Author's website: http://www.mindspring.com/~bluecham/

Disclaimer: NO money, etc.

Author's Notes: Thanks to the people who've been asking me what the hell happened to the rest of this series. Sorry I haven't got to any more sex yet. Thanks also again to Kalena for pimping me here. <g>

Story Notes: Thatcher ends up in the hospital, but she's not traumatized or anything.

This story is a sequel to: Talking to the Dog VI: By Any Other Name

Talking to the Dog VII: Every Virtue Has Its Price

Inspector Margaret Crimson Thatcher was not having the best day.

Yeah, her face and this damn tooth hurt, but she had appointments all morning and the fact that every one of them was getting the full frontal view of her multicolored visage was probably worse than the pain. Applying makeup to that mess was a completely lost cause, not to mention considerably less than comfortable. Also, she would not take the narcotic medication, provided by the hospital, at work, naturally; ibuprofen was sufficing. Plus, whenever Constable Fraser came in for anything, he would lean over and pet her face, head and throat in the vicinity of the injuries--quite as though it were the most natural thing in the world--as they conversed. The weird thing was, with Fraser, it did rather seem natural. If anybody else touched her various facial distortions and discolorations, the natural result would have been stabs of pain in her head and demonstrations of her barehanded martial talents upon the perpetrator; but since that wasn't the case with Fraser, there seemed little point in protesting. If she objected, she'd have to explain why--mere logic would demand it, since it was understood that Fraser's efforts were helpful--and God knew neither of them wanted that. "I find myself in a distressing state of sexual arousal at your touch, Constable, and I know--intuitively, but with a crystalline clarity--that you experience the same phenomenon, so please desist from such ministrations." Yeah, that'd really clear the air in this place.

Plus, for some reason, she was having more trouble than usual today with the fact that her middle name was Crimson. She was attributing that--the trouble, not the unfortunate name--to her injured head, which was making everything come across as just a bit odd today--even beyond--the widened eyes on all the people Turnbull ushered into her office.

No, the biggest problem there was that it would make her feel like she was taking advantage of the situation to gain sympathy if she allowed people to think she'd been beaten into this condition--and it would make her feel like a complete moron if she told them that it was a case of a bad step precipitating an up-close-and-personal meeting with a dumpster. So she had, in a burst of inspiration and practiced diplomatic prowess, come out with a line at her first appointment: "Forgive my appearance; there was some unpleasantness with a group of muggers, night before last, near the Auditorium Theater, on my way home; but the damage is minor, and the legalities are all under control and under way." She would then launch into whatever spiel was appropriate for the guest in question. So far, it had worked. The only related comments anyone had made after that had been wishes for a speedy recovery during the farewell nods, bows, or handshakes, whichever were appropriate.

Turnbull had been bringing her spearmint and chamomile tea, her personal favorite to relax by, approximately every twelve minutes until she told him, in somewhat sharper and more formal language, that if she drank that much tea she was going to be riding the yellow wave to the tune of "Wipe-Out" before even the most energetic sprint could get her to her office restroom. She couldn't bring herself to a full-on snap, however; the poor man was still feeling guilty. She had caught him wistfully peering, surreptitiously as he probably hoped, through the crack in her not-quite-closed double doors, twice; but she'd chosen to ignore his presence both times. It seemed the humane balance--kinder than sending him sharply back to his desk, yet not so encouraging to his unprofessional behavior as yet another reassurance that she was fine. Good Lord, the man had nearly killed two large professional muggers in his horror at seeing her knocked for a loop by her own clumsiness. But just what exactly was she supposed to do with him now? She supposed she'd simply have to continue to improvise.

She had gone to the kitchen herself for a cup of genuine tea on the morning break she didn't usually take (but she was taking it today, by God) as she didn't want to encourage Turnbull's tea-fetching behavior, and if Fraser touched her face one more time that morning she was going to come in her pants. She'd been a bit distressed with the dizziness she felt while she stood waiting for the water to heat; the feeling passed, however, and by the time the kettle whistled, she felt equal to returning to her office with the drink with a fair hope of not slopping any into the saucer. She wished almost passionately for a mocha latte, but had the strong suspicion it might combine in an uncomfortable way with her currently contused head.

When she walked into her office, there was a stuffed toy sitting in the middle of her desk. A grey and white husky dog.

"Oh, good Lord," she moaned softly as the door clicked shut behind her. What, was he trying to give it back? Because he didn't deserve a gift from her? Or was he only loaning it to her as a pick-me-up? The last was not out of the question; to Turnbull, such things were commonplace. A crayoned offering from a niece or nephew, a live flower in a pot, or, occasionally, that damn toy itself made appearances at his desk, in or out of public view as the object warranted, on days when Turnbull himself seemed to be feeling not quite the thing, as he put it.

She sighed, approached the desk and set the tea down, then picked up the toy, absently stroking at its fake fur with the other hand. God. She wanted to go back to Toronto. She wanted a long, long ride on Sasha, the horse she'd owned in her teens. She wanted a latte. She wanted to get the rest of the morning's appointments over with and finish her afternoon paperwork load on time. She wanted to call her cousin Barbara and have a major bitchfest. She wanted to work around some normal people. She wanted to fuck Fraser's brains out. Well, to be perfectly fair there, she wanted to fuck nearly anybody's brains out right now. She wanted to go back to the kitchen and put some milk in her tea, which she had forgotten to do. She wanted to go to the range and blow the living shit out of some innocent paper targets.

She wanted to go hug Turnbull.

"I'm losing it," she muttered to herself.

Behind her, the door opened; she glanced around, but it was only Fraser's wolf, who had the disquieting ability to open doors, at least under some circumstances. He slithered in and the door shut behind him.

"Do you think I don't know you sleep on my foot cozy?" She asked him, raising her good eyebrow. "But I'm working. You'll have to wait."

He twined around her legs.

"You're getting hair on my suit."

He reached up with a paw and touched the toy, then twined around her legs again, trying to draw her in the direction of the door.

"You're not Lassie, for God's sake. If you want me to do something, just say so," she grumbled with a my-brain-is-on-vacation-oh-well-too-damn-bad sigh.

"Go hug Turnbull," Diefenbaker said, sitting at her feet, panting up at her. "And give him back his toy. He meant it as a gift, both an apology and a bit of milk-and-honey for your unusually difficult day...but he'd miss it. He values it a great deal, since it came from you. He actually received quite a bit less mothering from his sisters than you'd think, being the baby and the only boy. They were, all but one, just between the appropriate age to mother him or to be his peers. Also, his father--"

"Oh, I'm familiar with his father's record, which is one reason for some of my frustration with Turnbull himself. His father was a...a role model, an exemplary--" hold it.

She was talking to the dog.

Listening to the dog talk, when her brain was still bruised, was one thing; she listened to morons every day, both in and outside of work; the dog couldn't be much worse. But talking to the dog was beyond the pale. She touched the side of her head. "I should have taken an extra day," she muttered.

