his cock idly. He didn't want to have a Stella fantasy, because he wasn't feeling it for her anymore. He shuffled through names in his head. His world was pretty small these days, professional and largely male. Let's see, Fraser Vecchio Welsh Huey Dewey Frannie Turnbull Ice Queen Dief. Fraser and Vecchio were out. Welsh no. Huey and Dewey no way. Dief no thanks, not going there. Frannie was like his sister. That left Turnbull and Thatcher. Thatcher was an outright bitch, in his humble opinion, and he didn't think that he could imagine Turnbull actually having sex. Pretty slim pickings overall. Well, there was always Trent Reznor. He smiled, giving himself a little pull. This was pathetic. How could he ever hope to have a good sex life when he couldn't have a decent fantasy life?
Polite knock.
He fell off the bed, trying to stuff his cock back in his pants. "Gimme a sec," he said. "Shit." He closed his jeans and remained on the floor, trying to breathe. That hurt. "Yeah?"
The door opened. "Ray? Are you all right? I hope that I didn't disturb you. May I help you off of the floor?"
"Great, ultra-polite Mountie time. What's wrong, Ben?" Fraser helped him to stand and he eased himself back onto the bed, then collapsed on his back, feet on the floor. "God I'm so stupid."
"Ray, I'd like to help you if I can."
"I know, Ben. You know what I could use? About ten of those pain pills and a really good cocksucking. You got any of that on you?"
"Well, Ray, I could bring you one painkiller."
"That'll do. Thanks, Ben."
"Are you feeling lonely for companionship, Ray?"
"I got friends, Ben. I got you and Vecchio and Dief, and there's always the guys at the 2-7. But I had Stella for so long that I always had someone around, someone to care about, and now I got nobody."
"I will be happy to help you, Ray."
"Yeah? What're you gonna do?" he asked, curious. He knew that Fraser wasn't thinking of offering comfort sex. And even if Fraser went totally nuts out of character and did offer, he'd never say yes.
"I will attempt to find you a lover, Ray. Someone compatible with your tastes and interests, your ideals and-"
"Ben, you're kidding me. You're gonna fix me up with somebody?"
"Do you have a preference, Ray?"
"Preference for what?"
"Is there someone whom you're considering already? Is there a certain type of person you like?"
"Ben, the only people around here are that woman from the grocery store, that idiot waiter tonight, Turnbull, and Dief."
"There is all of Chicago, Ray."
"Meanwhile, I'll spend my vacation time jerking off until I've sprained my wrist and gotten a callus on my-"
"Ray, please."
"Don't suppose they have prostitutes around here."
"I do not believe so, Ray."
"Hey, Ben."
"Yes, Ray?"
"Is Turnbull gay? God, don't look at me like that, I'm just asking."
"You aren't interested in him?"
"No."
"I am not aware of Turnbull's sexual orientation, Ray."
"He acts so gay he's gotta be straight."
"Is there a logic to your assumption, Ray?"
"Yeah, but I'm drunk."
"I see. Would it be wise to supply you with medication under these circumstances?"
"You mean mixing alcohol and drugs? Go ahead, I won't tell anyone."
"I will discuss the matter with Turnbull."
"God, Ben, all of this time you want me to take the dumb things, and finally I want some and you won't give me any!"
"I apologize, Ray. I will confer with Turnbull."
Ben came back a few minutes later with a pill and a glass of water. Ray was asleep soon after that.
Monday:
Late the next morning, Ray managed to get out of bed. Between his hangover and his post-drug stupor, he was feeling a bit less energetic than usual. He stumbled into the main room eventually to find Dief watching Turnbull do push-ups on the floor of the living room. "Hi." God Turnbull had a good body.
Turnbull stood up way too fast. "Good morning, Detec - - Ray. Would you care for something to eat?"
"Where's everybody?"
"Constable Fraser and Detective Vecchio have gone for a walk."
Ray sat on the sofa. "Keep doing the exercise thing. Don't let me stop you. C'mere, Dief, keep me company."
