List, List, O, List!

List, List, O, List!

Rating: R although they deserve NC-17

Pairing: Raymond Kowalski/Renfield Turnbull, Benton Fraser/Raymond Vecchio

Disclaimer: "due South," with its related characters and themes, belongs to Paul Haggis and Alliance, not to me.

Dedication: This slashfic is dedicated to Ewan McGregor, Hexwood, and Serge Protector.

Wherein Turnbull steals Fraser's crown, Fraser gets his panties in a bunch, and Kowalski throws up on the Consulate.

Notice: Title? Shakespeare. Hamlet. Read it.

"No one?"

"No one." Ray repeated the words with certainty, with satisfaction, almost as though it were a relief to say them, almost as though it made the world click into place.

"Ray, surely you don't mean it."

"I do mean it, Fraser. I mean it like I've meant nothing else in my whole life. You are the most frustrating, impossible - - no. No. You know what, you're not. I don't believe it, but there is one person, and only one person, who is more frustrating, more impossible, even than you are."

Fraser couldn't help but think of his father, but he was sure that Ray meant someone else. He was glad that Ray now considered him the runner-up instead of the grand prize winner, though he felt bad for whoever had stolen his crown. "And who would that be, Ray?"

"Turnbull. Turnbull wins, hands down."

"Now, really, Ray-"

"What, you don't think so? Come on, Fraser. That guy is so impossible to deal with he makes you look...I want to say malleable or obedient or something but it just sounds like sex so I won't go there. He is ridiculous! The cleaning and the clumsiness and the curling and-"

"Ray-"

"-and every time you ask him something he goes all weird and-"

"Ray-"

"-and did I mention the curling thing?"

"Ray, Constable Turnbull happens to be-"

"Happens to be what, Fraser, the Canadian poster boy for - - I bet they sent him here on purpose. I bet they exported him because even those polite Canadians couldn't stand him and they figured one more nutball down in America nobody'd notice."

"Ray, I would like to point out that Constable Turnbull is a member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. He went through the same training as the rest of us. He wears that same uniform as I wear."

"I bet his is bigger." Ray laughed. "God, I didn't say that, did I? Here I am spec, spec, spectacle - - speculating on the size of Turnbull's..." Ray's sentence trailed into more laughter.

"My point, Ray," Fraser said, refusing to be sidetracked, "is that Constable Turnbull deserves the same respect as anyone else wearing the uniform. Not that you've shown a great deal of respect for all RCMP officers-"

"Don't get your panties in a bunch, Fraser. You know I don't like the Ice Queen and I just never will. So what are you saying, that just because you wear red and so does he it's all the same? I know you, Fraser. I work with you and I see the way you are. There's nobody else like you."

"There are common ideals, common goals. You and I share those ideals, Ray. So does Turnbull."

"He's in love with curling and the Queen. God, I'll bet he'll never put anyone above the Queen. What a drain on his sex life that'll be. Course, if he'd trot on over to England I bet she'd be real happy to give him the royal treatment."

"Ray, if you don't stop this line of conversation I will either arrest you or be quite ill."

Ray grinned. "Sorry. Didn't mean to slander your Queen or give you nasty mental images."

"Well, you've managed to do both quite thoroughly."

"Does he date?"

"Constable Turnbull?"

"Never mind, what am I thinking? Wait, so you like him?"

"Do I like Constable Turnbull? He is, as you have noted, somewhat difficult to work with, at times. However, he is extremely dedicated to his work. I admire his determination. I understand also that in addition to cleaning he cooks and paints."

"Regular little Martha Stewart, isn't he? If she were clumsy and built like a...like a...something."

"Turnbull is unique," Fraser said.

"Weird."

"Intriguing."

"Frustrating."

"Yes, Ray, he is frustrating. So am I. It hasn't caused you to end our friendship."

"Hell no."

"Why is that?"

"What, we have to get personal and discuss our feelings now? Okay, well, I guess it's because, yeah, you are really frustrating, you're the second most frustrating person in the world ever, but there's a lot of other stuff that tips the scales in the direction of good, so I put up with the frustration to get to the other stuff."

"Therefore, if you were introduced to Turnbull's many fine qualities, you might be inclined to look in his favor."