Although...the advice, however bizarrely come by--and a bruised brain speaking through a half-wolf could only be considered bizarre, strange as her work occasionally was anyway--might easily be sound, knowing Turnbull. Taking the toy with her, she started for the door.

Once there, she paused, looking back a moment. If she was missing some marbles today due to this knock on the head--or, rather, if they were scrambled around in such a way as to make the dog one usable route to her common sense--why not make the most of what she had? "Won't he be upset if I refuse it?"

"No, not if you make it clear you do appreciate the gesture--thus, the point of the gesture has, in fact, been made. If you understand his intention, and he realizes that, there's no need for you to keep the toy, and you don't want to deprive him of his, ah, birthday gift. So be sure to stress that point," the wolf advised her.

"Which point?"

"All of them."

"Of course," she muttered, then turned and went out.

And turned right around and came back in before the door could close. "You really think I should hug him?"

"Oh, yes indeed. Though I'd suggest a location other than the foyer. The kitchen, perhaps. Make it brief, with a nice professional pat to the back, and smile at him--with the, ah, part of your face that it won't be painful with--and I guarantee you, you will ease that poor creature's conscience, considerably. Which, under the circumstances, will have the added benefit of easing your stress level. Considerably."

"True enough," she muttered wryly, then turned and went out again.

Ray trotted up the steps to the consulate, tapped on the door and stuck his head in. "Morning, Turnbull...uh, Turnbull?"

Turnbull, at the reception desk, looked up at his entrance and sniffed, smiling brightly through two big tears that stood, undripped, in his eyes. "Detective--"

"Ray, already."

"--Ray. Welcome to Canada. Constable Fraser is--"

"Wait a minute on Fraser, what's, uh, up here, big T?" Ray wondered, leaning on the reception desk. "Everything okay? You're lookin' kinda overcome, there."

"Oh, it's--um, really, nothing, nothing you need to worry about--"

"Hey, your little husky buddy." Ray patted the toy where it sat perched on a corner of the desk. "Fraser mentioned him. Said he was just white, though. Guess he was too busy not looking at you and Meg on the couch to get a good--"

Turnbull snatched the toy up and put it away out of sight somewhere behind the desk. "Terribly sorry. He shouldn't--I shouldn't have my personal things out on the desk during working hours."

"So get a toy dogsled to go with him and you got a whattayacallit, it'll be like an advertising thing for Canada, an, uh..."

"Mise-en-scene?" Turnbull began to look interested. "Not with Heathcliff--um, that's my, uh--"

Ray smiled. "I had a teddy bear named Skunkbait."

"But perhaps a small dogsledding scene, I could modify the materials out of--oh, yes, Constable Fraser is in his office. Shall I tell him you're here?"

"Not yet; I thought I'd check on my patient in there." Ray tossed his head in the direction of Thatcher's office. "Then I'll just go on back to Fraser's office; uh, are you sure you're okay?"

Turnbull was sketching something rapidly on a small pad. "Oh, yes, fine..." he said, as the lines began to come together into what Ray could only assume was the skeleton of a dogsled.

"F'you're sure." Ray got up and tapped at Thatcher's office door. After a moment, the call "Come in," came, fairly clear--she sounded like she was holding something small in her mouth out of the way and talking at the same time, but that was a lot better than she'd been the day before.

Ray strolled in, letting the door bonk to behind him. "Hey, boss lady."

She was already looking up, but, rather than rolling her eyes at him and barking, she just muttered "Oh, you. Detective."

"Wonderin' how you were." Ray slumped in a chair in front of her desk--the same one he'd sat in when Fraser fixed his head, he realized. "Whether you're bumpin' into the walls and like that. You probably should have taken another day, you know. I would have, if my brain had taken a couple spins. Feelin' dizzy? Double vision? Sick?"

"No, no and no."

"Liar. Which is it?"

She sighed again. "A bit dizzy earlier, but I was standing next to the stove burner. "

"You got any of that shit going on, you need to be lying down. Hurts less when you pass out that way."

"It simply isn't necessary, Detec..." she trailed off. Her gaze had slid downward, toward her lap.

"Somethin' wrong with your knees now?"

"What? No. Just...are, ah, auditory hallucinations a normal part of recovery from such injury, Detective? In your experience?"

Ray sat upright, looking alarmed. "Hell, you hearin' things? That's not good, Meg. Like what--loud noises, grinding sounds, kind of a roaring? Like that?"

"No, no, nothing like that. Voices...well, one voice...ahm..." she looked down again.

"Comin' from your knees? You got spectral knee voices?"

"No, from..." she sighed again. "Fraser's wolf."

Ray just stared for a moment, semi-comprehending, then used both hands and a puzzled shake of his head to mime what-has-that-got-to-do-with-your-lap.

"He's on the rug under here," she explained, in mild exasperation.

"Dief..." Ray cleared his throat and tried again. "The dog talked to you?"

"Only a few...just a..." she dropped her pen and closed her eyes, rubbing the temple that wasn't a funny color. "Yes, the dog talked to me. Turnbull tried to give me that ridiculous stuffed toy I gave him as a...well, the wolf told me to give it back, and to hug Turnbull."

Ray started that huge, room-lighting grin. "He did, did he?"

"Um...as I asked you before, Detective, are you familiar with--"

"Oh, sure, that's just your head talkin' to itself. Routing around the bruises, you know." Hell, whatever, in the shape she was in she was probably ready to buy anything he said if it reassured her, and be happy to fool herself. "But it'll quit on its own." 'It had damn well better,' he thought, struggling to stop grinning, 'or Fraser is in big trouble.' "You say he's sleepin' on your feet?"

"He likes this foot cozy rug. The staff keeps it clean, so I haven't said anything to Fraser about it; it's one of the more easily ignored dozen daily annoyances I put up with around here."

"But he doesn't sleep on your feet, usually. Dief, I mean."

"Not, er. No, not usually, but I, the, that is--he's not bothering me right now." She sighed. "In fact, I was thinking of taking my afternoon paperwork home, unless you were planning to make off with my second."

"Not if you need to go home, nah. I brought some stuff with me, we can do a little work here--"

"No, no, that's all right. I'll stay until we close for the day. I'm fine."

"You were fine the day you got clobbered, too."

She glowered. "Detective..."

"Inspector," he said right back at her, only he was grinning instead of glowering. "Can't fool me, and you're not my superior. I don't have to be nice to you when you're fucking yourself over."

She slumped, head on forearm, on the desk, purplish side of her head upward. "This total disrespect is because you saw me naked, isn't it."

Ray rolled his eyes. "No it is not, I've seen naked women, I was married for God's sake. It's because I've seen you with your cuckoo-clock chimin' the hours when it shouldn't be, if you get my drift. I know you're barely holding it together back there."

"Cuckoo-clocks don't chime, they say 'cuckoo', which is why they're called that, and I can hold it together as long as necessary. Feel free to get out of my office."