"Let me bring you some antibiotics, Ray. Would you care for any pain medication?"
"Antibiotics, that'd be great, Turnbull, thanks." Dief walked over and sat beside him on the sofa. Turnbull rushed over to get him pills and a glass of water. He held off on the painkiller, mostly because his head was a little muddy anyway and he didn't want it getting any worse. Turnbull still was standing there, hovering, and he looked up, curious. "You need something?"
"Excuse me, Ray, I don't mean to disturb you. Constable Fraser suggested that perhaps it would be a good idea if I examined your stitches. He is worried that you may have agitated your wound when you fell out of your bed last night."
"I didn't fall... Well, I did, okay, but it's not... Oh, here, fine." Ray stood; Turnbull moved back quickly. He pulled up his shirt with one hand. Turnbull was red, and those long lashes were shielding blue eyes. "Excuse me," Turnbull said, and gentle fingertips brushed feather-soft over Ray's wound. The fingertips drifted along the edges of his stitching, then followed the curve of his ribs. Ray frowned as the touch ghosted upward. Turnbull's thumb brushed up beneath his T-shirt over a nipple.
Turnbull yanked back fast.
"Are you breathing?" Ray asked.
Turnbull fell right over.
"Holy shit!" Ray said. Dief bounded off of the sofa over to the body. Ray knelt down, saying, "Turnbull? Turnbull, shit." He rolled Turnbull over and winced. "Hope you didn't like your forehead the way it was, buddy." He couldn't hope to drag Turnbull onto the sofa, considering his post-hospital weakness, his stitches, and Turnbull's bulk. He pulled throw pillows from the sofa and put them under Turnbull's head. "Dief, do me a favor. I know you probably don't like doing the Lassie thing, but run and get Fraser for me, okay? I mean Ben. I mean, whoever, the dark-haired Mountie guy. He's probably off in the woods sucking face with Vecchio, so we shouldn't interrupt, but what am I supposed to do if I've killed Turnbull? Oh, never mind, I'll take care of it myself. You stay here and make sure Turnbull doesn't die, and I'll, uh, get something."
Dief made a disapproving sound and sat.
Ray sighed and walked to the kitchen sink. He got a paper towel wet with cold water and returned to sit beside Turnbull's body. He wiped the cold water over Turnbull's cheeks and head, mindful of the bruise. He glared at the bruise, then got up and returned with a washcloth of ice cubes, which he rested over Turnbull's forehead to lessen swelling. Now what? "Hey, Turnbull, I didn't kill you, did I? You hearty outdoorsy people aren't supposed to faint like those corset-wearing women, you know? Come on, you're a Mountie, aren't you?"
Blue eyes fluttered open.
"Ha. I knew that'd work. How you feeling?"
"Ray?"
"Yeah. You sort of fell over. Sorry I didn't catch you or anything, but you sort of took me by surprise."
"Had you attempted to break my fall, you most likely would have popped your stitches, Ray." Turnbull put one hand to the washcloth and sat up gingerly. "I do apologize."
"For fainting? You don't apologize for fainting, Turnbull."
"I apologize as well for my indecent physical overtures. I was entirely in the wrong and am quite ashamed of myself."
"Hey, it's okay," Ray said quickly. "Don't be so hard on yourself. You're never going to look me in the eye again, are you?"
"I will understand if you wish me to remove myself from the premises."
"Leave? No, I don't want you to go. You're supposed to be here taking care of me, and that's what you're going to stay and do." God, he hadn't had somebody try to feel him up since, oh, eons ago. If he hadn't been so shocked and confused, he might've had a real nice time enjoying himself. As it was, the memory of Turnbull's fingers grazing across his flesh, even reaching up under his held-up T-shirt for his nipple... Oh yeah.
Oh no. What was he doing? The first person who touched him had him in the middle of a jerk-off session? He was way too desperate. He couldn't start grabbing at the first person who looked at him. Besides, it was Turnbull; he couldn't make a play for Turnbull, of all people.
"Are you gay?" he asked.
Turnbull swallowed. "Yes."