"There's no way you're going to introduce me to nearly enough fine qualities to drown out his obnoxious weirdness."

"Am I welcome to try?"

"Why do you care?"

"I'd rather not say, Ray."

"You'd rather not say? Then you'd better spit it out. What's going on?"

"Well, Ray... I'd still rather not say."

"You're saying, and you're saying now."

"Hey, Turnbull. Benny here?"

Ray froze. Fraser paled. Vecchio's voice had come from the hallway, right outside their door, speaking to Turnbull, which meant that Turnbull was right outside their door, which meant that Turnbull could have heard everything.

"Oh god oh god, oh god oh god, oh god oh god," Ray whispered.

Vecchio walked into Fraser's office. "What's with him?"

"Who, Ray?" Fraser asked.

"Well, I meant Turnbull, but now I'm thinking Kowalski," Vecchio said. "And you, too, maybe. What's going on?"

"I'm going to hell," Ray said. "There's a special hell for people like me."

"What?" Vecchio asked. "Is he off his meds?"

"The people who perpetrate evil crimes against the good and innocent. They're saving a seat for me, I just know it."

"Is somebody going to tell me what's going on here?" Vecchio asked.

"I haven't fucked up this bad since... Okay, so I do a lot of stupid things. But this ranks right up there with, I don't know, Beth Botrelle and Stella."

"Stella?" Vecchio asked. "What about her?"

"In the list of the 101 things that you and I are never ever going to talk about, Stella is right up there in the top five," Ray told Vecchio. "And why do I keep making lists?"

"What lists?" Vecchio asked.

"Ray has decided that I am the second most frustrating and impossible person 'in the world ever,'" Fraser explained.

"So who's number one?" Vecchio asked. "It better not be me."

"You're on your own list," Ray said. "I'm going to go now and maybe walk into some traffic. You two have a nice day."

"Ray, maybe-"

"Fraser, I'm leaving. You stay here with your nice Armani boyfriend. I'll see you tomorrow." Ray stepped into the hallway, walked outside, didn't see Turnbull anywhere, was glad to have avoided - - or, more likely, been avoided by - - Turnbull.

Ray and Fraser had their own partnership friendship happening, and it ran real deep, and there was no way it was breaking up ever, not for real. And Ray knew what he could say to Fraser, knew that he could say that Fraser was frustrating, knew that Fraser actually agreed and didn't mind, because they loved everything about each other, even the bad parts. Not that Fraser had any bad parts. Because even the things that made Fraser impossible to deal with were good things, were things that were valuable in Fraser, were things that made Fraser special and important.

But Ray and Turnbull definitely didn't have that sort of relationship at all. They barely knew each other, aside from purposely aggravating each other when they happened to meet. And Turnbull had just overheard him being downright mean for no reason at all. He'd said things that would hurt anyone, but especially would hurt someone who was good and kind and clean and pure as the driven Canadian snow. Turnbull did clean and cook and paint; Turnbull liked the Queen and curling and country music; Turbull was quirky, one big giant walking quirk, but there wasn't an evil bone in Turnbull's body, nothing bad or ugly or twisted even a little. Sure, Turnbull was impossible, and usually completely on purpose, but in a good way, in a devoted Mountie way. Devoted, dedicated, pure loyal Mountie.

Fraser, Fraser was learning, Fraser was getting into the rhythm of Chicago, Fraser had Victoria in the past and the whole thing about being kicked out of Canada and was in love with Vecchio, so Fraser was still wholesome and clean and everything but Fraser had edges, Fraser had dark places. Ray didn't think that Turnbull had any dark places at all.

And what had he done? He'd been cruel to the innocent. He'd said hurtful things about someone who - - it was like kicking a puppy, just as senseless, and it said volumes more about his own screwed-up psyche than it did about Turnbull.

He should just write "Utter bastard; kick me" on his forehead, on his ass, and-

"Detective Kowalski."

He was caught off-guard and he screeched to a halt before realizing where he was. Shit. "Yeah?" He'd meant to walk around the block a few times to get his head back together; he shouldn't drive the GTO while in a self-destructive mood. But he hadn't really wanted to come in front of the consulate again, not if Turnbull was going to walk over to him on the sidewalk. So much for being avoided.

