Fic: I. Crickets (Due South, Turnbull/Vecchio, G)
Fic: Crickets
Fandom: Due South
Pairing: Turnbull/RayV
Rating: G
Words: 1073
Notes: for sl_walker. Post-COTW. After Dearest Renfield. Arch to the Sky.
Prologue
I. • II. • III. • IV. • V. • VI. • VII.
Epilogue
Renfield Turnbull drifted into the 27th precinct with an envelope of official correspondence and a friendly, if outwardly vacant, smile.
It was left with Lieutenant Welsh, as these things usually were, and the man seemed to turn a blind eye to the fact that Renfield had failed to drift back out. Renfield liked to find a reason to linger. He was used to this. He guessed Welsh didn't really blame him.
He hadn't drifted for long before settling in a chair on the opposite side of Raymond Vecchio's desk.
Ray looked up from a mess of paperwork and they shared a soft expression as Renfield took up one of the many file folders and paged through with half-interest. It was as good a feigned reason to stick around as any; the fact was that Renfield was somewhere in the stratosphere, metaphorically speaking.
He didn't really see the file. He looked up again to find Ray watching him with a knowing little grin.
You're mooning.
Renfield actually winked before looking back to the page. Perhaps I am.
The normal buzz of the precinct faded to the background of the peaceful, parallel not-quite-work. When it was that either man's free hand drifted across the desk to glance the backs of his fingers off the other, Renfield wasn't sure. The gesture flowed easily and he wasn't even certain of which of them initiated it. He would later reflect that it must have been Ray, but Renfield answered in kind without so much as a stray thought of reservation.
It was an absent kind of electricity, the back of Ray's hand drawn slowly across the back of his own, fingers linking through now and again. Little thumb-strokes and caresses. Heady familiarity, contradiction though that should have been.
Neither man noticed as the 27th precinct ground to a slow halt.
The die-off of chatter and milling of the mass of people eventually filtered in. Peace gave way to realization. Renfield raised his eyes to meet Ray's; they'd apparently twigged at about the same time.
There might as well have been crickets.
A mix of fear, pride, and a trickle of cold struck at Renfield. Ray only seemed to display quietly thrilled amusement.
Green eyes were easy to get lost in, even with the question in them, and Ray's hand was easy to hold on to. Perhaps... perhaps they could just... stay that way and wait for people to go back to their business. Those eyes could hold him. They could concentrate on one another until everything else fell away.
Mischief in that question flashed across Ray's eyes.
No. No, Renfield didn't suppose they would.
Giddy defiance flared. He chewed down a grin, giving the barest nod.
Ray was up out of his chair before his folder had hit the desk.
"What, you people got a problem?" It was that beautifully classic Vecchio attitude, arms out, all fiery indignation and bluster. He waved his arms in a wide shooing sort of motion and stepped out from behind his desk, wandering between gawkers as if to personally challenge them.
"You'd think you people never saw a Mountie before," he aimed at Jack Huey, who threw his hands up in a kind of shocked surrender.
Ray turned his bluster back on the crowd at large, some of whom backed away, but none stopped staring. "Somebody got a camera? Picture'll last longer! What, somebody fill your socks with sour milk? What's with the pinched look, Dewey? Your ma never tell you if you make stupid faces your face'll get stuck like that? Might explain a few things, pal."
Dewey crossed his eyes to try and look at his own wrinkled nose before looking dumbly offended and backing off. Still, people stared. Even Welsh had stuck his head out the door to investigate the apparent one-man show.
Ray stared back for a long moment of chin-tipped silence.
Renfield had balled his fist and pressed it to his very red forehead, trying to decide if he should laugh or run far, far away.
Ray wasn't done. "Should I sell tickets? Make myself a profit? What's with you freakin' perverts, anyway? Parents never teach you to mind your own damn business? You people want a show? Nothin' better to do? All the crimes in the greater Chicago area miraculously solved themselves? You want me to throw him on my desk and make out with him? Go about your business, people, come on, move it, move it..." There was more exaggerated shooing. Ray probably would have made an entertaining traffic cop.
Oh. Oh God. Renfield loosed a high-pitched little laugh, unable to contain it. It was that or take Ray by the hand and fight his way out of there.
Apparently that was enough to clear most people out. The sussurus and motion of bodies slowly began again, this time with a decidedly excited, gossiping flavor.
Most people. Not all.
Francesca Vecchio looked like she hadn't breathed for some time. The stack of papers she held was incomplete; much of them had scattered to the floor.
Ray bent to sweep the fallen papers into a haphazard mess of a stack and plonked them in Francesca's hands. He settled in front of her, arms out, eyebrows up in defiant questioning. "What, Frannie?"
There was no immediate answer. She gestured with her mess of paperwork, squinting, quite agape. "What-- what?"
"Rules ain't changed since we were kids, Frannie: you snooze you lose, finders keepers, all that good stuff. You missed your chance."
Ray rolled his shoulders, looking quite satisfied with himself. It was tempered with the softness of giving Francesca a brief touch to her upper arms, before Ray spun around to retake his seat across from Renfield.
Renfield had long since hit the desk, head rested on his arms, and from there he looked up at Ray. Something in his chest was constricted.
Ray beamed beautifully at him, that painfully suave expression of knowing exactly what it was he'd done with absolutely no shame for it, and offered Renfield a wink.
All... all right. Renfield breathed in. There it was. Oh, this was probably going to be a few shades of trouble, but when he breathed out, Renfield was laughing.