Just then, Fraser and Vecchio walked in and saw them sitting on the floor, Turnbull holding the washcloth to his forehead. "What happened?" Vecchio asked. "You okay?"
"Turnbull was giving me my meds when he just stopped breathing and fell over," Ray said. "You know these puny Canadians, put them in the summer heat and they can't handle it." He managed to get to his feet. "While Turnbull's resting his poor head, somebody make me some lunch."
"You fainted?" Vecchio asked Turnbull.
"See what happens when you leave us alone?" Ray asked. "The whole place falls apart. Come on, pitter patter, somebody start cooking."
"You seem to be feeling much better, Ray," Fraser said with a slight edge of sarcasm. Sarcasm, ha! Ultra-polite Mountie must be feeling better, too.
Ray smirked. "Turnbull's taking real good care of me."
"Named your turtle and everything," Vecchio murmured.
Ray pinned Vecchio with a finely honed glare of "don't you dare go there or I'll kick you in the head, motherfucker." Vecchio almost raised an eyebrow in response but thought better of it and graciously backed down. Ray raised his chin and looked away. He figured that Turnbull was feeling guilty and horrible enough without people speculating on the likelihood of a sexual interest between the two of them. It was apparent to Ray that Turnbull was interested, at least to some degree, or the guy wouldn't have started touching him like that. But the rest of the world didn't need to know about it. He'd keep it a secret between the three of them, him and Turnbull and Dief, for Turnbull's sake.
After he ate the lunch that Fraser prepared for him, he sat with Dief on the porch and thought. What did he know about Turnbull?
1.) Mountie.
2.) The guy took his job very seriously.
3.) He cleaned.
4.) He cooked.
5.) He curled.
6.) He was Canadian.
7.) He had an omigod very fine body.
The job thing was a big point. Turnbull was a dedicated Mountie among dedicated Mounties, and "dedicated Mountie" was a big redundancy in the first place.
Ray had had a passing interest in other people over the years, people besides Stella. A nice pair of legs or a promising smile could be enticing. He wasn't dead to the world, after all. But he hadn't felt a lingering heat like this, not from anyone but Stella. Turnbull's touch was with him still. He wanted more.
He couldn't have more. Not from Turnbull.
Fraser was off-limits. Ray had known that from the start. Not just because of their strong friendship, not just because of Vecchio. It was because Fraser was one of those principled moral ethical people with goals and ideals and a sense of order. Ray was a cop, okay, he was dedicated to serving and protecting. But he wasn't picture perfect or squeaky clean; he was scruffy, he was Chicago, he was gritty from the city life and the pollution of air and soul. If Fraser, polite and respectable and worshipped, was off-limits, Turnbull was worse. Turnbull was the only person Ray knew less suited than Fraser to Chicago life. Turnbull was more idealistic, more principled, more naive, more innocent. Ray didn't touch the innocent.
Vecchio sat down on his other side. "Want to tell me about it?"
"No." Vecchio nodded and watched the scenery with him. "You went to Vegas, undercover and all of that, because of Ben, didn't you?" He saw Vecchio nod from the corner of his eye. "Because you wanted to prove that you were good enough."
"I came back dirtier than I'd ever been. And he loved me more."
They didn't talk about this, they never came out and spoke on Vecchio and Fraser's relationship, didn't use the L-word, didn't talk about the undercover work. Didn't talk about how the Vecchio he'd heard about was not the Vecchio who'd come back.
"So you think you're good enough for him now?"
"No. But he does, and that's what matters. I'm not going to turn down all that he's offering me." Vecchio looked at him. "Do you think that I should?"
"No."
Vecchio nodded, turning to watch the scenery again.
He wasn't in love with Turnbull; he barely knew the guy. But he knew that with Turnbull, one couldn't just have a fling. It wasn't like he could take Turnbull for a test drive. He had to go into it knowing that he was willing to work on something more meaningful and long-term than a few nights of dinner and sex.
Sex. With a man. Oh holy shit. That was one thing about being bisexual; he could stick to women and pretend that he was straight, and keep from experiencing another man's touch. Another man's kiss. Another man beneath his hands...
