Shaded (Ficlet; Due South, Turnbull, G)
Shaded
Fandom: Due South
Characters: Turnbull
Rating: G
413 Words
Notes: Turnbull's days off are nomadic. Written in this fic-verse.
It was a little known fact that Renfield Turnbull could drape.
It wasn't often. He felt he could never really manage grace, but he always managed propriety; lazy casualness was not generally in his public makeup.
Still, he could drape. He did so now on a bench in a park somewhere in Chicago, summer sunshine filtering through gaps in the trees, warming his casual clothes. His RCMP-issue boots were largely hidden underneath jeans. His face was shaded with his stetson.
He had no fear. Everything he felt he needed he could pick up by scent and sound alone. It was far enough out of dangerous parts of the city to be reasonably safe, and he had on him no valuables. Well. Save the hat.
This was a small part of how he spent his days off.
All week, he found himself stuck behind a desk, or a duster, or behind a fence on the stoop of the consulate. Restricted in movement and person. It was his duty; he didn't grudge it.
When it was his own time, though... he moved. He'd board a city bus in the morning, ride until the fancy took him to step off, and board another going somewhere else. He would drift in public transit for hours before finding something or somewhere interesting enough to explore.
That was how he experienced Chicago. One stop at a time.
Aimless and with purpose all at once.
The day was warm and for some reason he couldn't define, the thought of a laze on a park bench called to him. Plenty of buses would pass by. He could afford to miss a few just to feel the sun through the leaves.
The pigeons were undeterred by his intermittent humming and did not shy away from Turnbull's bench. They picked the pavement and grass surrounding him, not even scattering when he crossed his legs, one ankle rested on the other. City pigeons. They'd seen much scarier than Renfield in their time.
Turnbull was warm. He tapped out the beat of his tune on his stetson.
Tomorrow, there was work. He would take up his place outside the consulate door, keeping guard against a world that only attacked with spitballs, taunts, tourists or Thatcher. A pointless duty that he took strange mixed pride in all the same. Following orders and defying his own want to move.
Today, Turnbull draped a park bench. Shade from trees draped him.
Fandom: Due South
Characters: Turnbull
Rating: G
413 Words
Notes: Turnbull's days off are nomadic. Written in this fic-verse.
It was a little known fact that Renfield Turnbull could drape.
It wasn't often. He felt he could never really manage grace, but he always managed propriety; lazy casualness was not generally in his public makeup.
Still, he could drape. He did so now on a bench in a park somewhere in Chicago, summer sunshine filtering through gaps in the trees, warming his casual clothes. His RCMP-issue boots were largely hidden underneath jeans. His face was shaded with his stetson.
He had no fear. Everything he felt he needed he could pick up by scent and sound alone. It was far enough out of dangerous parts of the city to be reasonably safe, and he had on him no valuables. Well. Save the hat.
This was a small part of how he spent his days off.
All week, he found himself stuck behind a desk, or a duster, or behind a fence on the stoop of the consulate. Restricted in movement and person. It was his duty; he didn't grudge it.
When it was his own time, though... he moved. He'd board a city bus in the morning, ride until the fancy took him to step off, and board another going somewhere else. He would drift in public transit for hours before finding something or somewhere interesting enough to explore.
That was how he experienced Chicago. One stop at a time.
Aimless and with purpose all at once.
The day was warm and for some reason he couldn't define, the thought of a laze on a park bench called to him. Plenty of buses would pass by. He could afford to miss a few just to feel the sun through the leaves.
The pigeons were undeterred by his intermittent humming and did not shy away from Turnbull's bench. They picked the pavement and grass surrounding him, not even scattering when he crossed his legs, one ankle rested on the other. City pigeons. They'd seen much scarier than Renfield in their time.
Turnbull was warm. He tapped out the beat of his tune on his stetson.
Tomorrow, there was work. He would take up his place outside the consulate door, keeping guard against a world that only attacked with spitballs, taunts, tourists or Thatcher. A pointless duty that he took strange mixed pride in all the same. Following orders and defying his own want to move.
Today, Turnbull draped a park bench. Shade from trees draped him.