Fic: Reflections (Turnbull, Vecchio, G)
Fic: Reflections
Fandom: Due South
Characters: Turnbull, Vecchio (pre-slash)
Rating: G
Words: 2066
Summary: A day in the very strange mind of Renfield Turnbull as he tries to name his significant problem.
Notes: Takes place after Three States. Written in this fic-verse.
Turnbull's bathroom mirror was old. Speckled. A crack meandered from one corner to another.
He was starting to consider adding another.
No. It wouldn't do to injure himself, and for that matter, it was hardly the mirror's fault. The words were very simple. Turnbull should be able to say them.
"I--"
Sighing, he took up his razor and made his usual meticulous effort at shaving, refusing to acknowledge how he felt about the beach grass weave hanging over the mirror.
It was an unkind thought, perhaps, but Turnbull wondered what was holding up Inspector Thatcher's transfer. She took the opportunity to remind him of it at every turn. The RCMP really ought to put its money where Thatcher's considerable mouth was.
The consulate was peaceful when she was away. The quiet suited the low light about the place that appealed to Turnbull even as it occasionally tempted sleep, on those days when he'd been out late the night before.
This was one of those days.
Turnbull cleaned leisurely, stopping now and again at a particularly fascinating juncture in the documentary he'd put on TV. It was quiet, like the day.
The narrator had a soothing sort of English accent. Received pronunciation echoed through the many rooms.
The realization that he'd allowed himself something of a vacant, dreamy smile landed on him a few passes of his cloth into cleaning the mirror in Thatcher's office. A blue-eyed expression of absent bliss looked back at him for a moment before it dropped to confused blinking.
"He's--" Blink. "I'm--"
Oh, that was a terrible fingerprint... He sprayed the mirror once again and wiped it away.
"So, you coming out with me tonight?"
Raymond Vecchio was on the phone. Renfield Turnbull was holding onto his resolve with both hands.
I'm sorry, Detective Vecchio, I don't believe I have the time... You see, I'm washing my mirror...
"Yes, Ray."
Turnbull hung his head, stifling a sigh he knew would be impossible to explain.
"Good. And, hey Ren?"
"Yes, Ray?"
"If I find you stuck on the stoop when I get there, tell Thatcher she's gonna get it, okay?"
"No, Ray."
"Nah, I didn't think so. Worth a try. See you then."
"I look forward to it, Ray." What?! Turnbull pinched the bridge of his nose as he hung up the phone.
He'd found himself with a complete inability to refuse or intentionally deceive the man on the other end of that line. It was maddening. Insanity.
It was a simple matter of words, placed in the proper order one after another. He knew what they were; speaking them should not have been elusive. Snatching up the shined metal pencil cup on his desk, he stared at his distorted reflection. At least if he could name the problem he could fight it.
Perhaps he could start smaller?
"He... has beautiful eyes."
"Vanity in the third person. That's a new level of bizarre even for you, Constable."
The pencil cup clanged to the desk, the contents spilling off the edge. Dear Lord how long had Thatcher been standing there?
It really would behoove you to knock, you know-- The sentiment must've carried over to Turnbull's expression. Thatcher trained a derisive look up and down him before huffing her bafflement and wandering off again. She didn't even want anything?
Turnbull's elbow thunked the desk amongst scattered pencils, his forehead in hand. He spent some time breathing off the adrenaline.
The reflection of the sunglasses made his hair seem dark and his eyes look hazel. Like looking into an alternate universe.
Turnbull was on his own for lunch today. That was all right. The bus ride was generally relaxing, and he enjoyed the walk, even if he found himself listening to the sound of his own footfalls more intently than he ever had before.
He had no need of sunglasses. He liked the shop owner, however. The man was usually cheerful, and he was heterochromatic, something Turnbull found pleasurably fascinating.
His own hazel gaze from another, more sepia toned universe looked back at him. The spectacles bent the light, and people making their way on the sidewalk behind him walked in a strange curve to his view. The occasional one stopped to eye his uniform with bafflement.
Was he going to try again? He brought the specs so close as to see partially through himself to the rack on the other side. Translucent.
I am in--
"For you, I have a special price for those."