Turnbull stood in front of him, just a little away from him, keeping a bit of distance there. Probably afraid to get too close to the psychotic American, Ray figured. Turnbull stood with his feet slightly apart and his hands behind his back.

"Detective Kowalski," Turnbull said again, lifting his chin just a notch and looking right at the top of Ray's head, not into Ray's eyes. "I would like to apologize for my behavior. Had I known that I was making such a nuisance of myself that-"

"Woah, stop," Ray said. His mind was spinning, trying to figure out this guy. He'd hurt Turnbull, he could see it, he could feel it, every bit of the man was set with pain. But Turnebull was apologizing. Why? To Turnbull, Ray figured that he was nobody, because he was American, and Turnbull had a lot of national pride happening. On the other hand, maybe, well, Turnbull seemed to like Fraser, and Ray was Fraser's best friend, Ray was Fraser's partner, so maybe that respect for Fraser seeped onto Ray some. Okay, that worked. And Fraser was Turnbull's superior, and Ray was Fraser's partner, so in a sense Ray was Turnbull's superior. Except that, being pond scum and all, he obviously wasn't superior to Turnbull in any way.

Which was a new thought for Ray, who wasn't used to thinking of Turnbull as his superior. But considering which of them was being the bigger man here, it wasn't hard for him to see that he was a complete bastard and Turnbull was sucking in pride and hurt to apologize, apologize to him, apologize for being a nuisance. Which was all wrong.

"Look, Turnbull, I'm the one who should apologize. I never should have said what I said, any of it. I was wrong, and I'm sorry." Best to stop there, for now. He could explain more, apologize more, if the need arose. He'd learned a few things during his marriage to Stella. Keep the apology short and sweet at first, make it real clear that you were in the wrong, don't run off into rambling explanations unless they were asked for because if you did the rambling first it sounded like you were either rubbing it in or trying to get out of it, making excuses. He wasn't making excuses; there was no excuse for what he'd just done to Turnbull. The words "I'm sorry" had come real easy and often with Stella, because he'd found himself apologizing a lot back in the day, but right now he could feel it, could feel himself being sorry, he was one sorry bastard, and there was this churning in his stomach. That always had been one of his problems; he couldn't keep anything in, it all came out, whatever he felt. When he was angry, it ran all through his body, and either simmered in tension or came out through his fists. When he was sad, he couldn't help but do something to show it, like cry, which was pretty unmanly, so he tried to turn it into anger, because there was nothing worse than trying to be a macho cop and then bursting into tears like a little girl. He'd cried in front of Fraser once, though, and Fraser hadn't seemed to mind too much. So when he got mad his whole body got mad, and when he got sad, and when he was nervous, and when he was scared, and when he was horny - - it was a full-body experience. He couldn't be like some people he knew whose bodies and emotions were divorced, who could keep it all inside - - with Ray, it came out, all of it. He'd make a lousy Mountie.

Oh god no. He spun around, ran a few feet, and vomited.

"Detective Kowalski. Detective Kowalski, sir, are you all right?"

He straightened, and his mouth tasted horrible, and that looked really gross. "Fine."

"Perhaps you'd better come inside and rest for a moment. You don't look well."

"I'm fine, Turnbull."

"I'm going to have to insist, sir."

He really didn't need Fraser and Vecchio knowing he'd just vomited on the Consulate. He looked up to tell Turnbull that, but Turnbull was looking at him with that patiently determined clueless look. Not that Turnbull was clueless. But...damn it, the guy was hard to figure out and even harder to explain, and he couldn't do either.

Turnbull was still looking at him, waiting for him. He figured he at least could go inside and try to get this taste out of his mouth, even if the rest of him still felt like crap. He needed a sign around his neck, something to warn off people. "Mean to Mounties," maybe. He sighed and walked into the Consulate, Turnbull following him.

"Come in here, Detective Kowalski," Turnbull said, and steered him into that front parlor room. Looked like something Stella would have liked, maybe. He didn't get to come in here much. Turnbull sat him on the loveseat and said, "I'll be right back with something to settle your stomach." His stomach wasn't really the problem, but Turnbull had bustled out of the room. He leaned back and closed his eyes.

"He's asleep. Let's go."

"He's not asleep, Ray."