"Should I take the dog?"

"Fuck off, I'm comfortable," Dief muttered invisibly from under the desk. "She has warm feet. And they smell better than yours. Maybe even Fraser's."

Ray controlled a smirk and watched Thatcher.

"Ah...no," Thatcher hesitated, "He'll be fine where he is." She weaved a little, then reached for her daybook and flipped it open. "I'm assuming you didn't lie when you said this...auditory symptom would vanish of its own accord?"

"It damn well better or somebody around here is gonna have to undergo a little unexpected medical procedure," Ray said, raising his voice and aiming it at the desk. "We wouldn't want that. So you just keep me informed."

Dief said "Shove off, when she's normal she couldn't hear me even if I wanted her to." Then he made a grmphing sound, evidently rearranging himself.

"Of course," she sighed. "Now, I have an appointment in another few minutes and I need to get my notes ready, so if you don't mind..."

"Sure." Ray got up. "But you let us know if your favorite word turns back into 'Huh?' because we wouldn't want Turnbull beating himself up any worse--"

"Oh, my Lord--" Thatcher raised a hand to her forehead as that thought came to her attention. "Look, I have your cell number. If I...have any trouble, I'll call you from my office phone here, and you'll come and get me out past him, all right? Without letting him know I'm, ah, ill?" She finished with a mutter, more to the distance than to Ray, "I'm not sure waking up with Turnbull so often is terribly good for discipline around here, today being a case in point..."

"If you have to, I'll distract T while Ray gets you out," Diefenbaker volunteered, and Thatcher glanced down at her feet a moment, muttered "Ahm...thank you," then looked back up at Ray. "All right?"

Ray shrugged and nodded. "Yeah, will do. But you'll likely be okay, at least with regards to this latest, um, symptom thing. Right, Dief?"

Dief made an affirmative-sounding dog noise that didn't sound like anything but an affirmative-sounding dog noise, and Ray smiled, then came and leaned against the desk with one hip, hands in the pockets of his coat, in a mildly flirtatious and overfamiliar way that he knew would make her glare at him, and she did, but he was pretty sure she was trying not to smirk, though it also kind of looked like her eyes weren't quite focusing on him. She sure had pretty eyes, he thought, not for the first time; you couldn't walk into the room without falling into those eyes if you weren't prepared for them, kind of like with Frannie's, though he'd never seen Frannie's with one of them all beat to hell like that. "You sure the talking dog won't bug you?" he asked, with his best ain't-I-a-stinker smile, hoping to irritate her into a better mood; she seemed to enjoy being irritated, often as she got that way. "Anything else I can maybe do...?"

She rolled her eyes, then made a face with the parts of it that weren't already nasty-looking. "Can you do anything about my middle name?"

He blinked. "Your middle name? I thought Canada didn't go in for middle names that much. Anyway, it can't be worse than bein' named Stanley Kowalski."

She stared. "Your name is Stanley Kowalski?"

"Stanley Raymond Kowalski. My father was a big Brando fan, okay? That's why I've always gone by Ray. Now tell me you got a middle name worse than all that."

"I don't suppose it's worse, really, but I'm finding it especially annoying today, for some reason." She sighed, but not at him, more into the distance again. "Crimson," she said.

Now Ray stared. "Crimson? Like the color? Like 'I'm just mad about Saffron'? Well, if it was saffron. Like clover over and over?"

"That would be the crimson, yes. My parents were...um...well..."

Realizing what the word she could not get out had to be, he wondered incredulously "Your parents were hippies?!"

"My mother," she said, "was an American hippie who moved to Canada in protest of the draft."

"Wait. Your mother? The draft blew your mother to Canada?"

"As I said, it was apparently some sort of protest--encouragement to others who were subject to the draft to do the same, or simply a show of voting with her feet over the US involvement in Viet Nam, or some such. My father is Canadian, thank God, and she obtained citizenship by marrying him. After she had me. Having already had my brother. Both of us by our ostensible father, as far as we or anyone else ever knew."

"You're a half-American hippie's bastard named Crimson?" Ray said, his eyes like saucers. That explained a few things. Talk about reverse rebellion...

"Yes."

"It must've taken some serious cojones to become a Mountie and everything."

Instead of blowing up, she just nodded, eyes still not tracking all that well. "Yes. That...caused a little trouble too."

"Mm. And you probably had a 'little trouble', har de ha ha, after you got in..."

"You could say that. My father acknowledged both me and my brother, but since my mother was a US citizen when we were born, and my parents weren't married, we became Canadian citizens only through legal process. Oh, it was really only a matter of verification of my parents' wishes on the matter--no one questioned that one of my parents was Canadian, and in any event I had been born in Canada--but I can't count how many times my slightly unusual status there, and my gender, were thrown in my face for the purpose of either bribing me into bed--you know, 'I can make the fast track easier for you', that kind of garbage--" he smirked, rolling his eyes, and nodded, as she continued "--or tried to use the same status for the purpose of straight-ahead blackmail toward the same end. Along with all the other childish insanity a minority member has to get through in such an institution."

"Yeah. Damn. All that, and then you're so pretty, too--I'm surprised you made it without killing somebody," Ray said, and she finally looked up at him, but apparently saw nothing but speculative sympathy in his expression. So they just looked at each other a moment, and Ray finally added "Well, yeah, maybe not right now, right now you look like shit, but usually. Were your folks alive when you decided to go into the RCMP?"

She was quiet a moment, with a slightly distant expression. "Yes. Oh, it wasn't all tiresome dramatic scenes--my father was supportive. He thought it quite a good thing for more women to break into male-dominated professions. My mother, predictably, was very upset; part of the reason she'd come to Canada in the first place, she said, was because it was less 'establishment', whatever she meant by that, exactly. My brother was upset too, but more because he assumed it would be a horrible experience for me."

"And it turned out there were days he wasn't wrong."

"Yes, there were." Then she looked up at him and asked--actually sounding as though she wondered what the answer was--"Why am I telling you this?"

He just shrugged amiably and went on "Beats me. But the crap doesn't always come down on you just 'cause your mother's from someplace else, or that you're a woman--no, I'm talkin' about me. Stuff like pissed-off parents and crappy days at the Academy. Went through my share of shit there and probably a couple of other people's, too--and my pop, he didn't talk to me for years, about since the day I graduated...said I was...was gonna have a stink on me, bad people...we only started talking again a little while ago. And then, you know...when I nearly lost the car..."

There was a tapping on the door. "Inspector?" Turnbull peeked in. "Oh, you're still with Detective Vecchio, I'll tell the Director--"

"No--" Ray got up off the desk fast. "She's not busy." He looked back at Thatcher, pulled his cellphone out of his coat pocket, and waved it once in a significant fashion; she nodded, briskly shaking and resettling herself.

Under the desk, Dief was making a noise that had a vaguely singsongy sound to it, and Ray glared at the desk before turning away, patting Turnbull's arm on his way out.

