Author's webpage: http://www.geocities.com/TelevisionCity/Studio/1751/fanfic.html
Author's note: This is in response to Marie-Andree's challenge, the perimeters of which were: 1) Turnbull getting arrested for the most *improbable* thing you could possibly imagine. 2) Turnbull romantically paired with the *last* person you'd imagine him paired with. 3) Turnbull's habit of dusting must play a *prominent* part in the story. 4) *Only* one other *main* dS character (ie: characters featured in the opening credits). 5) A plastic fern in a *prominent* role.
Constable Renfield Turnbull, Detective Ray Vecchio, and the basic tenets of the Due South Universe belong to Alliance Communications and are used without permission for the express purpose of non-profit entertainment. All other situations and characters belong to the author.
1999, Pixie Nolan, with inspiration from Shelley Wright
Constable Renfield Turnbull leaned over and moved the small plastic fern on the corner of the desk, using the dustrag to clean under it. Although Inspector Thatcher had told him repeatedly that he didn't need to clean the consulate, it was a task he enjoyed, since it allowed him to clear his mind of cluttered thoughts. He glanced out the window as he worked, noticing that Detective Vecchio's new...well, it wasn't really new, it was a 1972 Buick Rivera, but the way the Italian fussed over it, you would think it was... car was parked in front. The detective was waiting for Constable Fraser to return from taking Inspector Thatcher to the airport.
Turnbull lifted the fern to put it back in its place when he saw Vecchio walk around the car. The detective was dressed in a pale gray Armani suit with a dark red shirt. He had loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top three pearl buttons of his shirt, and Turnbull could see the thin gold chain glistening against the smooth skin of Vecchio's neck. Turnbull tucked the dustrag into his Sam Browne as he watched the detective lean across the hood to wipe at the windshield. Vecchio straightened and slid out of the tailored jacket, shaking it out and draping it over the passenger seat of the Riv. As Vecchio resumed his inspection of the glass, the silken weave of his trousers stretched tightly, accentuating thighs...and other assets.
Turnbull clutched the fern to his chest, his indrawn breath loud in the still room. The Italian had caught his eye shortly after he had been transferred to Chicago, and Turnbull found himself looking forward to the occasions when Vecchio would accompany Constable Fraser to the consulate. The detective had always been polite to him, albeit unwilling to carry on a conversation, and Turnbull had often wondered how to cultivate further discussion with the American.
He watched Vecchio search his pockets, eventually pulling out a scrap of blue cloth and leaning into the car. He moved to the bumper and started buffing it, and Turnbull's enthusiasm bubbled over. He whirled and headed for the door.
"Detective Vecchio?" he called as he walked out.
"Yeah?" The cop stood up.
"I noticed that you have another Rivera."
Vecchio smiled. "It took a while, but yeah, I found one. Isn't she a beauty?"
Turnbull walked around the car, making the appropriate sounds of appreciation. "It's very nice, sir."
"Thanks. Nice fern."
He looked down at the plastic plant cradled in the crook of his arm. "Ah. Thank you, sir. I was dusting it."
"Why am I not surprised?" He smoothed the front of his shirt and asked, "Hey, do you know when Benny is due back?"
"Constable Fraser?" At Vecchio's nod, he continued, "I'm not sure. Inspector Thatcher's flight was due to leave at 3:45."
Vecchio looked at his watch. "It's only 2:30."
"Yes, sir. The Inspector was most insistent that Constable Fraser take her to the airport early."
"Yeah, I'm sure." Vecchio knelt by the rear bumper and asked, "Is the license plate straight?"
Turnbull stepped back and eyed it, trying to ignore the way Vecchio's shirt emphasized the play of muscle across his back. "It appears to be .03 degrees higher on the left."
"Really?" Vecchio narrowed his eyes and peered closer. "Hold on, let me grab a screwdriver."
"I have one." Turnbull unbuttoned the third button of his tunic one handed and reached inside.
"You carry a screwdriver?"
"Of course. I'm always prepared."
Vecchio smirked, "Like a freakin' boy scout, huh?"
"Why yes, I was in the scouts as a youth, how did you know?"
Turnbull handed the slim silver tool to the detective. As their hands brushed, he looked away, feeling a blush creep up his cheeks.
"Thanks." Vecchio's brow wrinkled in concentration as he turned to his task.
Turnbull watched with interest, his eyes drawn to Vecchio's long slim fingers. "You certainly know how to handle that tool, sir."
Vecchio dropped the screwdriver.
"What I was trying to say is that you have a way with delicate instruments." At Vecchio's stare he stammered, "Y-Y-you certainly c-c-can manipulate that..." his voice trailed off and he looked down at the fern.
Vecchio shook his head and picked up the screwdriver. "Thanks, Turnbull."
