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Constable Renfield Turnbull lost all sense of charity at approximately 4:25 on a Friday evening. As he stared at the mess of countless keys strewn across his desk, he fancied he could still hear the ringing echoes of the Inspector's final order. "Find which keys belong to which doors! And I mean every single one of them, Constable!"

The Inspector had, with a smile of vindictive pleasure, dumped the entire contents of what the Consulate staff had long referred to as "The Key Box" across the top of Turnbull's desk before stalking away in a high dudgeon (not to mention, in very uncomfortable high heels, which a more charitable man might say accounted for her foul mood). Turnbull had once been that very same charitable man, but no more.

"The Inspector has quite simply Gone Too Far!" Renfield protested to Gervais, his stuffed Arctic wolf (who, unbeknownst to the Inspector, accompanied Renfield on nearly all of his daily responsibilities).

Gervais (who had, of course, been named after the legendary curling champion) simply yawned at him. Well, as far as a toy wolf can be said to yawn, which was actually quite a lot, as it happened that Gervais had been sewn with a lopsided mouth.

"Well, you would say that, wouldn't you," Renfield snipped. Immediately, he felt abashed-- Gervais couldn't help that his expression appeared permanently cynical.

Apologetically stroking Gervais' soft fur (genuine rabbit fur, which had led to an unfortunate incident in which Constable Fraser's wolf, Diefenbaker, had mistaken Gervais for a true lagomorph and had nearly devoured him), Renfield sighed and contemplated his assignment, the latest in a seemingly endless parade of pointless tasks deemed too minor and simple for even Renfield to bungle.

The edifice that served as the Canadian Consulate in Chicago dated from the late 1880's, when a nouveau riche timber magnate with more hubris than taste had thrown together a towering monument to his own importance. With over seven stories of rooms (including the attics and basements) and a long and checkered history of half-finished renovations, the building had, over the past century-and-a-few, accumulated an enormous number of mysterious and mismatched keys, which were now Renfield's responsibility to sort and identify. Every single one of them.

"This is intolerable. I had a date," Renfield complained-- or, more accurately, whined. Gervais, Renfield fancied, gave him a look of some sympathy.

The sound of the Consulate doors opening jerked Renfield away from contemplation of his dreadful fate. Ray Kowalski, or rather, the Ray currently known as Vecchio (yet far preferable to his temporary namesake for a great many reasons, Renfield had always felt) practically danced his way across the intervening marble floor to lean, hip-slung, against the edge of the receptionist's desk.

"Good evening, Detective Kowalski. Welcome to Canada." Renfield attempted to sound very serious and formal, though he knew the silly grin he wore rather spoiled the effect.

"Pitter patter, Renny! It's quittin' time!" Ray, abandoning decorum as usual (actually, he wasn't entirely sure Ray had ever had any decorum to abandon in the first place) insinuated himself between the desk and Renfield, straddling his lap quite wantonly. (Renfield, for his part, felt that any and all variations on the theme of Ray Kowalski, wanton behavior, and Renfield Turnbull were indeed Good Things and should be Encouraged If At All Possible.)

"Hey, Gervais, you might wanna close your eyes, buddy." Ray turned the stuffed wolf to face away from them. "Don't wanna scare the wolf," he stage-whispered.

"Ray." Renfield beamed at him and was kissed soundly for his reward. Sometime after Ray twined his arms around Renfield's shoulders, just as he slid a hand down the back of Ray's loose jeans, a sudden clinking sound from the desk stopped Renfield cold. "Oh dear," he gasped, pulling himself away from Ray's warm, lithe form, his restless hips and wiry arms, his... Renfield shook his head abruptly. He needed to focus.

"What's the matter, Ren?" Ray lounged with his back against the desk, giving Renfield his very best wide-eyed pouty look. Ray's eyes were an uncanny mixture of gray and blue, with flecks of gold. Renfield had spent many hours gazing into their depths (well, minutes, really-- an awake Ray was a restless Ray), seeking to define just what shade... Renfield blinked, realizing he'd lost his train of thought again.

"It's the Inspector. She's given me a task to be finished before 8 am Monday morning. I'm afraid our evening plans are quite ruined." His hands were drawn like magnets back to the smooth, warm strip of skin between the bottom of Ray's thin tee-shirt and the waistband of his faded jeans. He'd planned to lick each and every inch of Ray's skin, from the soft nape of his neck to the ends of his delightfully bony toes... Renfield forced his hands to stop moving before he gave into temptation and stripped the tee-shirt right off of Ray.

"That bitch! Doesn't she know it's Friday night and you got a hot date with a Chicago flatfoot?" Ray's eyes seemed to spark magnificently with outrage.

"Well, no, of course not, I would never have told her about-- Oh. You're joking." Renfield felt dreadfully foolish.

Ray gave him a light, teasing kiss, just a flicker of tongue across his lips. "What's she done this time? You gotta polish all the silver again?"

"No, this time it's much worse. I have to match all those keys--" Renfield gestured to his brass-encrusted desk-- "To their proper doors."

Ray stared at the desk, then at Renfield, his eyes narrowed. Renfield dropped his head forward onto Ray's shoulder, breathing in his warm, musky, sweet scent, unmistakably Ray.

"You know I hate that woman like-- like-- there's nothing I hate enough to explain how much I hate her." Ray sighed heavily through his nose, sounding uncannily like a young moose.

"You don't need to stay," Renfield mumbled against the soft cotton covering Ray's shoulder. He sat up straight (not without some struggle against his body's rebellious urges to conform himself against every curve and angle of Ray's body and never move again) and added, "I must apologize for disrupting your weekend plans--"

"Fuck 'em! They ain't my weekend plans without you there, Renny." Ray chewed on his lower lip, thinking. "Listen, you ever heard of, um, well, there's this game we used to play. It's called Locks'n'Keys. See the rules are, you go around with all these keys and you try to fit them to the locks and every time you get a key right you get a kiss."

"Ray. I don't believe there's any such game," Renfield chided.

"There is too! We used to play it all the time. Then Larry Wroblewski came up with this version where instead of keys you figure out how to jimmy the lock and-- well, anyway, that's another story." Winking mischievously, Ray demanded, "So, are we playing the game or what?"

Renfield was, truthfully, too choked up to say a word. Ray grinned and kissed him on the nose.

"I'd play with your keys anytime, Renny." Ray dug in his pocket, holding up a small silver key. "Then we can figure out what this goes to..."

"But, Ray, that's your handcu-- Oh!"

end

End Locks and Keys by Alex SisterWolf: alex@badb.net

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