Ray opened his eyes to see Vecchio and Fraser taking seats, Vecchio in the chair, Fraser beside him. Fraser was setting a tea tray on the low table. "Constable Turnbull thought that you might like some tea, Ray," Fraser said.

"We all know Kowalski's such a tea drinker," Vecchio said.

"Something to settle my stomach," Ray said. Tea and Fraser. Even Vecchio. Relaxing and familiar. His friends and partners. So he wouldn't feel like shit anymore.

"So what happened?" Vecchio asked. "You ran out of here. Benny said you spoke without thinking. Nothing really new for you, Stanley."

"Don't call me that," Ray said automatically. "I threw up on the Consulate."

"You vomited on the building? Inside or outside, Ray?" Fraser asked.

"Outside. Sidewalk."

"That must be what Turnbull's cleaning, then."

"What?"

"He asked that I tend to our visitor. He said that he had something to take care of himself. He didn't tell us that you were our guest, Ray."

"Probably couldn't bring himself to say my name," Ray said. "He's out there cleaning up my puke? I have to go stop him."

Fraser's hand closed around Ray's wrist. "You'll stay where you are, Ray."

"Fraser, did you hear me? I said that he had obnoxious weirdness. I said that he got kicked out of Canada, that they didn't want him there, like he's not good enough. That has to be killing him."

"Not necessarily," Vecchio said. "That's assuming that your opinion means something."

Ray blinked once. Oh.

"I really don't think that all of Turnbull's pride rests on what you think of him, Kowalski," Vecchio said. "You were mean, you probably hurt his feelings, so apologize and get over it."

"You think so, Fraser?" Ray asked, turning to Fraser again.

"Well, Ray, it is possible-"

"You're not saying yes. You're hesitating and stalling for time. What's going on?"

"Would you like some tea, Ray?"

"It's gotta be really bad if you're not telling me what's wrong."

"Ray, I simply-"

"Tell me what's going on, Fraser."

"Just tell him, Benny."

"You know?" Ray asked Vecchio.

"You want me to tell him?" Vecchio asked Fraser.

"No, Ray, please don't," Fraser said. "In point of fact, Ray," he said to Ray Kowalski now, "Turnbull, that is to say, without-"

"He's obsessed with you," Vecchio said.

"What?" Ray asked.

"Ray, please, I asked you not to say anything," Fraser said.

"You weren't saying it at all," Vecchio said.

"I was trying not to upset Ray or betray Turnbull," Fraser said.

"That's why I did it for you," Vecchio said.

"What's going on?" Ray demanded.

"Turnbull's obsessed with you," Vecchio said. "Do you listen?"

"Turnbull does seem to have a bit of a crush on you, Ray," Fraser admitted.

"He's obsessed," Vecchio said.

"Interested."

"Obsessed."

"Enamored."

"Obsessed."

"Infatuated."

"Obsessed."

"Obsessed," Fraser admitted to Ray.

"Obsessed," Vecchio said, nodding. "With you, Stanley."

"What do you mean, obsessed?" Ray asked.

"You seen that sketchbook he has?" Vecchio asked.

"Maybe," Ray said. "I know he does art stuff."

"The first three pages are bowls of fruit. The last three pages are bowls of fruit."

"So? So he likes fruit. It's, you know, dead lives or something."

"Still lifes," Fraser corrected.

"That's what I said," Ray said.

"And everything, Stanley, after the first three bowls of fruit and before the last three bowls of fruit, is you."

"Me?"

"You."

"Yes," Fraser admitted. "Everything between the aforementioned bowls of fruit... They're sketches of you, Ray."

"Me? Me doing what?"

"You're wearing clothes," Vecchio said. "Most of the time."

"Most of the time?" Ray repeated. "Most of the time? Shouldn't I be wearing clothes all of the time?"

"Ray-"

"That Canada freak is drawing me naked?!"

"Detective Kowalski."

Ray wanted to die again. He managed to stand and face the doorway. "Inspector Thatcher," he said, Fraser and Vecchio standing too.

"Fraser, why are your guests shouting in my parlor?"

"Ray's been ill, sir," Fraser said.

"Threw up outside," Vecchio added.

"Constable Turnbull is cleaning it up, sir," Fraser said.