Fandom: Due South
Pairing: Turnbull/RayV
Rating: G
Words: 1073
Notes: for sl_walker. Post-COTW. After Dearest Renfield. Arch to the Sky.
Prologue
I. • II. • III. • IV. • V. • VI. • VII.
Epilogue
Renfield Turnbull drifted into the 27th precinct with an envelope of official correspondence and a friendly, if outwardly vacant, smile.
It was left with Lieutenant Welsh, as these things usually were, and the man seemed to turn a blind eye to the fact that Renfield had failed to drift back out. Renfield liked to find a reason to linger. He was used to this. He guessed Welsh didn't really blame him.
He hadn't drifted for long before settling in a chair on the opposite side of Raymond Vecchio's desk.
Ray looked up from a mess of paperwork and they shared a soft expression as Renfield took up one of the many file folders and paged through with half-interest. It was as good a feigned reason to stick around as any; the fact was that Renfield was somewhere in the stratosphere, metaphorically speaking.
He didn't really see the file. He looked up again to find Ray watching him with a knowing little grin.
You're mooning.
Renfield actually winked before looking back to the page. Perhaps I am.
The normal buzz of the precinct faded to the background of the peaceful, parallel not-quite-work. When it was that either man's free hand drifted across the desk to glance the backs of his fingers off the other, Renfield wasn't sure. The gesture flowed easily and he wasn't even certain of which of them initiated it. He would later reflect that it must have been Ray, but Renfield answered in kind without so much as a stray thought of reservation.
It was an absent kind of electricity, the back of Ray's hand drawn slowly across the back of his own, fingers linking through now and again. Little thumb-strokes and caresses. Heady familiarity, contradiction though that should have been.
Neither man noticed as the 27th precinct ground to a slow halt.
The die-off of chatter and milling of the mass of people eventually filtered in. Peace gave way to realization. Renfield raised his eyes to meet Ray's; they'd apparently twigged at about the same time.
There might as well have been crickets.
A mix of fear, pride, and a trickle of cold struck at Renfield. Ray only seemed to display quietly thrilled amusement.
Green eyes were easy to get lost in, even with the question in them, and Ray's hand was easy to hold on to. Perhaps... perhaps they could just... stay that way and wait for people to go back to their business. Those eyes could hold him. They could concentrate on one another until everything else fell away.
Mischief in that question flashed across Ray's eyes.
No. No, Renfield didn't suppose they would.
Giddy defiance flared. He chewed down a grin, giving the barest nod.
Ray was up out of his chair before his folder had hit the desk.
"What, you people got a problem?" It was that beautifully classic Vecchio attitude, arms out, all fiery indignation and bluster. He waved his arms in a wide shooing sort of motion and stepped out from behind his desk, wandering between gawkers as if to personally challenge them.
"You'd think you people never saw a Mountie before," he aimed at Jack Huey, who threw his hands up in a kind of shocked surrender.
Ray turned his bluster back on the crowd at large, some of whom backed away, but none stopped staring. "Somebody got a camera? Picture'll last longer! What, somebody fill your socks with sour milk? What's with the pinched look, Dewey? Your ma never tell you if you make stupid faces your face'll get stuck like that? Might explain a few things, pal."
Dewey crossed his eyes to try and look at his own wrinkled nose before looking dumbly offended and backing off. Still, people stared. Even Welsh had stuck his head out the door to investigate the apparent one-man show.
Ray stared back for a long moment of chin-tipped silence.
Renfield had balled his fist and pressed it to his very red forehead, trying to decide if he should laugh or run far, far away.
Ray wasn't done. "Should I sell tickets? Make myself a profit? What's with you freakin' perverts, anyway? Parents never teach you to mind your own damn business? You people want a show? Nothin' better to do? All the crimes in the greater Chicago area miraculously solved themselves? You want me to throw him on my desk and make out with him? Go about your business, people, come on, move it, move it..." There was more exaggerated shooing. Ray probably would have made an entertaining traffic cop.
Oh. Oh God. Renfield loosed a high-pitched little laugh, unable to contain it. It was that or take Ray by the hand and fight his way out of there.
Apparently that was enough to clear most people out. The sussurus and motion of bodies slowly began again, this time with a decidedly excited, gossiping flavor.
Most people. Not all.
Francesca Vecchio looked like she hadn't breathed for some time. The stack of papers she held was incomplete; much of them had scattered to the floor.
Ray bent to sweep the fallen papers into a haphazard mess of a stack and plonked them in Francesca's hands. He settled in front of her, arms out, eyebrows up in defiant questioning. "What, Frannie?"
There was no immediate answer. She gestured with her mess of paperwork, squinting, quite agape. "What-- what?"
"Rules ain't changed since we were kids, Frannie: you snooze you lose, finders keepers, all that good stuff. You missed your chance."
Ray rolled his shoulders, looking quite satisfied with himself. It was tempered with the softness of giving Francesca a brief touch to her upper arms, before Ray spun around to retake his seat across from Renfield.
Renfield had long since hit the desk, head rested on his arms, and from there he looked up at Ray. Something in his chest was constricted.
Ray beamed beautifully at him, that painfully suave expression of knowing exactly what it was he'd done with absolutely no shame for it, and offered Renfield a wink.
All... all right. Renfield breathed in. There it was. Oh, this was probably going to be a few shades of trouble, but when he breathed out, Renfield was laughing.