Turnbull jumped as a mismatched pair of eyes suddenly peered back through the bent light. He lowered the glasses, breathing out. "Thank you, sir, but, ah... upon reflection..." He winced internally at his own phrase. "...I don't believe they are my style."
His trans-universal mirror was carefully replaced.
It was disconcerting to realize how many reflective surfaces Turnbull encountered in one day. A bus window. A puddle on the sidewalk. One side view mirror after another as he passed parked cars.
Each reflection passed by went ignored, now. He was done making the attempt for the day, if only for the wistfulness in the attempts. He'd only succeeded in leaving himself on edge, frustrated, bizarrely blissful and perhaps a little more aware of the lines of his own face.
He moved to cross the street, catching sight of a red two-door with the side view mirror missing. It sat pathetically on the pavement beside the thing, evidence of its demise written across the vehicle in raked silver and red. Someone had clipped it and kept driving. Turnbull looked both ways; whoever it was had been long gone.
He picked up the sad little mirror, careful to collect the large pieces without injuring himself, and laid it on the hood. He didn't really know why. It wasn't like the mirror could be salvaged.
A few dozen reflections blinked back at him.
He left it there, walking away with a frown.
He was leaving a file folder on Thatcher's desk when she sighed, peering into a compact with displeasure.
"Trouble, sir?"
Turnbull was leveled with a look he'd come to know well; part suspicion, part relief that her disposition hadn't gone unnoticed. She flicked her look back to the mirror, adjusting her hair. "Nothing you need concern yourself with, Turnbull."
"Of course, sir." Carefully, he adjusted the file folder to sit perfectly in line with the edge of the table. He smoothed it over slowly.
Thatcher glanced between the mirror and Turnbull for another moment; he tapped the edge of the file, ensuring the paper was perfectly placed within.
The compact closed with a soft click. "You're hovering, Constable."
"No, sir."
"Then why are you still here?"
"No specific reason, Inspector."
Thatcher sighed, appearing to give over. It was one of their usual games. "I have a meeting to explore some of the options for my transfer."
"Oh?" Turnbull tilted his head, offering a vacant smile. "Does this call for a celebration, Inspector? Perhaps I could bring out the good china--"
"That won't be necessary, Turnbull. I'm..." She looked up with an open expression, if grudgingly so. "This particular superior is rumored for his..."
That vacant smile didn't waver, but inwardly, he cringed. "...over-enthusiasm with officers of the female identification?"
"Yes," she replied with what seemed like gratitude for not having to finish the sentence herself. She shifted in her seat, squaring those shoulders higher; Turnbull wasn't aware that was even possible. "I may be in something of a difficult position. Again."
Turnbull leaned forward slightly, fingers splayed to that file folder. He usually had some polite insight to offer; he was often dismissed as ludicrous, but at the very least he could help steel her resolve for what she was going to do anyway. He'd never been especially skilled with matters of sexual harassment.
"I could never possibly understand, of course--" Turnbull didn't usually lie, but that statement skirted dishonesty. "--but I might suggest not allowing the gentleman's reputation to precede him so far as prejudgment. You are a fine officer, sir. Whatever comes of the meeting, I'm certain you'll receive a satisfactory posting." It was another near-lie. "And should you require a, ah... decoy, as always, you may feel free to use me."
Thatcher all but snorted the laugh. Like anyone would believe that. The derisive look faded after a moment to something softer, anyway. "Thank you for the offer, Turnbull, but it won't be necessary. I have plenty of experience with men like that."
"Of course you do, sir." That doesn't exempt you from needing someone to talk about it with, now and then. Ah, well. At least he'd tried. With Inspector Thatcher, a difference could be made and never seen. "Please excuse my impertinence."
"Consider it excused." Thatcher slid the folder from under Turnbull's fingertips; he felt her walls slide up with it. "Dismissed, Constable."
"Could you adjust that? I think somebody was leaning on it or something..."
"Certainly, Ray." Turnbull took out a handkerchief and maneuvered the side view mirror back into place. He didn't catch his own eye.
"Thanks. I figured we could go grab a bite, and then maybe go sit and waste a buncha time outside a bar I'm not supposed to be at, waiting for somebody that probably won't be there, and maybe run into him just when we got a good conversation goin' 'cause that's my luck. How about it, Ren?"