"I see that," she said. "Constable Turnbull."

Turnbull was there, really really fast, immediately, like maybe Turnbull'd been standing right there by Thatcher, like maybe Turnbull had been standing there listening, like maybe Turnbull had been there for Ray's shouting.

"Constable Fraser, put away the cleaning supplies. Constable Turnbull, let me see your desk."

"Why?" Ray asked.

"Excuse me?" Thatcher asked.

"Why do you want to see his desk?"

"That's really none of your business, Detective."

"Ray, please, go home," Fraser said.

"I'll go, too," Vecchio said. "Kowalski, get out of here before Canada declares war on us. Benny, I just gotta run back to your office to get my stuff. See you later." Vecchio grabbed Ray and shoved him toward the door. Ray walked outside alone, leaned against his car, tried to breathe steadily. Turnbull drew him naked. Fraser and Vecchio knew that Turnbull drew him naked. Now Thatcher knew that Turnbull drew him naked. That heartless bitch knew that Turnbull drew him naked. If Fraser and Vecchio had seen the drawings, then the sketchbook had to be in the Consulate, which meant that Thatcher was going to find it and look at it and, what? What could she do?

Well, whatever she did, he'd sure done his part. Humiliating Turnbull right after being relentlessly cruel - - and he called Thatcher heartless?

Vecchio came out of the Consulate. "Go home, Kowalski."

"What's she going to do to him?"

"Who?"

"Thatcher and Turnbull."

"Nothing."

"But if she finds-"

"She won't find anything, Kowalski. Besides, all you said was 'Canada freak' - - you coulda meant anybody."

"Who else, Fraser?"

"It's a whole country. You could have meant anybody. She's not going to find anything."

Vecchio's last sentence had sounded pretty sure of itself. Knowing. Smug, even. "His sketchbook's gone?"

Vecchio grinned and patted his expensive long overcoat. "Got it right here."

"Sneaky bastard. Hey, can I see it?"

"No way, Stanley."

"Come on, Vecchio. Just a peek."

"No."

"It's me naked. I have a right to see it."

"No."

"Wait - - you and Fraser have seen drawings of me naked?!" The impact of that was finally meeting up with him.

"You have a cute little body, Stanley."

"Bet Fraser thought so."

"You think after seeing himself every day Fraser's gonna be real impressed by anybody else?" Vecchio asked.

Ray grinned. "You got a point there. Come on, let me see."

"Turnbull didn't draw these so you could ogle yourself."

"You've looked. I bet you didn't have his permission."

"I didn't know what I was going to find."

"I bet you just wanted to see me naked."

"If I'd known you'd be in there I wouldn't have looked."

"Are they any good? I don't mean the me part, I mean the art part."

"They're good," Vecchio said. "Benny started talking about shading and weird technique stuff, so he thinks they're good, too."

"So is it art or porn?"

"Both."

"It can't be both."

"I'm not getting into a debate over it, Stanley. Go home."

"Let me see just one."

"No way. But if you get up the nerve for a little B&E, I'll bet you ten to one he's got a lot more at his place, probably racier."

Ray gave that some thought. It stood to reason that Turnbull would have artwork at home as well as at work. And, yes, in the privacy and comfort of home, he'd be more likely to do racier stuff than he'd do in the Consulate.

Sketches.

Of Ray.

Naked.

Ray'd never had anyone do anything like this, ever. He'd never been someone's obsession. He'd never had anyone drawing him naked, or drawing him at all. It was flattering and scary. Turnbull wasn't stalking him or anything, but it was sort of creepy, like someone invading his privacy, drawing him naked. Still, yeah, it was flattering, to think that someone wanted him that badly.

He wanted to see the sketches, to see them for himself. He knew that Fraser wouldn't lie about something like this, something damaging, so obviously it was really happening. But he wanted to see it for himself. And he wanted to see what other people thought he looked like naked.

First, he had to get Turnbull's address.

He stole it the next day from Fraser's office. If he couldn't steal from his best friend, who could he steal from?

The next day, he ditched Vecchio and took off, doing it as early as he could without getting fired, wanting to get in and out before Turnbull got off of work.