He shoved aside that thought and found another. Was Turnbull experienced? Either the guy was a total virgin or a complete whore; he wasn't sure which. He'd prefer it if Turnbull knew the ins and outs, so to speak, of male-on-male sex. Ray himself knew the words and knew the theories, but as for actual practice it seemed as intimidating as exciting. He hoped that Turnbull had a string of (clean) male lovers somewhere.
Was he actually considering getting involved with Turnbull? No, no way, no how. He was not going to go near the Mountie. Strictly business.
Tuesday:
Ray was feeling good today. He had energy, he had a bright outlook, and the pain was leaving. He decided to revisit the lake, maybe splash around a little. He wanted to get out of the cabin, at least. He pulled on cut-offs and a T-shirt, found socks and shoes, and told Fraser that he was leaving.
"You've forgotten two important things, Ray."
"Yeah? What's that, Ben?"
"Sunscreen, Ray."
Turnbull handed it to him.
"Thanks." He started to slap on some. "What else?"
"You'll need someone to go with you."
"Dief's coming, arentcha Dief?" Diefenbaker agreed.
"Ray, Dief is a valuable companion, but he cannot necessarily guard your safety-"
"Come on, Ben. Not this again. I'm fine. I'm the picture of health."
"You're scrawny and weak," Vecchio said.
"You want my candid opinion of you?" Ray challenged.
"Ray, please," Fraser said.
"He started it," Ray muttered.
"I was speaking to Ray Vecchio," Fraser said.
Ray stuck out his tongue at Vecchio. Vecchio gave him a come-hither look with a crooked finger. He laughed and said, "You wish. Okay, Ben, so, what? Who's coming with me? The guy behind door number one, two, or three?"
"I would be happy to accompany you, Ray."
"You were already out today, Benny," Vecchio said. "Give Turnbull a chance to get out of this place. He'll appreciate the...fresh air."
"Of course, Ray," Fraser said.
"Great. You coming?" Ray asked Turnbull.
"Excuse me briefly, Ray," Turnbull said, grabbing the suntan lotion and going to his room. Ray waited. Turnbull came back and Ray said, "Turnbull, do you own shorts?"
"Yes, Ray, I own one pair."
"You don't wear 'em?"
"They do not fit correctly."
Whatever that meant. "Okay. Ben, Vecchio, see you guys later. C'mon Dief, pitter patter." The three of them took off down the path, making their way down to the lake. Vecchio was right, he was scrawny now, and it pissed him off. He'd have to get his muscle tone back soon.
When they reached the lake, Dief ran off; Ray pulled off his sneakers and socks and waded into the water, ignoring its chill, going in up past his knees. "Feels good. C'mon, Turnbull."
Turnbull carefully removed his own footwear and meticulously rolled up his pant legs, then cautiously waded in just a little.
"Come on, Turnbull," Ray urged. "It's nice out here." He walked out a little farther, then a little farther, until he was soaked to the waist. Then he stretched out flat on his back, shuddering at the cold but floating anyway. "If I float away you're gonna have to come get me, so you might as well come out here awhile."
"I do not believe that the current here would take you far, Ray."
"What happens if I drown? You'd have to go back and tell Fraser that I was dead, and he wouldn't like that."
"No, I am certain that he would not. Ray, are you being mindful of your stitches?"
"Not really."
"I was afraid that you weren't." Turnbull slowly came closer. "Oh dear."
"What's wrong?"
"I'm quite ruining my pants."
"You're wearing jeans. Wash 'em, dry 'em, good as new."
"I suppose so, Ray." Turnbull reached his side. "You do look comfortably relaxed, Ray."
"It's good for me." He closed his eyes and let himself drift. "Don't let me float out to sea or anything."
"Ray, this lake-"
"I know, Turnbull."
"Understood."
"You know how to swim?"
"Yes, Ray."
"Good. Hey, did they teach you that buddy breathing thing, too?"
"Yes, Ray, I am familiar with the technique."
"The things you people know. Where's Dief?"
