For nos4a2no9
Number Thirteen - Whimsy/Reality
It was ten past eight-long past the time that Fraser had said that he’d be finished filing pointless bits of paper and doing statue impressions-and Ray was hungry, so he felt absolutely no guilt about barging through the front door of the Consulate without knocking.
“Fraser!”
“Ray?” Fraser’s muffled exclamation sounded panicked and like it was coming from the drawing room. A series of clattering sounds bore this theory out, as did the sudden exit of a wolf from the room in question.
Ray reached out and grabbed the door handle, intending to pull it wide open and begin explaining to Fraser in painful detail just why not having been outside and ready to get Kung Pao Chicken thirty minutes ago was not only a crime against nature, but also Not. Buddies.
What actually happened was that Ray yanked on the door handle and-because Fraser seemed to be hanging onto the handle on the other side of the door-narrowly avoided mashing his face into the heavily polished wood.
“What the fuck? Fraser!”
“I’m sorry, Ray. It’s, uh, nothing personal. If you wouldn’t mind just waiting in the car, I should be with you in five-” a sound like something delicate and made of lace tearing, “-ten minutes.”
“Nuh-uh, no way.” Ray scowled at the door. “I want to know just what’s so exciting that it’s worth making me miss out the first hot meal I’ll have had in two days.”
“Now, really, Ray.” And couldn’t Ray just picture the expression Fraser was surely wearing? “A busy caseload is no excuse for stinting your body of vital nutrients. It’s detrimental to your health.”
“What’s detrimental to my health is the fact that I’m talking to a door when I should be eating Chinese food.”
Ray was giving the dark, glossy oak a considering look when the sounds of someone walking down the stairs behind him made him spin around.
“Ah, hello Detective!”
Ray stared at the precariously balanced pile of silver and green tulle and netting until part of it wobbled to one side and revealed Turnbull’s somewhat red face.
“If you could just get the door?”
“’s jammed,” Ray said somewhat vaguely, trying to take in the fact that as well as carrying enough sparkly fabric to do a drag-queen proud, Turnbull was wearing an outfit that made him look like the illicit love child of Peter Pan and Barney the Dinosaur.
“Oh. Oh, dear.” Turnbull juggled around the fabric, finally offloading most of the silver tulle into Ray’s arms by the simple expedient of pushing it at him until he grabbed it. He then tried the door handle with his free hand. The door swung open easily.
Not entirely sure what to expect, Ray followed Turnbull into the room, nearly tripping over the trailing mess of fabric his was carrying, and stopped dead as soon as he was fully inside the room.
Fraser had wings. Big, glittery butterfly wings.
“What the fuck?”
“Ah. Ray.” Fraser flushed bright red and glanced involuntarily down at his outfit (blue, cobwebby, disturbingly revealing).
“Constable Fraser is being good enough to help me with the costumes for next week’s performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream by the theatre group I belong to. I’m afraid I rather underestimated the amount of alterations and restoration that would be needed, and it really is impossible to get an idea of if things are working or not unless they’re on an actual model, as it were. Unfortunately, the dress-maker’s mannequins are in Patty’s garage and she’s down at her sister’s in Skokie until Thursday.”
Ray used Turnbull’s cheerful monologue to study Fraser, who was still blushing red enough to put his uniform to shame. On second glance it was easy to see that the wings were fake; that the silvery filigree was the wire structure, not actual veins; that the shimmer was due to dyed and waxed paper and glitter and nothing more esoteric.
A million and one things ran through Ray’s head (you look like something out of a myth; you’re beautiful; I want to lick you) but he settled for perching his armful of tulle on the one chair in the room that didn’t look completely overloaded, clearing his throat and pulling out his cell phone.
“I guess I’m ordering take out, then.”
It was ten past eight-long past the time that Fraser had said that he’d be finished filing pointless bits of paper and doing statue impressions-and Ray was hungry, so he felt absolutely no guilt about barging through the front door of the Consulate without knocking.
“Fraser!”
“Ray?” Fraser’s muffled exclamation sounded panicked and like it was coming from the drawing room. A series of clattering sounds bore this theory out, as did the sudden exit of a wolf from the room in question.
Ray reached out and grabbed the door handle, intending to pull it wide open and begin explaining to Fraser in painful detail just why not having been outside and ready to get Kung Pao Chicken thirty minutes ago was not only a crime against nature, but also Not. Buddies.
What actually happened was that Ray yanked on the door handle and-because Fraser seemed to be hanging onto the handle on the other side of the door-narrowly avoided mashing his face into the heavily polished wood.
“What the fuck? Fraser!”
“I’m sorry, Ray. It’s, uh, nothing personal. If you wouldn’t mind just waiting in the car, I should be with you in five-” a sound like something delicate and made of lace tearing, “-ten minutes.”
“Nuh-uh, no way.” Ray scowled at the door. “I want to know just what’s so exciting that it’s worth making me miss out the first hot meal I’ll have had in two days.”
“Now, really, Ray.” And couldn’t Ray just picture the expression Fraser was surely wearing? “A busy caseload is no excuse for stinting your body of vital nutrients. It’s detrimental to your health.”
“What’s detrimental to my health is the fact that I’m talking to a door when I should be eating Chinese food.”
Ray was giving the dark, glossy oak a considering look when the sounds of someone walking down the stairs behind him made him spin around.
“Ah, hello Detective!”
Ray stared at the precariously balanced pile of silver and green tulle and netting until part of it wobbled to one side and revealed Turnbull’s somewhat red face.
“If you could just get the door?”
“’s jammed,” Ray said somewhat vaguely, trying to take in the fact that as well as carrying enough sparkly fabric to do a drag-queen proud, Turnbull was wearing an outfit that made him look like the illicit love child of Peter Pan and Barney the Dinosaur.
“Oh. Oh, dear.” Turnbull juggled around the fabric, finally offloading most of the silver tulle into Ray’s arms by the simple expedient of pushing it at him until he grabbed it. He then tried the door handle with his free hand. The door swung open easily.
Not entirely sure what to expect, Ray followed Turnbull into the room, nearly tripping over the trailing mess of fabric his was carrying, and stopped dead as soon as he was fully inside the room.
Fraser had wings. Big, glittery butterfly wings.
“What the fuck?”
“Ah. Ray.” Fraser flushed bright red and glanced involuntarily down at his outfit (blue, cobwebby, disturbingly revealing).
“Constable Fraser is being good enough to help me with the costumes for next week’s performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream by the theatre group I belong to. I’m afraid I rather underestimated the amount of alterations and restoration that would be needed, and it really is impossible to get an idea of if things are working or not unless they’re on an actual model, as it were. Unfortunately, the dress-maker’s mannequins are in Patty’s garage and she’s down at her sister’s in Skokie until Thursday.”
Ray used Turnbull’s cheerful monologue to study Fraser, who was still blushing red enough to put his uniform to shame. On second glance it was easy to see that the wings were fake; that the silvery filigree was the wire structure, not actual veins; that the shimmer was due to dyed and waxed paper and glitter and nothing more esoteric.
A million and one things ran through Ray’s head (you look like something out of a myth; you’re beautiful; I want to lick you) but he settled for perching his armful of tulle on the one chair in the room that didn’t look completely overloaded, clearing his throat and pulling out his cell phone.
“I guess I’m ordering take out, then.”