"Ah, Miss Vecchio. What brings you to the Consulate today?" Turnbull stood politely, eyeing Francesca warily. He liked her, quite a lot, but he also knew very well what brought her to the consulate today, and it wasn't primarily the stacked paper package she was carrying. Especially since she was also carrying a food container that emitted succulent aromas.

"Hi, Turnbull, is Fraser around? This is some paperwork--you know how Ray is about paperwork--that needs his signature. And, uh...some other things need filling in. I think Welsh has given up on getting Ray to finish it; he's pinning his hopes on taking advantage of Fraser's good nature." Her gaze skittered inquisitively around the foyer.

"Yes, constable Fraser is in his office, along with detective Vecchio--he mentioned that he brought some paperwork along with him. Shall I just run that back for you? They can take care of it all at once." Paperwork was not, to Turnbull's almost-sure knowledge, what was getting taken care of back there, but it certainly wasn't his place to inform anyone else of that.

"No, don't let me put you to the trouble, I'll take it back myself--" she started for the hallway.

Turnbull leaped to intercept her, proving that his long limbs were good for something besides tripping over. "We wouldn't want to disturb their concentration, Miss Vecchio--if you left the paperwork with me, I'm sure I could--"

"Oh--" she smiled suddenly, "--before I forget, Ma wanted your recipe for vegetarian lasagna--she wants to put Maria's husband on a diet. Ma's idea of a diet is leave out a couple of tablespoons of oil from the sauce, you know, but when I brought home some of what you sent to the station with Fraser, and she tasted it--"

"Oh! Of course, I'd be happy to just jot it down for you--" Turnbull turned back to his desk, Frannie slipped past, and Turnbull, feeling the breeze of her progress, muttered "Darn." He simply must learn to be less credulous. For the moment, though--he lunged for his desk phone and buzzed constable Fraser's office. "Constable Fraser, I thought you might like to know that Miss Vecchio is on her way back with--"

There was a thud, a soft wet smack and a couple of erfs, in two distinct male voices, and a breathless sounding Fraser replied "Who? Ah, that is, what? That is, Francesca?"

Diefenbaker came around the slightly-open door of Thatcher's office and behind Turnbull's desk, nudging a serge-clad elbow with his nose.

Turnbull leaned down and murmured conspiratorially "You smelled her?"

Diefenbaker made a soft hruf.

"She got past me. Would you mind terribly?"

Diefenbaker hrufed again and trotted quickly down the hallway toward Fraser's office.

"Yes, constable Fraser, Francesca is on her way--" then he heard the sound of Francesca's muffled voice, both from the intercom speaker and from down the hallway, trying to tell a playfully yipping Dief that she loved him, too, but she couldn't play right now. It went from loving and tolerant to irritated and puzzled after Dief refused to stop whatever he was doing--probably dancing around her, pawing at her and the food container and otherwise just getting in her way. Over that, through the intercom, were the sounds of truly obscene nasally-accented swearing, and the violent rustling of cloth. "Sorry, sir."

There was a brief pause, as Fraser apparently digested that last, then the soft response "It's all right, Turnbull. I'll take care of it."

"Yes, sir." Turnbull, sighing, sat back down and continued sorting mail. He nodded to the Director of Parks and Recreation on the latter's way out, who had come to see about possibly securing a professional hockey player or two as instructors for the season's teen hockey program--there were quite a few in Toronto and Ottawa who donated their time or sold it for a small fee for such programs--as the latter emerged from Inspector Thatcher's office.

A few seconds later, Inspector Thatcher came wandering out, too, in her stocking feet. "What else is on the schedule for this morning, Turnbull?" She yawned.

"If you'll forgive me, sir, you look as though you could use a bit of a lie-down."

She gave him a tired glance. "The schedule, please, Turnbull."

"Of course, sir. It appears...you're through with appointments for the morning, but there is a short list of return calls..." he plucked the list neatly from a pocket in the big schedule/daybook. "You had intended to do these today, sir, but none of them are marked urgent."

She reached over and took the list. "I might as well. If--oh, for--Turnbull, why didn't you tell me I forgot to put my shoes back on?"

Turnbull shrugged timorously. "You looked so comfortable."

"Be that as it may, if--ahm, Miss Vecchio?"

Wobbling back up the hallway came Francesca, minus the paper package, but still carrying the Tupperware bowl that emitted the tasty tomato-cheese fumes. Diefenbaker was walking next to her, carefully keeping pace. If not literally, she was at least leaning on him figuratively. She paused at the lintel of Thatcher's office door to lean against it, too. "Boy," she muttered, looking dazed. "I shoulda paid better attention to the chapter about self-delusion and wish fulfillment..." she bit her lip, looking ready to laugh, cry, throw up, combust--

"Miss Vecchio?" Turnbull said. Dief was still leaning against her leg.

She looked up at Turnbull. "Did you know that er. Hello, Inspec--OH my God." The tupperware in one hand, she managed to focus and came over, the other hand out toward Thatcher's multicolored face. "What hap--well, I know what happened, but I had no idea..." she made a face, evidently distracted from her recent unpleasant revelatory experience.

"It's nothing, really," Thatcher said, backing away from the extended hand a startled step. Her pantyhosed foot slipped on the parquet and she flailed for balance. Turnbull reached for her but Frannie skittered forward a step and caught her first, one thin arm around Thatcher's waist, pulling her upright with surprising strength.

"You shouldn't be here," Frannie said, her eyes wide. "You should be lying down, you can barely stand, there's a couch in your office, isn't there? I'll bet you haven't eaten, either, have you? Come on, I brought some of my Ma's manicotti, that won't be hard for you to chew--my God, you look terrible."

"Thank you," Thatcher managed to mutter, with tired sarcasm, as Francesca dragged her by main force back into her office. "I'll cherish that sentiment." In their sudden lurch of motion, Thatcher lost the little rectangle of paper containing her list of return calls and it came fluttering, like a homing pigeon, to land lightly in the middle of Turnbull's desk. Thatcher was continuing "Miss Vecchio, you don't need to put yourself to any trouble; I have Detective Vecchio's cell number, and if anything--"

"Oh, Ray. Ray couldn't pull a splinter out of his own skinny--thanks." Diefenbaker had got the door for her, since her hands were both occupied. She glanced back over her shoulder at Turnbull and wondered "Could you maybe get us whatever the inspector here drinks, tea or whatever?"

Thatcher's eyes got big and she opened her mouth again, but Turnbull had already leaped to his feet. "Certainly. You'll be needing napkins and utensils as well, I presume?"

"Thanks, that'd be..." the rest of her comment was muffled by the door closing.

Dief and Turnbull traded a look. "Thank you for the stall," Turnbull said. "That would have been quite a mess. I take it they were at least dressed?"

Dief hrufed.

"Good. Though obviously Francesca's powers of perception are adequate to detect...um...you know."

Dief whined. Then he tossed his head toward the kitchen.

