Disclaimer: The characters in this story are the property of Alliance Communications. This story is a parody of due South characters and as such is protected under international copyright law.

Author's Note: This due South vignette was conceived, written and posted in honour of ::drum roll, please::

Happy Birthday, Hamlette!

Of course this little Birthday story features the Love God, Renfield Turnbull. I'm afraid it's mostly PWP; I promise to have more plot in my next story. It's set during Asylum, and is told from Turnbull's POV.

Grateful acknowledgments to Hamlette, without whose inspiring saga, "Beautiful Oblivion", this story never would have been written; and to Blarney Stone, for beta advice on short notice.

M/M premise. Rated R for adult situation.

Sorry about the title, once again. Apparently I just can't help myself. ;')

This uniform will have to go to the dry cleaners, after what it's been through today. It's such a relief to have it back on. At first, when Detective Vecchio, or rather I should say Ray, didn't come back right away, I had been a little bit embarrassed to be at the Consulate wearing nothing but my underclothes. As time went on and he still didn't return, I had grown increasingly worried, both that something might have happened to him after Constable Fraser had left him in my care, and that Inspector Thatcher might return unexpectedly early and find me in that state. I ended up sequestering myself - I really feel Ray's term, 'hiding', was excessive - in Constable Fraser's office. I had been able to answer the Consulate phone just as well from there.

*Ray.* His name had nearly given me away, when he first gave me permission to use it. Terrified he would catch me staring at him, I'd had a difficult time hiding my reaction when he'd insisted I call him by his given name, over our tea. I'd been calling him Mr. Vecchio, using formality to keep my actions if not my thoughts within the bounds of propriety. And he'd corrected me, first mumbling, "Detective," then shaking his head and looking me right in the eye, so that I couldn't move. I'd felt pinned in place by that gaze. "No," he told me, "don't call me that, call me Ray. It's my name," he'd said, then leaned forward conspiratorially, dropping his voice to a husky whisper. "It's my *real* name." The intimacy of the moment had been absolutely frightening, but oh, how good it felt to have his name in my mouth. I try it out again now, barely making a sound, just forming the proper shape with my lips and tongue and breathing out softly.

I start unbuttoning my uniform again, and a wave of delicious odours rises from the just-opened collar. It still smells like him. Quickly I remove it, holding the front open and reaching my nose inside. The entire inside of the jacket is imprinted with a variety of scents from Ray's bare skin. Inside the high collar, I find faint traces of aftershave. Further down, clean sweat and just a hint of Ray's own musky scent linger where the fabric touched his chest and back during those tense hours. And, overlaid with the artificial-spicy scent of American anti-perspirant, a deeper muskiness rises to my nose from under the tunic's arms. My mouth waters. Ray's marks on my clothes, rich with pheromones, are touching me now. Clutching the stiff material to my face, I inhale deeply, savouring.

Blood is rushing to my head and my groin and all the other places where I feel arousal rising. Pulling my undershirt free of my pants, I slide a hand up my chest, letting one fingertip trail over my nipple. I remember the first time I met Ray, this mysterious man who is not Ray Vecchio.

The Inspector had prepared me. Well, she had told me that Detective Vecchio's appearance would change, and that he would be coming by the Consulate during Constable Fraser's holiday so that I could 'recognise' him and not give away what was going on. Whatever that was; Inspector Thatcher had been rather vague, though I suspected this was in part because she didn't know the full details of the situation either. But nothing could have prepared me for the man who sauntered into the Consulate that afternoon.

We were in the midst of moving into the new building, so I was packing and carrying boxes under the Inspector's direction and scrutiny. She was in her new office, supervising the hired movers' placement of her furniture, when I heard the front door open. I was just putting down a tall stack of boxes. A rich, warm and completely unfamiliar voice behind me said, "Hey, Turnbull." I turned. For some reason, I had expected that the 'new' Ray Vecchio would be more-or-less like the original, and I had never particularly cared for the loud, brash, very American detective. So when I saw Ray, that first time, even with the warning and the obvious hint that he knew my name, I couldn't imagine who the gorgeous stranger was.

His clothes were rumpled and rather unflattering, as I've since come to expect. The first thing I noticed was his hair, portions of which were laying down and sticking up at random, as if it had been allowed to dry uncombed, or as if someone had been running their hands through it. Then I noticed his smile, which was open and apprehensive at once. And then my gaze traveled downwards to gauge the body inside those unassuming clothes. I must have been standing there gaping, because the next thing I'd known he was speaking to me.

"Turnbull. Hey, Turnbull," he repeated. I met his eyes for the first time, and it was like an electrical connection leapt between us, myself being the ground. His lovely smile had widened; I returned it reflexively, transfixed. "It's me, Ray Vecchio," he 'd added when I still didn't say anything.

Then the Inspector had come out into the foyer looking for me, but I push that out of my mind now.