Turnbull dropped his head, laughing in spite of himself. He couldn't stem the flow of what he said next. "Yes, Ray. That sounds... delightful."
"Yeah? I dunno how I feel about that, Ren. You finding my crappy luck delightful. What, you don't wanna get a good conversation going with me?"
Still looking at his lap, Turnbull rubbed at the bridge of his nose, laughing softly behind that hand. He was being teased. He knew it; he liked it. "Perhaps we could work out some way of conversing during a chase..."
"Good idea. You could talk about curling 'til the guy submits. Who needs handcuffs when you can assault the guy's ears?"
Turnbull angled his look up to the rear view mirror, eying Ray in it with sudden affectionate indignation. Fully prepared to defend the honor of curling.
He found a set of perfect green-hazel eyes looking back, a playful twinkle to them.
It took his breath; held it around a twist of emotion and a damnable urge to run away. There was no getting back the spirit of what he was about to say. "...yes, Ray."
Bemusement took over the look in the rear view before Turnbull tore his eyes away, chewing down a grin and staring into his own lap.
"Okay, you missed a chance to be all whiteknight for curling. You sick? Pining for the Great White North, or something? I could stop somewhere and buy a Sports Illustrated, maybe they got a back hockey issue or something..."
"It has been a very strange day, Ray. I assure you, that's all."
Ray eyed him for another maddening moment. Turnbull could feel those eyes. The silence had to have been shorter than it felt. "All right, pal. But if you start to swoon, I'm taking you home. And by home I mean that matchbox you live in. Don't care how homesick you are, I'm not driving to Canada. You can drive to Canada if you want. I just wanna be able to sleep if we've gotta be someplace that boring."
Oh, God. Turnbull hid his red face further behind that hand. He refused to think about swooning.
"All right."
Pulling that weave of beachgrass from off his mirror, Turnbull wrapped it around one hand.
"They are a few simple words. I will say them. I can say them. I--"
Ugh. Perhaps he should try it in French.
"Je suis dans--"
No. No, he was always terrible with French.
Leaning in, he slapped his hand flat to the mirror, the grass pressed between skin and glass.
"I. Am. In. Love. With. Him."
Blue eyes stared back. His breath fogged the glass.
Fandom: Due South
Characters: Turnbull, Vecchio (pre-slash)
Rating: G
Words: 2066
Summary: A day in the very strange mind of Renfield Turnbull as he tries to name his significant problem.
Notes: Takes place after Three States. Written in this fic-verse.
Turnbull's bathroom mirror was old. Speckled. A crack meandered from one corner to another.
He was starting to consider adding another.
No. It wouldn't do to injure himself, and for that matter, it was hardly the mirror's fault. The words were very simple. Turnbull should be able to say them.
"I--"
Sighing, he took up his razor and made his usual meticulous effort at shaving, refusing to acknowledge how he felt about the beach grass weave hanging over the mirror.
It was an unkind thought, perhaps, but Turnbull wondered what was holding up Inspector Thatcher's transfer. She took the opportunity to remind him of it at every turn. The RCMP really ought to put its money where Thatcher's considerable mouth was.
The consulate was peaceful when she was away. The quiet suited the low light about the place that appealed to Turnbull even as it occasionally tempted sleep, on those days when he'd been out late the night before.
This was one of those days.
Turnbull cleaned leisurely, stopping now and again at a particularly fascinating juncture in the documentary he'd put on TV. It was quiet, like the day.
The narrator had a soothing sort of English accent. Received pronunciation echoed through the many rooms.
The realization that he'd allowed himself something of a vacant, dreamy smile landed on him a few passes of his cloth into cleaning the mirror in Thatcher's office. A blue-eyed expression of absent bliss looked back at him for a moment before it dropped to confused blinking.
"He's--" Blink. "I'm--"
Oh, that was a terrible fingerprint... He sprayed the mirror once again and wiped it away.
"So, you coming out with me tonight?"
Raymond Vecchio was on the phone. Renfield Turnbull was holding onto his resolve with both hands.
I'm sorry, Detective Vecchio, I don't believe I have the time... You see, I'm washing my mirror...
"Yes, Ray."
Turnbull hung his head, stifling a sigh he knew would be impossible to explain.
"Good. And, hey Ren?"
"Yes, Ray?"