"Yes, I'll meet you there, I just need to put this list--constable Fraser. Detective Vecchio." Ray and Fraser had come up the hallway, looking embarrassed. "I'm sorry I didn't do a better job of detaining Miss Vecchio, but--"

"Say no more," Ray said, waving a hand dismissively, looking preoccupied and somewhat beaten down. "Nothing can keep Frannie from that on which she has set her sights."

"Your efforts are appreciated as always, Turnbull," Fraser sighed.

"Might I suggest that if you and detective Ve--"

"Ray."

"Ray were on your way somewhere, that you might proceed with all dispatch? Miss Vecchio is in inspector Thatcher's office. Apparently she felt the inspector was in need of attention."

Ray smirked. "Meaning down-home Italian attention? When she saw Meg's face? Yeah, let's move, Frase, before Frannie sticks her head out the door."

"Indeed. Thank you kindly, Turnbull."

"Not at all, sir. Would you mind if Diefenbaker remained to--"

Dief came back through with a large cloth napkin filled with something that clinked and another piece of cloth poking out the side; he had the first napkin by all four corners, using it as a bag. Turnbull scuttled over to let him into Thatcher's office; he slithered through the narrow opening and Turnbull closed the door quickly behind him.

"Yes, it would seem his efforts are needed more urgently here," Fraser noticed. "You'll look after him if--?"

"Of course, sir."

"C'mon, Fraser, pitter patter, we don't need your punch-drunk boss wonderin' why we both got funny walks and puffy lips comin' out of your office." Ray herded Fraser toward the front door. "Doubt she wants any foolin' around in the consulate. Nor do we need another face-to-face with Frannie right now. Let's count our blessings Meg distracted her and get out of here."

Fraser was saying, back toward Turnbull, "Feel free to call Ray's phone if anything should..." Ray dragged Fraser out, shutting the door behind them.

"I will, sir," Turnbull murmured to the door, smiling a little. "Best of luck."

"I guess we deserve that for, you know, when we were supposed to be working," Ray muttered glumly after they'd both climbed carefully into the car.

Even the certain knowledge stealing across Frannie's face as they'd both stood there, looking almost painfully loved on, with glaze-eyed fake smiles, hadn't been enough to banish the stiffies from hell. She'd shoved the paper package at Ray, told him what it was, smiled a perfunctory smile with an extremely brief version of her usual social noises, then bolted. She even forgot to make any explanation for the tupperware food. Ray and Fraser had both wilted--most of them had, at least--in a combination of shock, embarrassment, and frustration.

"Dief might have warned us," Fraser muttered.

"He was with Meg, remember?"

"Mm."

"So like...if we're not gonna...the station, they're..." Ray struggled to focus. "They're checking that rooming house number Whiting...oh, fuck it, I can't work like this. Um--Fraser, buddy, partner, I gotta stop at my place real quick for, uh, something. Official business." He clutched at Fraser's chest with the near hand and begged desperately "Okay?"

"Official business, Ray," Fraser agreed quickly, nodding real fast, reaching for the seatbelt. He then sat there with it in both hands, apparently puzzled as to how to fasten it so that it wouldn't snap his dick in two if they actually did hit something. "You know," he said speculatively, "I knew a man in Summer Valley who raised horses, and apparently, one day, when one of them kicked him--"

"Just don't tell me, don't tell me, I don't wanna know, Frase," Ray groaned, starting the engine, having resisted the temptation to forgo his seatbelt altogether, not sure he'd be able to tolerate hearing "It's not just a good idea, Ray, it's the law." Well, his dick didn't wanna hear about the law right now. God, if it wasn't the dog it was the dog's human driving him batshit.

And now, apparently, Fraser could drive him batshit without even opening his mouth. Ray's brain would do it for him. He let his head fall against the steering wheel and chuckled, which escalated to a giggle, which got louder from there.

"Ray? Are you all right?" Fraser touched his back tentatively.

"No, my brain is in my pants, Frase, I'm not all right. But I will be fine when we get to my place. Hang on." He seized the gearshift, stomped the clutch and peeled out, wondering if Fraser was rolling his eyes. He didn't look to find out.

"No no no not against the door--" Ray struggled and bumped Fraser away with his hip. They were both still breathless from charging up the stairs, and Fraser had started trying to climb back into Ray's clothes as soon as they got the door shut behind them. "No, I mean yes, I mean God yes, but not the living room--Fraser!" Ray was about in the state to give up and do it crossways on a fence, which was what two people their size trying to fool around on his couch would amount to, but he hadn't been washing and changing his sheets pretty much every other freaking day for a week just so they could alert his landlady to the new--well, not exactly new--element in their friendship via thumping around on the floor, which was where they would end up if they tried the couch. He didn't bother trying to tell Fraser any of this; he just let Fraser keep noshing around on him and such while he himself dragged them both into the bedroom. Hey, no skin off his nose if he was naked by the time they got there.

He nearly was, just the pants-around-the-knees problem happening, causing him to fall over, fortunately landing on the bed; he made a frustrated noise at the loss of contact, but Fraser, before Ray even finished one bounce, had his own tunic the rest of the way off and was crawling over Ray, and Ray was pulling up Fraser's henley trying to get it off, which was a bad idea because Fraser still had his suspenders on and the henley ended up rammed up under his arms and throat, which meant Fraser was like a guy in stocks trying to get it on, and Ray was pulling at the back strap of Fraser's suspenders trying to pop them off, which was pulling Fraser up on the bed all right but putting kind of a bug-eyed look on his face, not to mention they weren't popping off, and Ray's phone rang.

Fraser's head went up automatically, because it was the department cell, but Ray grabbed Fraser's head again and pulled it down, but he had a hard time keeping hold because he was thrashing his feet around at the same time as he tried to keep Fraser's attention focused, trying to get his jeans and boots off, and Fraser was squirming and trying to kiss Ray and get him to stop yanking on his suspender strap, but the phone kept ringing. And ringing. And ringing.

Ray realized "Oh fuck, it might be Meg, I told her if she got bad--"

Fraser lunged over the edge of the bed--as well as he could lunge, being hampered by a rock-hard dick, henley stocks, and the Wedgie from Hell--and answered it, his voice rather higher than usual. He sounded pretty dazed. "What! Ah, sorry, Detective Vecchio's cellular--I'm sorry, I can't quite make you out, my testicles are in my ears." Ray stopped pulling on the suspender strap. "I said my--ahm, never mind, you were saying...? He was? He did? Ah. Where? Of course. We'll be right there; thank you, Lieutenant." He clicked the phone off, dropped it, and collapsed across Ray in despair.

Fuck. "Search on Whiting came up positive?"

"Yes."

Fuck. "We gotta pick him up like now?"

"Yes."

Fuck. "I hate it when we're the only ship in the quadrant."

"What?"

"Fraser, I love you so much," Ray sighed, with every ounce of feeling he possessed as his hands squeezed Fraser's beautiful, beautiful, currently pinched-in ass.