"He is within-"
"I don't gotta hear it in kilometers, Turnbull. Can you see that he's safe?"
"Yes, Ray."
"Good." He sighed and melted into the water. "You should try this."
"I would rather keep an eye on you, Ray."
"I'm not going anywhere. Am I moving?"
"Yes, Ray."
"Feels like it. Where'm I going?"
"You're moving gradually farther from shore, but at no alarming rate."
"Okay." He listened to the quiet of the lake. "I bet there's fish under me."
"Yes, Ray."
"No sharks, no jellyfish, no electric eels, I'm doing okay." He opened his eyes. "Whoa. We're out a lot farther than I thought. Uh-oh!" He'd unbalanced and was about to fall, until suddenly he found himself up in Turnbull's arms, hoisted out of the water, which was up to Turnbull's chest.
"Your stitches, Ray."
"Right. We're doing the damsel in distress thing again. Tote me in."
"Yes, Ray." Turnbull carried him to the shore and set him on his feet.
"Thanks for the rescue. I'm gonna sit down and dry out some." He picked up his shoes and socks and walked along the shore for just a bit until he found a rock, where he sat, stretched on his back, and rolled onto his stomach carefully. "My hair's gotta look great just about now. Hey, Dief," he said, as the half-wolf came over to them. Turnbull sat down cautiously beside him, not too close. "You have fun chasing squirrels and harassing fish?" Dief nosed at him and walked off again. "Don't get lost! Why am I shouting after a deaf wolf? Rhetorical question, Turnbull."
"Understood."
He sighed. "Maybe I'll fall asleep. I'm so lazy these days." He closed his eyes and listened to the woods.
Ray opened his eyes. "Woah. Turnbull?"
"Yes, Ray?"
"What time is it?"
"4:18 pm, Ray."
"Shit."
Turnbull swallowed.
"Sorry." He sat up gingerly. "Close your ears, Turnbull. Motherfucking piece of bastard son of a bitch! Shit." Now he was on his feet. "Fuck."
"Shall I assume that you are in pain, Ray?"
"Yeah, you can assume that. I was doing real well, too. God, I'm never going to make it to the cabin. You go ahead and send a stretcher for me. Oh, hi, Dief. Ben's gotta be worried about us. I'm surprised he hasn't come looking. Sorry I kept you here forever; you musta been bored sitting there."
"Not at all, Ray."
"Hunh. Okay, let's get going. Dief, you go ahead and tell Ben we're coming. Okay?" Dief left. "Good. Let's go."
"Are you quite sure that you wish to attempt this hike, Ray?"
"I can't just stay here. Gotta get there somehow. I'm probably just stiff from sleeping on a rock. You'd think I was Ben or something, acting like that." He started for the path. "No, never mind, I'm staying here like the quitter that I am."
"You are not a quitter, Ray. Your body simply knows when it has reached its physical limitations."
"I fell asleep on a rock."
"Yes, Ray."
"Not too bright. Maybe if I go real slowly."
"Take your time, Ray."
"Hope you weren't planning on getting back to the cabin before tomorrow."
"As long as Constable Fraser and Detective Vecchio are assured of our safety and impending arrival, we can remain out here for as long as it takes."
"I don't know when it happened, but suddenly you're the most agreeable person I know. Ben gets so...snarky."
"Constable Fraser has high standards."
"Well, perfect people are like that." He made it a few more steps. "Shit. I'm getting nowhere like this. Maybe if I...I don't know, wait for a road to be built and a taxi to come for me?"
"Ray, I hesitate to offer unwanted assistance, but I do not like to see you in this pain. Perhaps, if it isn't too troubling, I could carry you?"
"Turnbull, you're my own personal taxi service. It's the whole way up this hill. I can't ask you to do that."
"I am offering, Ray. It's no trouble to me, and it would save you undue stress." Turnbull hesitated. "If you would rather not, I understand."