Turnbull's new apartment was in a nice building full of smartly dressed old people. It didn't smell like a city apartment building or like old people. It was clean and self-respecting. He did his trespassing and got through the building's security, ran into some tenants in the hall, got asked why he was there, flashed his badge and said that it was private business, got suspicious looks, knew that they'd all be asking their resident Canadian cop why Chicago PD was running around their building, figured that Turnbull would figure out it was him, figured it didn't really matter much since the guy was drawing him naked anyway. Once the coast was clear he doubled back and went into Turnbull's apartment. If anyone saw that his official police yet private business was in the apartment of someone who was out at work, half-a-dozen old people were going to call Welsh and he'd get his ass kicked.

Turnbull's place was, well... Sort of empty, especially in comparison with his place, which he knew made him look sort of frenetic and said a lot about him. Very clean, neat, tidy. One wall, the entire wall to the right, was a bookcase. There was a stool so Turnbull could reach the top shelf. Almost everything was hardback, and it was all stuff Ray knew had to be on a list of literature for well-read people. In the corner off to the left there was a stereo, and some CD's, mostly country and classical, one Bruce Springsteen. He liked Bruce. He started to get weird vibes just about then.

The kitchen was spotless, no dishwasher, oven sterile - - and his mother always threw a fit about cleaning ovens.

Bathroom shiny and clean, of course. Everything put away neatly in the medicine chest. Bare necessities, no character.

Bedroom. The bed was made like an army cot, practically, all tucked and precise. It was a double bed with a railed headboard. Closet closed, dresser, nightstand. He peeked in the closet. Extra Mountie suit, complete with Stetson and boots. Sneakers, boots - - normal regular people boots. Ironing board. He checked the dresser. Mountie uniform cleaning stuff like Fraser had. Jeans, socks, flannel shirts, undershirts, T-shirts, briefs.

He wandered back to the main room again and over to the far corner he'd previously avoided. There were a few draped canvases. He closed his eyes, then peeked.

Flowers.

He peeked at the next one.

Stetson.

Different flowers.

The uncomfortable-looking sofa and table that were about the only furniture in the room.

Well, that was a relief. No paintings of him. But he was confused, too. Did Turnbull only sketch him at work? Were Fraser and Vecchio, not lying, just...mistaken? No, hell no, they'd been telling him the truth, and "Born in the U.S.A." was telling him the truth, he just had to figure it out here. He was a detective, wasn't he?

Where could Turnbull hide something?

Okay, well, there was one place he hadn't checked. Two, really, okay, three, but no way would Turnbull hide paintings of him in the refrigerator or toilet tank. So he went to the dresser. A canvas wouldn't fit, but a sketchbook would. He pulled open the top drawer.

Comb, tissues, lubricant.

Lubricant.

No, there was only one tube, but he couldn't stop staring at it.

He slammed the drawer shut and moved to the bottom drawer.

Jackpot.

He pulled out the sketchbook. Opened it. Flipped through five pages of drawings of grapes. Turned a page and almost fell on his butt.

There he was. Lying on a bed. Lying on Turnbull's bed. It was an aerial view, looking down on him, and he was just lying there, on Turnbull's bed, head on the pillow, one arm up, elbow crooked, hand under the pillow. His other hand, his left hand, was resting on his stomach. His naked stomach. Because he was naked, very naked, completely naked naked naked. And there it was, his cock, just lying there along with the rest of him.

If he'd wanted to, if he cared, he could notice that Fraser had a right to babble about art techniques, because it was one damned good drawing, because Turnbull had some serious talent here. The whole thing was flawless. But there was one flaw, one huge monster flaw: it was a drawing of him, of Stanley Raymond Kowalski, lying buck-ass naked on Renfield Turnbull's bed.

He forced himself to breathe and turned the page.

And there he was again. Wearing jeans this time, just standing there on the page, looking relaxed and casual.

The next page: jeans still, and a T-shirt, and sunglasses, and a smirk. He had his cocky attitude on, and all of his clothes.

Next page: only jeans, and the fly was unbuttoned, and he wasn't wearing underwear.

Next page: same pose as last, only closer, and he had one hand extended, an invitation to come into the page with his naked self. And it was so sexy and so welcoming and so flirtatious that he wanted himself, suddenly, which was way too disturbing, so he turned the page.