"I love you, too," Fraser moaned, meeting his eyes and looking as close to crying, apparently in sheer frustration, as Ray had ever seen him. He started struggling up. "We'll do this later. I promise. No matter what, next time."

"I'm right behind you, Benton-buddy. Tonight, we fuck. Fuck or bust. Fuck or die."

"Well, maybe not die, Ray--"

"You know what I mean." Ray was hopping around pulling his briefs and jeans back up.

Fraser's fingers flew over buckles and buttons. He'd destrangulated himself, henleywise at least, but hadn't bothered undoing his pants to retuck the undershirt, possibly fearing he wouldn't be able to get them redone. "Of course; right you are."

Ray didn't even try to find his shirt; Fraser had probably eaten it somewhere between the front door and the bed. He snatched a tee out of a drawer and reached for his holster and gun; Fraser was throwing a jacket at him. They ran back out of the apartment at the same speed as they'd run in, with the difference of Fraser being occasionally delayed by his trousers. For jodhpurs, they really seemed to be snug, judging by the way he was hopping down the last flight of stairs with both hands tugging at his inseams, looking like a big red Canadian frog. To give him credit, he was keeping up with Ray even so.

"I will kick Whiting in the head," Ray muttered as they lunged into the car. He turned the key and the engine roared.

"Ray."

"I will kick his head around the room like a basketball. I will--"

"Ray."

"--dance upon his cranium, I will party on his parietal bone--"

"Ray."

"--and then I'll get started on his teeth, I'll use 'em for--"

"RAY!"

"What?!"

"O'Hare is that way."

"...I knew that."

"I still think you should have called a cab," Frannie said. She was walking close on to Thatcher, eyeing her sideways as though expecting to see her keel over at any moment. Dief was trotting along to Thatcher's other side.

She probably wasn't far wrong, Thatcher thought sourly, but only said "Unnecessary, Miss Vecchio. A brisk walk always refreshes me."

"Even when kids are running away from your face?"

Thatcher's mouth quirked. "I'm sure they'll recover from the trauma. Thank you for lunch, by the way."

"Oh, forget about it, it's nothing," Francesca said, smiling a little. The expression looked more distracted than friendly, but it was a smile. "Are you sure I shouldn't hail a cab? You're wearing high-heeled pumps."

"I'm afraid I don't...see the relevance," Thatcher finished in a mutter, with a long stare at the hand Frannie'd just wrapped around her elbow. She decided not to make issue. After all, it was better than being steadied by the wolf.

"The relevance is you can fall off high-heeled pumps," Frannie sighed, as though talking to an idiot, which, Thatcher reflected detachedly, she might be doing. It was difficult to say. Subjective observations of one's own mental states were so rarely accurate.

"And you're dizzy," Frannie added.

"Oh, not dizzy, no, no. Merely a...bit of a headache."

"Whatever you say. Well, we're nearly there anyway, and you can lie down and--what?"

Thatcher'd stopped dead. So did Dief.

"Did you see it?" Diefenbaker said.

"Yes," Thatcher murmured back. "Back of the delivery truck."

"There's one in the alley, too. See the shadow?"

"You're right. I'd been wondering if they might show up."

"What?" Frannie said. "Right about what? Calling a cab? We're nearly--"

"Nothing, miss Vecchio. Please don't trouble yourself further on my behalf; I'll be fine." Then she whispered to Dief "Let's keep walking. Miss Vecchio--" she cast about for a way to keep Frannie out of harm's way without alerting her to the presence of the two lying in wait. The girl might scream or something, the thugs waiting for them would bolt, and from then on they'd be aware that Thatcher knew of their existence and their designs; it might be impossible to apprehend them, then, without a lot of undue carrying on over the safety of her person, at least.

"Think there's a third?" she asked Dief.

"Most likely. Probably stationed inside," Dief said. "Unless they think I'm a pet, they might not try for you now at all, and if they did, they'd be smart to wait and follow you in, not jump you out here."

"I guess we're about to find out if they're smart, then," Thatcher agreed.

Frannie rolled her eyes. "Is it just a Canadian thing to answer dogs when they bark, or what?"

"Miss Vecchio, do you think you could..." hell. She couldn't think quickly enough of a way to get rid of Francesca without alerting her to the problem, and thus alert the lurkers in wait. "We'll both have to keep one eye on the girl here," she mouthed silently at Dief, hoping that he really could read lips and it wasn't just one of Fraser's various insanities.

"I know. At the door, drop your keys. Francesca will try to pick them up for you. When the one in the alley moves..."

"Right. Back to back. You pull down the other one and keep him there. Remember not to bite him."

Dief gave her a slightly annoyed look, but only replied "Got it."

"God, you really do need a rest," Frannie was saying. "Now you're answering yourself."

"Yes, a nap would be just the thing. Oh, dear."

"Let me," Frannie said, leaning down. "You shouldn't bend over with your head all--"

When the first man came around the corner, Thatcher let loose with a roundhouse right over Francesca's ducked head. It connected with a sharp crack of knuckles on bone and jolted him back against the wall; behind her, she could hear a wordless snarl and a very brief shriek. She banged into Francesca with a shoulder block that knocked the other woman the rest of the way clear, ignoring the squeal of protest; she then barreled into the man before he could get his balance back and twisted his gun arm up, then down, yanking him around with his back to her and ramming him into the wall again. He lost the gun and started to sag. She rammed him one more time, and he went deadweight. She let him drop and spun around.

The other man was lying on the ground, his jersey shirt torn completely off one shoulder, his gun knocked out of reach just under a mailbox, staring in horror at the snarling sixty or so pounds of wolf that had its bared teeth right in his face. "You will remain where you are," Dief was saying via the snarling. "Do not reach for your weapon. You are under arrest."

"Ohmigod!" Frannie, lying in the street under the grill of a car, started trying to scramble up.

"Francesca, the loan of your scarf, if you please," Thatcher said, snatching the item from around the strap of Frannie's shoulder bag and twisting it into a tie. She got the conscious man's hands behind his back and secured them with a figure-eight knot.

There was a screech of rubber against asphalt and a blue Buick Skylark, circa about 1968, peeled around the corner of the next block over, pouring on the power of its three-fifty V8 engine as it hurtled down the street toward them. Right on its bumper roared a black GTO with Fraser hanging half out the passenger window. In only a moment, as they watched, he swung onto the hood, then jumped to the trunk of the Skylark. The driver jerked the wheel toward the alley one of the gun-wielding men had come out of, but Fraser managed to hang on and reach the roof, dropping the black leather jacket he was carrying over the windshield, blinding the driver. The Skylark fishtailed sideways into a streetlight pole, Fraser was thrown into the road, and the driver came bolting out the passenger side of the car, running hard.