"Oh, please sir, call me Renfield."
"Your name is Renfield?"
He nodded. "It's a family name, sir."
"Yeah, I'll bet." The Italian pulled the screw from the plate and handed it to him. "Hold this."
"How about if I call you Ren."
"Ren?" He thought for a moment, his brow lifting. "I would be honored, sir."
"You can stop calling me sir. I'm Ray."
"Yeah. Surely you've heard Benny call me that before?"
"Oh, of course."
"Okay, how's this look?" Vecchio made a minute adjustment to the license plate.
Turnbull said, "That's almost perfect."
"If you would allow me?" At Vecchio's nod, Turnbull leaned down and moved the plate. "There you go." He turned his head and his breath caught. He was inches away from Vecchio's lips. "It's..." he could smell Vecchio's aftershave, the chemical tang making his nostrils flare. However, under the cologne he could detect Vecchio's natural scent, a spicy...no, musky!...no, it was undefineable. Turnbull could only describe it, if pressed for a word, as Italian, even though Vecchio was the only Italian he had ever come in contact with. "It's..."
Vecchio's pale eyes raked over the Canadian's face and he said, "Is it straight?"
Turnbull's eyes widened...he had thought that his tunic was long enough to cover that! "I...I..." This close he could appreciate the curve of Vecchio's neck. His eyes drifted down the smooth column of the detective's throat to the golden chain nestled in a dark mat of hair. "I..." He watched the Italian's adam's apple move under creamy flesh and swallowed hard.
Vecchio asked, "Ren, is there something wrong?"
"Uh...sir...I mean, detective. No! I mean...R-R-"
Turnbull was sure his face was redder than the serge he wore; he could feel the blood rushing through his veins and his mouth went dry. "W-W-What, sir?"
"Can I have the screw back?"
"The little metal thing we twist into the hole."
He looked down to his tightly clutched hand. "Ah, the screw." He opened his fingers. His palm was marred, the imprint of the metal an angry red on his pale skin. As he lifted his hand, the screw rolled off and fell to the street. "Oh-" he dove for it, falling against Vecchio's shoulder, the both of them losing balance and winding up in a tangle on the pavement.
Vecchio's exasperated "Turnbull!" echoed off the weathered brick of the consulate.
"I'm sorry, sir!" Turnbull was flat on his back, with the detective's lithe body across him.
Vecchio tried to get up, but their belt buckles were caught together. "What in the-??" His knee moved, trying to find leverage.
Turnbull gasped as Vecchio's hips ground against his. "Sir..."
"How in the hell did this happen?" Vecchio glared down at the Canadian. He slid his hands between their abdomens and tried to unfasten their buckles. "You have got to be one of the most frustrating men I have ever..." his voice trailed off and his eyes widened. "Ren...did you put the screwdriver back in your pocket?"
"I don't have pockets, sir."
"Oh." His tongue darted out to moisten his lips. "Ohhh..."
Turnbull's breath was labored and he squeezed his eyes tightly shut. "Oh dear." He shifted and heard a growl come from the Italian. "I..."
"Shut up, Ren!"
"Yes, sir." Turnbull felt the full weight of the man pressing down on him and whimpered.
"Are you okay?"
Vecchio's fingers were moving against him, scorching through the serge, and he rasped, "I'm better than I was five minutes ago, sir."
"Open your eyes." The command was whispered. Turnbull looked up and the detective's face lit up in a trademark Vecchio smile. "You're looking a little flushed."
"I..." Turnbull looked into eyes that now burned with...something...something...oh, dear! "Detective?"
"R-R-R-oh!" He gasped as friction from Armani trousers against his dungarees added to his predicament.
"Ren, are you sure there's nothing I can do to help you?" His fingers twitched against the taut muscles of Turnbull's pelvis.
"Oh, no...I'm..." Vecchio moved even closer and Turnbull could feel the fine hairs on his upper lip stir as the detective spoke. He was drawn into the pale emerald gaze and his throat locked up as he felt the proof of Vecchio's interest in assisting him. "S-S-Sirrrr...."
"Ray." Vecchio corrected as he brushed his lips against the Canadian's.
Turnbull opened his mouth and the taste overwhelmed every other sense. He was vaguely aware that Vecchio's fingers were now fumbling at the brass buttons on his tunic and that his hands, with a mind of their own, had slid down to the curve of fine Italian ass.
When Vecchio pulled his lips away, Turnbull moaned in protest. It took a moment for him to realize that they were no longer alone. He looked up.
An officer stood there, her arms folded and a wide smile on her face. "You are under arrest for public indecency and lewd and licentious behavior. You have the right to remain silent, if you give up that right it may be held against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney, if you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you..."
Vecchio and Turnbull looked at each other and murmured in unison: "Oh dear."