In the unbuttoned jeans, on his knees, sitting back on his heels, thighs spread. And he wasn't stupid, he knew why guys got on their knees, he knew why a guy who wanted him would want him on his knees, because there was something that guys did to other guys on their knees, and in that case he wouldn't be the only one with an open fly.

Close-up, head shot. It looked like he was on his back in a bed, he'd guess, because that looked like a pillow under his head. His lids were lowered, and his lashes were thick, and he looked like...well, he looked the way he felt when he'd just come, relaxed and flushed and turned on and coming down from the high.

A few pages were torn out after that.

Lying on the bed, in jeans, on his stomach, and he had no idea that his back looked like that. Hell, if he looked in real life like any of these sketches, if he were one-tenth this sexy, Stella never would have left him. Hell, she never would have left their bed.

Lying on the bed, on his stomach, naked. That was one damned fine ass.

Standing again, and Turnbull must have had a thing for him in jeans. The fly was unbuttoned again, and he wasn't wearing anything underneath - - was it possible, did Turnbull know that on occasion he went commando, or was that just a lucky guess? - - and he had his right hand down inside the jeans, touching himself.

Shit. Holy holy holy mother of all fucking Jesus Christ. Close up of nakedness from navel to spread thighs.

Sitting half-sprawled in a chair, clothed, wearing his glasses. He knew for a pure fact that no one could find him sexy in those glasses. But damn it if he didn't have to stop and admire himself anyway.

Missing pages.

Four pages of flowers.

He flipped through two more sketchbooks and found more drawings of himself, dressed or not-so-dressed, come-hither or clearly untouchable, bookended by innocuous still lifes.

There were a few pages missing from each book. He wondered what they'd been.

Well, he hadn't found any paintings. He also hadn't found anything but boring stuff and himself; no sketches of anyone else. So it wasn't like Turnbull had a sketchbook of him but also one of Fraser or anything like that. That really would have been reassuring.

He had to get out of there. He'd spent too much time already. Turnbull might come and find him there going through obviously really personal stuff.

He put away the drawings and closed up the nightstand and went to the front door. After making sure that no one was there to see him leave, he left quickly and carefully.

He went home. Went to his bedroom, closed the door, went to the mirror over his dresser, stripped naked. Looked at himself. Tried to see the back. Still looked like himself. No sex appeal seething from every pore. No magnetism or easy sexuality. Just Stanley Ray and his naked ass. Nothing to write home about.

The next day he and Vecchio had to pick up Fraser at the Consulate. They were in the Riviera. Vecchio had noticed how weird he was acting and asked him about it, but he didn't feel like sharing. They went into the Consulate and headed for Fraser's office.

"Detective Kowalski," Turnbull said, coming out of nowhere. "Might I have a word with you, please?"

"We're kind of in a hurry here," Ray said.

"Go ahead," Vecchio said, "I'll go fetch Benny."

"Thank you kindly, Detective Vecchio," Turnbull said.

"Sure thing. You boys have fun. Behave yourself, Stanley." Vecchio smiled and left.

Bastard. "What?" he asked Turnbull impatiently, nervously, feeling pissed.

"Please refrain from entering my home without my knowledge or permission," Turnbull said.

"You gonna have me arrested?"

"No."

"Good."

"I trust that you found what you were looking for, Detective?"

"Some."

"Oh?"

"Yeah." He took off.

But he couldn't stop thinking about it. Turnbull had acted all casual. Affronted, yeah, that he'd broken the law and invaded privacy and stuff. But sort of accepting, like it was okay, like Turnbull didn't care that he knew.

Maybe he'd missed something. There were clues that weren't fitting together.

He had to go back. He had to know.

So two weeks later, two long weeks later, when he and Vecchio and Fraser were on their way out of the Consulate and passing Turnbull, he stopped and held out his hand. "I'm going back in. Can I get your knowledge and permission?"

Turnbull handed him a set of keys. "Certainly, Detective."

He saluted and pocketed the keys.

"What was that?" Vecchio demanded when they hit the sidewalk.

Ray grinned at Dief and didn't answer. Something was going on. He could feel it, the anticipation, the rush.