"If I find you stuck on the stoop when I get there, tell Thatcher she's gonna get it, okay?"
"No, Ray."
"Nah, I didn't think so. Worth a try. See you then."
"I look forward to it, Ray." What?! Turnbull pinched the bridge of his nose as he hung up the phone.
He'd found himself with a complete inability to refuse or intentionally deceive the man on the other end of that line. It was maddening. Insanity.
It was a simple matter of words, placed in the proper order one after another. He knew what they were; speaking them should not have been elusive. Snatching up the shined metal pencil cup on his desk, he stared at his distorted reflection. At least if he could name the problem he could fight it.
Perhaps he could start smaller?
"He... has beautiful eyes."
"Vanity in the third person. That's a new level of bizarre even for you, Constable."
The pencil cup clanged to the desk, the contents spilling off the edge. Dear Lord how long had Thatcher been standing there?
It really would behoove you to knock, you know-- The sentiment must've carried over to Turnbull's expression. Thatcher trained a derisive look up and down him before huffing her bafflement and wandering off again. She didn't even want anything?
Turnbull's elbow thunked the desk amongst scattered pencils, his forehead in hand. He spent some time breathing off the adrenaline.
The reflection of the sunglasses made his hair seem dark and his eyes look hazel. Like looking into an alternate universe.
Turnbull was on his own for lunch today. That was all right. The bus ride was generally relaxing, and he enjoyed the walk, even if he found himself listening to the sound of his own footfalls more intently than he ever had before.
He had no need of sunglasses. He liked the shop owner, however. The man was usually cheerful, and he was heterochromatic, something Turnbull found pleasurably fascinating.
His own hazel gaze from another, more sepia toned universe looked back at him. The spectacles bent the light, and people making their way on the sidewalk behind him walked in a strange curve to his view. The occasional one stopped to eye his uniform with bafflement.
Was he going to try again? He brought the specs so close as to see partially through himself to the rack on the other side. Translucent.
I am in--
"For you, I have a special price for those."
Turnbull jumped as a mismatched pair of eyes suddenly peered back through the bent light. He lowered the glasses, breathing out. "Thank you, sir, but, ah... upon reflection..." He winced internally at his own phrase. "...I don't believe they are my style."
His trans-universal mirror was carefully replaced.
It was disconcerting to realize how many reflective surfaces Turnbull encountered in one day. A bus window. A puddle on the sidewalk. One side view mirror after another as he passed parked cars.
Each reflection passed by went ignored, now. He was done making the attempt for the day, if only for the wistfulness in the attempts. He'd only succeeded in leaving himself on edge, frustrated, bizarrely blissful and perhaps a little more aware of the lines of his own face.
He moved to cross the street, catching sight of a red two-door with the side view mirror missing. It sat pathetically on the pavement beside the thing, evidence of its demise written across the vehicle in raked silver and red. Someone had clipped it and kept driving. Turnbull looked both ways; whoever it was had been long gone.
He picked up the sad little mirror, careful to collect the large pieces without injuring himself, and laid it on the hood. He didn't really know why. It wasn't like the mirror could be salvaged.
A few dozen reflections blinked back at him.
He left it there, walking away with a frown.
He was leaving a file folder on Thatcher's desk when she sighed, peering into a compact with displeasure.
"Trouble, sir?"
Turnbull was leveled with a look he'd come to know well; part suspicion, part relief that her disposition hadn't gone unnoticed. She flicked her look back to the mirror, adjusting her hair. "Nothing you need concern yourself with, Turnbull."
"Of course, sir." Carefully, he adjusted the file folder to sit perfectly in line with the edge of the table. He smoothed it over slowly.
Thatcher glanced between the mirror and Turnbull for another moment; he tapped the edge of the file, ensuring the paper was perfectly placed within.
The compact closed with a soft click. "You're hovering, Constable."
"No, sir."
"Then why are you still here?"
"No specific reason, Inspector."
Thatcher sighed, appearing to give over. It was one of their usual games. "I have a meeting to explore some of the options for my transfer."
"Oh?" Turnbull tilted his head, offering a vacant smile. "Does this call for a celebration, Inspector? Perhaps I could bring out the good china--"
"That won't be necessary, Turnbull. I'm..." She looked up with an open expression, if grudgingly so. "This particular superior is rumored for his..."