The GTO screamed to a less-than-legal stop, blocking the way into the alley. The running man switched directions, now heading down the block toward Thatcher. As he made to get past, she reached out, grabbing at him, and got a handful of shirt that she combined with the man's own momentum to swing him violently around and hit the building door with enough power to knock him flat. Unfortunately, since she weighed far less than he did, this also catapulted her all the way around him. She fetched up with her back to the mailbin, striking it with a bang and flipping over it to the curb on the other side.

Lying there stunned, she heard Dief saying "You do realize that I could've gotten that one?"

"He was moving too fast. To stop him, you might have had to bite him," she explained. "If he pressed countercharges, you could have ended up on doggie death row. Not to mention the possibility of his crying illegal arrest."

"Doggie death row?" Francesca said in confusion. Thatcher realized that she was lying with her much-abused head in Frannie's lap. "What the hell is doggie death row?"

"I don't believe you called it that," Dief said, rolling his eyes.

"Sorry," she managed, then reached for the mailbox and hauled herself to her feet. "Fraser! Ray! There might be another--"

At that point, as the man Fraser and Ray had been chasing started to get his feet back under him, Thatcher and Frannie found themselves lunging out of the way as the two deeply pissed law officers jumped on him in a tooth-gnashing fury that seemed just a bit too enthusiastic, for some reason. Figuring they probably had that part of the situation under control, Thatcher managed to hop over them all, though it gave her a wave of vertigo, and she crashed into the door herself before managing to get her keys picked up and get it open. She bolted in, hearing Frannie yelling "Hey! Wait! Your head!"

Inside, the doorman was nowhere to be seen; probably incapacitated and secured somewhere. There was no good cover here for a third (or possibly third and fourth or whatever) attacker to be hiding behind. The world was kind of shimmying, and there seemed to be too many loud reports of pump heels against the stone-flagged lobby flooring.

Any associates of the two men outside would have to be warned by this time, probably they'd had an open line via cellphone--damn. She should've detailed Francesca to call for backup. God, it was hard to do all this at once with her brain still whirling. There was only one other door into the lobby, a locked service door; if the hypothetical third party was less than brilliant and tried to take the elevators, he'd have to get past Fraser and Ray, but if they were busy enough with the three men they were currently involved with, he might make it. Well, she could only take one route or the other. She ran for the stairs.

Up the stairs. No time for subtlety now. About all she could do was hope whoever it might be didn't expect her to come in search of him.

"Hey! Wait a second! Where are you going, anyway?"

Oh dear God, Francesca was down there behind her. That explained the anomalous footstep echoes. "Francesca, go back to the lobby!" she yelled desperately. "Use the payphone! Call for help!"

Francesca shrieked.

Thatcher tripped in startlement and hit the stairs in a flying crash-landing. The pain in her head blinded her a moment; she started trying to get back up before she could see again, though she wasn't sure she was still in any state to do anybody any good anyway. Below her--thank God--she heard the door at the lobby floor crash open and Ray yelling "Meg! Frannie! Where're--oh, shit."

She leaned dizzily over the banister, gazing down at the landing below her, and muttered a bad word to herself, too. A tall, heavyset man with reddish, curly hair--she thought she'd seen him before--was standing down there with Francesca in one arm; she was struggling, but he was holding her easily with both her feet off the floor; there was no way she could get loose from that. His other arm was employed holding a snub-nosed automatic to her neck.

The bastard must have been hiding under the stairs, she realized, cursing at herself for not thinking of it. He'd been waiting to grab a hostage--probably her, but she'd proven problematical to subdue, so he wisely took Frannie--to get him out past the blue-and-whites she could now barely hear, muffled by walls and distance. Ray must've gotten backup. Apparently, the assailant didn't know she'd stopped; he wasn't backing out of his position right under her.

"You only have one hostage," Fraser was saying softly, hands held up in a let's-all-cool-it gesture, "and if you kill her, you won't get out of here. But we know that you know that. Dead, she's useless, but if you keep her alive to--"

"Shut up! Just shut up!" the man snapped.

"Fraser, don't give him ideas!" Frannie yelped.

"Don't fight him, Frannie," Ray put in grimly, poised with his gun in both hands, glasses on, ready to fire.

"I don't need to give him ideas," Fraser said, still calmly. "He knows that as soon as he fires, Ray will shoot. He will die. On the other hand, since we all know he can't kill you and still use you--"

"Shut UP!" the man bellowed. "Shut up now! I don't have to kill her! I'm betting I could fuck her up pretty bad and still keep her alive--you want that? Do you? Now I am walking out of here and the chickie's coming with me. If you--"

"Chickie!?" Francesca yelled, turned her head and bit his wrist.

As he blurted a curse, Thatcher swung over the banister and dropped on him.

As Meg's pump heels contacted the man's head, Frannie hit the floor. Thatcher tumbled sideways as the gun-wielding felon went down hard; she hit the lowermore banister with a breath-whooshing jolt and rolled over it, falling to the basement stairs below.

"I'll take him, you get Meg," Ray snapped, and kicked the man's fallen gun out of reach. "Stay down!" he snarled.

"Yeah!" Frannie added. "Stay down, you jerk!"

"Shut up, Frannie," Ray sighed. "Jerome Whiting, you got the right to remain silent, so keep the fuck shut. Anything you say will be cheerfully used to fry your nuts in a court of law. You got the right to an attorney, for some strange reason. You can't afford one, the people will provide your sorry criminal ass with one. Got that? Good. Fraser, is Meg all right?"

"She's semiconscious, Ray. When the ambulance crew arrives, send them in with a backboard and brace."

Frannie helpfully--and happily--fastened the man's hands behind his back with Ray's handcuffs, having snatched them out of his belt as soon as she got back up. "There! Jerk."

"You fasten both switches, Frannie?"

"Better believe I did."

"Good. We don't want any messy details standing in the way of a conviction. Come on," Ray said, grabbing the man by the collar and, with some effort, hauling him up. "Move it! C'mon, let's go!"

Fraser, his voice tense, was saying "Sir, try not to move. We don't know how badly your spine might be injured--"

"S'fine," Meg was saying blearily. "Doorman. Find...gotta...uh...what?"

"Oh, no," Frannie gasped. "Will she be all right?"

"No way to tell that right now," Fraser said quietly. "We'll locate the doorman, sir."

Ray, muscling the cuffed man out, heard Frannie descending the basement stairs. "She saved me. She can't--Fraser, who were those guys who jumped us...?"

Ray lost the thread of the conversation, but Fraser wasn't saying anything he didn't know. The man Ray was currently prodding ahead of him with his gun barrel was Jerome Whiting, brother of John Whiting, brother of James Whiting--who was one of the men currently in the hospital after Turnbull's distraught reaction at seeing his commanding officer lying unconscious in a particularly dirty alley. It had turned out that Whiting was heading for the airport, ultimately--but dispatch had radioed them with the identity of one of Meg and T's attackers, since they were currently in pursuit of the brother and it was pretty safe to assume a connection. Neither Fraser nor Ray were surprised to realize that James Whiting, having bolted through a grocery store and into the Skylark--leaving the car's owner on the pavement--was heading here to pick up his other brother and get them both out of the city posthaste.