The hand not roaming under my shirt moves to my shoulders, slipping my braces free, then drifts to the catch of my pants. For a moment I simply lay it there, gently cupping the rising flesh within. Its heat and weight are inflammatory even through the thick fabric. Ray's hand was here, on this flap, just like my hand. Opening it just like my hand is doing. More unfamiliar smells waft faintly upward, and my rising erection jumps against the half-open fly. Ray was right next to me, earlier today when it swelled last, close enough that I could have smelled him. But I was too distracted to think about that, at the time.

I had been trying so valiantly to be a proper, polite host in Constable Fraser's absence. It hadn't been easy, between Ray's pouting, and the way he slouched, still yet fairly crackling with energy, on the Consular furnishings. There had been nothing easy about spending those hours with him, though I'm sure both he and the Constable would have been surprised to learn that dissuading him from leaving the Consulate was the easiest part of my task. At least, it was until I let him leave. My hand gives a comforting squeeze. How could I have resisted, after he asked me to disrobe?

My first reaction had truly been simple duty, duty to my uniform and all it stood for. But once I realised I would have to give it to him, I knew I couldn't possibly undress in front of Ray, as Constable Fraser had done so shamelessly. As soon as I thought of removing my clothing, with him standing there waiting eagerly, blood had rushed to my groin. It may have spared me a telltale blush, but it would have given me away much more tellingly had I not retreated upstairs. Even now I can scarcely believe I used the Queen's bedroom, that I exposed myself before Her portrait, that I splashed cold water from Her sink on myself. There had been no choice, though; the cold water on my face hadn't been enough to restore my circulation to normal.

Now I have privacy, and so now I ease the fastenings of my uniform pants open all the way. Another wave of Ray-scents meets my nose, and I gasp. One particular, musky odour, not overpowering, but discernible, reminds me of... I consider. It reminds me of my own, I decide. Familiar, yet different, and not strong enough at this distance for me to truly appreciate. Setting my jacket to the side, I start to push the pants down over my hips.

Then I stop, waistband caught on the outlines of my pelvis, the paleness of my overfull boxer shorts showing in startling contrast to the dark serge. I think about removing my pants, of putting them over my face as I'd done with the tunic, smelling, *learning* what traces of Ray remained on them. After only a moment, disquietened, I ease the trousers back up. Somehow that would seem too personal, too intrusive a thing for me to do without Ray's knowledge. Instead I move just the front of my boxers down, stretching the elastic waist and tucking it below my genitals. I cup myself and squeeze again through the heavy cloth that's now directly against my sensitive skin.

My hips thrust upward, and tantalising whiffs of both Ray's muskiness and my own drift to my nose. Reaching out blindly, I fumble the tunic back over my head, seeing just a flash of red before dimness surrounds me. Salty fabric brushes my cheek, and I inhale deeply again. The movements of my hand and groin settle into a rhythm. In the dark already, I close my eyes and remember the last time I was alone with Ray, after he and Constable Fraser returned.

The Constable and I had both blushed when the two of them came into his office and found me there, still undressed at the desk. Ray, oblivious to our discomfort, mentioned that his clothes were still in the other room as he tossed my hat to the desktop right in front of me. Then, as Fraser excused himself to retrieve Ray's garments, Ray started unfastening my lanyard and Sam Browne. I wanted to offer to help him with the accoutrements, which I knew were unfamiliar to him, but I didn't think I dared touch him. In any case my voice probably would not have worked, especially when he'd popped the collar and opened the tunic's buttons, and I had seen that he had no undershirt on beneath it.

I had tried not to look, or at least not to stare, which only became more difficult when Ray stood barechested, so close. He made my attempt at modesty impossible by conversing with me, thanking me for the use of the uniform. Shocked by his politeness, I had glanced up to find his gaze meeting mine. Before I could even remember a proper acknowledgment, he was apologising for having been gone so long, holding my eyes with his as he removed my boots, then the pants, too. He was standing, unashamed, within my arm's reach, stripped down to nothing more than his underwear, brief-style boxers that were entirely too becoming on his lean body. A crooked grin had lit his features, and I'd managed a weak smile and a nod in return. It had seemed very hot in the little room.

Holding the image of that smiling, half-naked Ray in my mind, I thrust upward again with my hips, keeping my hand on the outside of my pants. The wool of the jodhpurs is harsh on my erection without my underpants to soften that scratchiness, but the sensation feels good to me. I think of Ray wearing these pants against his own groin, and a low groan leaves my throat unheralded. Then I think of Ray's deft hands opening them, only this time while I am wearing them. My fingers dip inside the fly, stroking lightly down the side of the shaft, then back up along the sensitive underside to the glans. Letting the red serge hold itself in place, I reach my other hand down to cup my scrotum from outside the pricklish cloth. I pull at my foreskin, letting the wool gently abrade my hypersensitised flesh, and turn my head almost into the sleeve of the jacket, breathing in Ray's scent.

It's all I can do not to call his name aloud as orgasm seizes my body, my pelvis bucking up again and again, my testicles crowding inward, delicious contractions pumping my seed onto my abdomen and the inside of the pants. "Ray," I whisper, just a breath shaped like my heart's desire.

I really will have to take this uniform to the dry cleaner's, now.

The End
Questions, comments, kudos and/or constructive criticism welcomed at felizia@netzero.net