That vacant smile didn't waver, but inwardly, he cringed. "...over-enthusiasm with officers of the female identification?"
"Yes," she replied with what seemed like gratitude for not having to finish the sentence herself. She shifted in her seat, squaring those shoulders higher; Turnbull wasn't aware that was even possible. "I may be in something of a difficult position. Again."
Turnbull leaned forward slightly, fingers splayed to that file folder. He usually had some polite insight to offer; he was often dismissed as ludicrous, but at the very least he could help steel her resolve for what she was going to do anyway. He'd never been especially skilled with matters of sexual harassment.
"I could never possibly understand, of course--" Turnbull didn't usually lie, but that statement skirted dishonesty. "--but I might suggest not allowing the gentleman's reputation to precede him so far as prejudgment. You are a fine officer, sir. Whatever comes of the meeting, I'm certain you'll receive a satisfactory posting." It was another near-lie. "And should you require a, ah... decoy, as always, you may feel free to use me."
Thatcher all but snorted the laugh. Like anyone would believe that. The derisive look faded after a moment to something softer, anyway. "Thank you for the offer, Turnbull, but it won't be necessary. I have plenty of experience with men like that."
"Of course you do, sir." That doesn't exempt you from needing someone to talk about it with, now and then. Ah, well. At least he'd tried. With Inspector Thatcher, a difference could be made and never seen. "Please excuse my impertinence."
"Consider it excused." Thatcher slid the folder from under Turnbull's fingertips; he felt her walls slide up with it. "Dismissed, Constable."
"Could you adjust that? I think somebody was leaning on it or something..."
"Certainly, Ray." Turnbull took out a handkerchief and maneuvered the side view mirror back into place. He didn't catch his own eye.
"Thanks. I figured we could go grab a bite, and then maybe go sit and waste a buncha time outside a bar I'm not supposed to be at, waiting for somebody that probably won't be there, and maybe run into him just when we got a good conversation goin' 'cause that's my luck. How about it, Ren?"
Turnbull dropped his head, laughing in spite of himself. He couldn't stem the flow of what he said next. "Yes, Ray. That sounds... delightful."
"Yeah? I dunno how I feel about that, Ren. You finding my crappy luck delightful. What, you don't wanna get a good conversation going with me?"
Still looking at his lap, Turnbull rubbed at the bridge of his nose, laughing softly behind that hand. He was being teased. He knew it; he liked it. "Perhaps we could work out some way of conversing during a chase..."
"Good idea. You could talk about curling 'til the guy submits. Who needs handcuffs when you can assault the guy's ears?"
Turnbull angled his look up to the rear view mirror, eying Ray in it with sudden affectionate indignation. Fully prepared to defend the honor of curling.
He found a set of perfect green-hazel eyes looking back, a playful twinkle to them.
It took his breath; held it around a twist of emotion and a damnable urge to run away. There was no getting back the spirit of what he was about to say. "...yes, Ray."
Bemusement took over the look in the rear view before Turnbull tore his eyes away, chewing down a grin and staring into his own lap.
"Okay, you missed a chance to be all whiteknight for curling. You sick? Pining for the Great White North, or something? I could stop somewhere and buy a Sports Illustrated, maybe they got a back hockey issue or something..."
"It has been a very strange day, Ray. I assure you, that's all."
Ray eyed him for another maddening moment. Turnbull could feel those eyes. The silence had to have been shorter than it felt. "All right, pal. But if you start to swoon, I'm taking you home. And by home I mean that matchbox you live in. Don't care how homesick you are, I'm not driving to Canada. You can drive to Canada if you want. I just wanna be able to sleep if we've gotta be someplace that boring."
Oh, God. Turnbull hid his red face further behind that hand. He refused to think about swooning.
"All right."
Pulling that weave of beachgrass from off his mirror, Turnbull wrapped it around one hand.
"They are a few simple words. I will say them. I can say them. I--"
Ugh. Perhaps he should try it in French.
"Je suis dans--"
No. No, he was always terrible with French.
Leaning in, he slapped his hand flat to the mirror, the grass pressed between skin and glass.
"I. Am. In. Love. With. Him."
Blue eyes stared back. His breath fogged the glass.