"Oh, hey, it's not about that," Ray said. "I just feel bad. I do weigh more than twenty pounds, and it's more than a few feet. But, hey, if you're offering and we want to get there before it's time to go back to Chicago, let's get going. Pick me up there, Mountie. I swear, I need more damned rescuing from myself..." He found himself held in strong arms. He looped an arm around Turnbull's neck and rested comfortably against the broad chest. "So this is what it feels like being one of those helpless females. I could get used to this."
"I doubt that, Ray. You are far too independent and active."
"Yeah." He watched the passing scenery as Turnbull gently carried him up the hill. They reached the cabin and Turnbull carried him inside, hooking a foot under his chair rung and carefully setting him down at the kitchen table. "Hi," he said to Fraser and Vecchio.
"Hello, Ray, Turnbull," Fraser said. "May I ask how your venture was?"
"It was great, until I fell asleep on a rock," Ray said. "Turnbull, you mind doing me a favor?"
"I would be happy to help you, Ray."
"Could you get me one of those painkillers? Then I'm eating and going to bed."
"Of course, Ray." Turnbull brought him one.
"Thanks. Sorry about being late," he told Fraser.
"I was beginning to worry, Ray, until Dief assured us that you were on your way safely," Fraser said.
He ate. After eating, he felt a little drowsy but mostly uncomfortable. "You know what I need? One of those masseuse guys."
"Ray, perhaps-"
Vecchio coughed.
"Perhaps, Ray," Fraser tried again, "Constable Turnbull would be able to provide you with a massage."
"No kidding." He looked at Turnbull, who just turned red. "Is that a yes or a no?"
"Yes, Ray, I, no, that is... I would be happy to assist you, Ray. I would not wish for you to experience any discomfort." That was code, apparently, meaning that Turnbull didn't want him to be uncomfortable because of physical pain or because of Turnbull's wandering hands. It wasn't a yes or a no, it was an "it's up to you and I'll understand if you hate me forever."
Well, it was Ray's duty to make sure that Turnbull didn't feel guilty. He had to say yes; if he said no, Turnbull would be sure that he was angry or uncomfortable with the whole thumb on the nipple incident. And if Ray just happened to enjoy feeling Turnbull's hands on him, that was his own stupid problem. "Good," he said. "I gotta lay down, right? That leaves the floor or my bed. Since laying on stupid hard places got me in trouble in the first place, let's try my bed. Ben, you won't mind doing the dishes without Turnbull's help, will you? Great. Pitter patter, Turnbull." He got up and shuffled off to his bedroom down the hall.
Turnbull was there a moment later, after having recovered from shock, he guessed. Turnbull left quickly, then came back with a bottle. "What's that?"
"Baby oil, Ray. It is the most handy lotion available at the moment."
"Whatever works. You want me like naked or what?"
"Oh, dear. Whatever makes you comfortable, Ray."
"Let's see if I can get out of this shirt, first." He managed to get his shirt off without hurting his stitches, then toed out of his sneakers and pulled off his socks. He got out of his jeans and laid on his stomach on the bed, only in short, worn boxers now. "Do your worst. Or, being a Mountie, do your best."
"Of course, Ray." All brisk business now. Ah, the return of Efficient Mountie. Ray wasn't too good at denying his feelings like that, but apparently these Mountie people were experts. Of course, it wasn't like he knew that Turnbull had some grand passion for him or anything. It could be a passing thing about them being stuck together in the cabin with the resident horny couple. He didn't even want Turnbull to have some grand passion for him. Turnbull was off-limits. Turnbull was a principled Canadian Mountie with integrity and seriously deeply ingrained morals and a curling fetish, and all of that was just wrong for Ray. Or, more honestly, Ray was wrong for Turnbull.
The massage was wonderful. He couldn't remember feeling this good. He wasn't surprised; Turnbull had experience and training and big, strong hands. Big, strong hands all over Ray's body. Oh, he was not going there, he just wasn't. He was not going to think about Turnbull's hands on him. He was not going to picture it. He was not going to get hard thinking about it.
Turnbull turned him over
easily and did it all over again. It was so deep and so strong that
he wanted to cry, or laugh. What he did was fall asleep.