Title: Valet

Author: necessary angel

Pairing: RT/RK

Rating: G - m/m implications

Spoilers: For Asylum

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Notes: Turnbull's reaction to Ray K. wearing his uniform. You could consider it a companion piece to "Silence". Or another spin on a theme that just won't leave my head. <g>.

Thanks to Megan for speedy, speedy beta and to Kasha for encouragement. This is for them.

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Valet by necessary angel

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He had played me.

My fingers stuttered as they dealt with my bootlaces. He had played me.

And not particularly well at that. The outrageously transparent play Detective Vecchio had made for
my uniform should have been easy to turn away. It would have been, but for the speculation and humor
in his eyes. The humor which, strangely enough, wasn't directed at me, but rather at himself; that intrigued
me almost more than the speculation.

It hadn't taken him very long to start wondering about me. Even Benton Fraser had taken longer. This
unconventional man had taken his first proper look at me today, and that had been enough.

I hadn't been able to stop myself encouraging him in his deliberate provocations. I have never been able to resist
such situations. A sparring match over curling might have been considered a step too far, but in any case it was a
moot point. Although it might have been fun to find out if the purpose behind the playful stance Detective Vecchio
had taken up translated into action. Benton, of course, had dropped right into the game when he had returned with
Detective Vecchio's notes. The mischievous edge that had accompanied his impromptu strip routine had thrown
Detective Vecchio. I was free to smile at that now.

I gathered my uniform and made my way back to the conference room. The games had turned serious.
I knew that Benton would expect me to keep Detective Vecchio here in the Consulate, and I could keep him
here.

He was safe here.

But safe wasn't enough. Not for him, and it certainly wouldn't have been for me. Standing back and watching
your career disintegrate ... well, I wondered at Benton for expecting him to do just that.

My uniform would provide him with a surface disguise. The rest of it was up to him. I had no idea what kind of
policeman he was, but he must have the necessary talent and skills to be a good undercover operative. Otherwise,
he wouldn't be here wearing another man's name. He certainly hadn't been chosen for the role of Detective Vecchio
based on his appearance.

"At last, Turnbull. I thought you'd...." His voice trailed off and he was staring at me.

At all of me.

My face felt hot but I met his gaze as levelly as I could. "I assume you still...."

"Yeah, yeah. It's just that...never mind. Give it here."

I passed him my bundle of clothing and he shook it out. I took up station beside the door and waited. He would
need assistance. I suppressed the giggles that rose up at the memory of my first attempts donning the Serge.
It hadn't been funny then, just unbelievably frustrating.

"Jeez, it's hard to believe that anything this bright could be considered a disguise." He was shedding his own
clothes with dizzying speed. Long lean muscles covered in winter pale skin, and, most intriguing of all, the blue
green flash of a tattoo.

"You'll need your undershirt."

"Yeah, yeah. Okay. Itchy, right?"

He wriggled back into his shirt, and that was almost worse than watching all that skin being uncovered.

"Very." I stepped closer but made no move to help. I wanted him to ask.

He had pulled on the jodhpurs and was frowning over the fastenings. I could hear the muttered curses, and bit
the inside of my lip.

"Fuck... how do you and Fraze cope with this every day?"

"Practice."

I still hadn't offered my assistance, but it was getting much more difficult to maintain my straight face.

"Okay, I give; how do these things work?" His grin was rueful and I should have felt some shame at letting him
struggle.

I knelt down and worked at the ties, trying to ignore the dense feel of his calf muscles. "Like this, so that the boots
fit correctly."

"You know, if you were Fraser I'd be getting a lecture about the proper care and wear, and no doubt the history of
the uniform." He winked down at me.

"I'm not Constable Fraser, and if I were...."

"I'd not be almost wearing this uniform."

"Something like that." I sat back. "Sit down and I'll do your, my...oh, the boots."

The boots were easier, another layer between my fingers and his skin.

"These are okay." He stood up barely seconds after I finished lacing the boots. He took a couple of experimental
steps. "Almost worth the price of admission."

"I beg your pardon?"

I eased myself to my feet. The conference room floor was not at all kind to bare knees. The extra height the boots
had given him looked good; he looked good. Surprisingly good. He should have looked ridiculous, given the disparity
in our physiques.

"The pants. Silly, itchy pants, Turnbull."

"You don't have to wear them." The sarcasm slipped out before I could prevent it.

"Couldn't wear the target ... I mean, the tunic, without them." His tone was utterly reasonable and I couldn't help
smiling at his words.

The worst of it was over. He managed the tunic and the Sam Browne without my help.

He eyed the lanyard with distaste. "Shit, worse than having to wear a tie, and I never thought I'd say that."

"Easier to strangle someone with it." I was standing next to him and I reached out my hand for the lanyard.

He watched me warily as I slipped it over his head. He smelt of shampoo, my soap, gunpowder, and then faintly
of sweat. My fingers fumbled on the lanyard and he drew in a shaky breath. "Um, that strangling thing..."

"Was merely an observation. There; all done."

I stepped back and eyed him critically. He would do. The tunic was slightly overlong in the sleeves, but nothing
too obvious.

He settled my Stetson on his head and tugged at his collar. "Jeez, you and Fraze deserve medals, or locking up,
or something."

I bristled, but before I could find any words he was moving out of the room. He paused at the main doors.

"Er... thanks, Turnbull. I mean it." Every trace of mockery and humor had been wiped away.

I nodded. He tipped the brim of the Stetson with one long fingered hand and left.

From the window, I watched him run down the steps in the flimsy protection of my uniform,
as if he did it every day.

End