He went into Turnbull's building, passed the old people with a smile, went into Turnbull's apartment, locked the door, looked around with narrowed eyes, detective's eyes. What was he missing?

He went through everything.

And he found:

In the kitchen: in the freezer, in a little orange Tupperware container, a small key.

In the bathroom: in the toilet tank, a little locked box.

The key from the freezer fit the lock. He opened the box and found: another key.

To what?!

Nothing. He couldn't find anything to open, anywhere.

Damn it.

Then:

On the immense bookcase: a hollow book of poetry. Inside: another locked box. He unlocked it with the toilet tank box's key, and found...another key.

This was getting ridiculous.

He put away the other keys and boxes, but kept the one from the bookcase. It had to open something.

Knock at the door.

He opened it. "Hey. Come in, it's your place."

"Thank you kindly. Have you enjoyed your visit?"

"What's this?"

"That is a key, Detective Kowalski."

"A key to what?"

"A lock. I trust that you found the ones in the freezer and toilet, then?"

"Yeah."

Turnbull seemed pleased. "Excellent work. You're very thorough."

"You're very sick."

"Perhaps." He didn't seem disturbed about it. "Would you like to stay for dinner?"

"You gonna tell me what this key unlocks?"

"What's the fun in that?"

"Is it somewhere else? A safe deposit box, a public locker, a storage room?"

"No. It's on the premises."

"Where? Don't tell me. It's your chastity belt."

"No."

"You don't actually have one, do you?"

"One what?"

"Chastity belt."

"No."

"You're not a virgin, are you?"

"Yes."

"You're a...you're not twelve, you know."

"I'm aware, yes, thank you."

"You don't have sex?"

"Not yet."

"But you have lube...oh. Right."

"Quite."

Even Mounties masturbated.

"If you'll excuse me, I will change from my uniform and make us something to eat."

"Wait."

"Yes?"

"Let me see."

Turnbull frowned, perplexed. "Let you see what, Detective?"

"You've got me all sorts of naked. Fair's fair."

"I don't-"

"You can call me Ray."

Turnbull swallowed. "Oh. Well. Then. I... All right, come along, then." Turnbull took off for the bedroom fast. Ray followed.

"Wow. Wow. Wow. That's...that's a whole lotta Mountie."

Turnbull was an excellent cook. No surprise there. Their conversation was weird, and he blamed Turnbull, because the guy was excessively strange. Turnbull was impossible, and totally on purpose. Worse than Fraser.

"You know what I said...you know...a few weeks ago...about how you're the most frustrating person on the planet ever?"

"Yes, Ray."

"I meant it. And it's true. But maybe, I mean, it's not a bad thing. It's a good thing. I kind of like it. I mean, I like you."

"Thank you, Ray."

"You can kiss me. If you want. I won't stop you."

"Thank you, Ray."

Jesus Christ.

Oh...god...

When his brain worked again - - well, it limped feebly, anyway - - he managed to find his clothes. He remembered how to put them on and everything. Then he left, and went home, and slept.

Two days later, when he stopped by the Consulate with Fraser, Turnbull handed him that little key that unlocked secrets.

Two days after that, he stopped by Turnbull's apartment. Walked right past Turnbull, headed straight for the closet, felt over the back wall. There you go. Lock, key, turn, open, and look at that.

Look. At. That.

And that.

And...that...

Hand on Ray's back. "I see that you've found my paintings. Congratulations, detective."

"You ever...want a...live model person?"

"I would like to draw you live and in person, Ray." Hand smoothing up and down his side.

"Would you."

"Yes." Hand in front of him now, on his chest, rubbing down his, hell yeah...

"You gonna pay me to model?"

"I'm sure that we can work out an arrangement."

"Like what?"

"You model for me."

"Yeah."

"And I'll feed you and make love to you."

"Yeah." Eyes closed, he dropped his head back to Turnbull's shoulder. "Before or after?"

"Before or after what, Ray?"

"Are we going to have sex before or after I model? 'Cause if you wanna paint me for real looking like I look in half that stuff, you're gonna need to get me all sexed up first. Make it more...accurate."

"I see."

"So we'd better go to bed now."

"If you think that's best."

"Ray knows best. Ren?"

"Yes, Ray?"

"I don't think that I'm going to make it to the bed."

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