"Sometimes things really work out handy, y'know?" Ray was saying, giving Jerome Whiting another shove. "It's all just so simple sometimes. I really like it when it works like that, don't you? Huh?" Ray whacked him in the shoulder with the butt of his gun. "I said don't you?"

"Sure," Whiting muttered dispiritedly.

"Y'know, there were better ways to make sure Meg couldn't testify against your brother. This all was pretty stupid, y'gotta admit. You really think you could just jump her, whack her and head for the airport? When we were already on you for armed robbery and two assaults? And she'd already beat up one of your little pals? Not to mention every cop in the city was looking for you. Shoulda gone to ground, man. But hey, too late now!" Ray grinned as he booted Whiting ahead of him out the door. "Your family really oughtta look into another line of work."

"You don't have all of us," Whiting growled, "they still won't--" he apparently realized he was letting rage make him talk too much, and shut the living fuck up.

"What's that!?" Ray asked with heavily overmimed interest. "What was that? I don't know if I heard that. Did you say something to me? HUH?" Ray spun Whiting around and slammed him against the side of one of the blue-and-whites. "Hey, sir," he called as Welsh headed for him. "This asshole has something to say. Sounded like it might've been important. You think maybe riding around in the engine compartment for a while would jolt his memory? I've heard that works good."

"Yeah," Welsh said with a grim smile. "I've heard that, too."

"Sounded like he doesn't think Meg and T will be testifying--ohmigod, Turnbull!"

"Shit," Welsh said. "I'll take Whiting. Go."

"Dief!" Ray yelled.

"What?!" Dief yelled back. He was still standing over the man Meg had tied with Frannie's scarf; the crew of one of the blue-and-whites were heading for them to take over. "Try it, asshole," Dief was snarling. "C'mon, try it, gimme an excuse, you pathetic fuck, just try something--"

"Dief, c'mon! Turnbull! There's at least one more of these fart hammers and he's probably after T!"

Dief looked around. "Oh, fuck--yeah, I'm coming--" Dief waited until two uniformed officers had the guy, then bolted toward the GTO after Ray. "The ambulance crew!" Ray hollered over his shoulder to Welsh. "Fraser can't move Meg!"

"I'll send them in, go on!" Welsh yelled back, then muttered "Jeez. Is everybody talking to the dog now?"

"Take my phone and--shit," Ray said as they roared off again. He hoped a cruiser would try to pull him over; the faster he got some bodies to the consulate, the better.

"Yeah. I can't drive the car, either," Dief said.

Driving one-handed, Ray got the call into dispatch. "God, T, if they're there already, just don't panic," he muttered. "Here's hoping they piss him off and he puts 'em through the wall."

"He could."

"If he doesn't panic."

"He won't."

"You sure?"

"No. Drive faster, the light ahead's going to turn green."

"Right." Ray drove faster.

At the consulate, they went over the curb by a healthy amount, bouncing the both of them like BBs in a cocktail shaker. Ray ripped the keys from the ignition and they lunged out, bolting up the stairs at the speed of frantic worry. Ray yanked the door wide and charged in and tripped and fell down real fucking hard. Dief swore but managed to keep going, over him, and landed up past him, barking "What the hell--?"

Ray made an unlovely grunting noise and rolled over on his back. Turnbull had gotten up and was standing over him. "Oh dear," he murmured. "Welcome to Canada, Ray. Terribly sorry about that." He held out a hand. Ray grabbed it, let T pull him up, and turned around to see what the hell he'd fallen over.

Two guys--one of them with curly red hair--were lying in front of the door, where evidently they'd been sitting until Ray came through. They were both groggy-looking and apparently restrained somehow, with their arms behind their backs. There were what looked like wet linen napkins stuffed in their mouths.

"I'm afraid I had to make two arrests, you see," Turnbull informed him. "When I explained Canada's firearms laws and told them they would have to check their weapons for the duration of their visit, they became, well...not liking to speak ill, but honestly." Turnbull tsked. "They were quite rude. And right in the middle of washday, too. I'll have to do a second rinse cycle; the kitchen linens are a mess--I'm afraid we can consider those napkins a write-off. I must admit, I'm impressed with their command of invective, but we can't allow that sort of thing in the foyer; who knows when someone might come by? Where are my manners--would you care for a cup of tea, Ray? Diefenbaker?"

Dief gave a tired whine and collapsed where he stood, weak with relief. Ray seriously considered lying back down on the floor for a while, too. At least until his heart started again.

"Hi," Ray murmured in Fraser's ear, sitting next to him on the waiting-room sofa. "How goes it? She gonna be okay?"

Francesca was sitting in the chair next to the couch; Dief came up and sat down with her, leaning his upper half in her lap and whining softly. She absently started stroking his head, looking worried.

"They think so. She never went completely unconscious. They'll probably keep her a night for observation, though. Turnbull?"

Ray smiled. "Two guys, one of 'em another brother--T gave 'em a little Mountie-style lesson in manners and Dief and me kinda sorta extradited their asses down to the station. Apparently they interrupted wash day." Fraser actually had to stifle a snort. Grinning, Ray finished "They're cooling it in holding with their family and friends."

Fraser smiled, too. "I'm relieved to hear he's all right."

"Just fine. I'm gettin' a big picture of why he never seems to get really angry, though. Hell, I've seen you a lot more pissed off than I've ever seen him."

Fraser gave an I-get-you sideways nod. "Apparently he has some idea--possibly not a conscious knowledge, but some idea--of the fact that he's quite dangerous when he's angry. The remorse he felt at beating one of the Whiting brothers and cohort would certainly be explained by that."

"If he's been fighting all his life to stay in control? Yeah, I was thinking something like that. I could kick his damn dad, though, makin' him be a mountie. If he'd gone into interior design or something, he wouldn't have to fight it so much."

Fraser shook his head. "I doubt it would have mattered. He can't watch an injustice happening and not try to help--no more than I can, really. And this way, he has both the skills and the inarguable right to put that tendency to good use."

A woman came walking up to them, dressed in nurse's whites. "Mr. Fraser?"

"Yes?"

"Is she okay?" Frannie blurted.

The woman looked down at her. "Are you her sister?"

Frannie stared. "Huh?"

"It's the eyes," Ray smirked. "No, she's just a worried friend. Meg okay?"

"No, but she will be. As I told Mr. Fraser, we'll be keeping her overnight. If she's still disoriented in the morning, we may have to admit her for a while, but it would be precautionary. She's been thoroughly beaten up; we don't want to take the chance she might start bleeding internally."

"No," Ray said, "she didn't get beat up. She thoroughly beat up the other guy--well, guys--but I get what you mean."

"I'm not surprised." The woman shook her head. "She's the stubbornest patient we've had to deal with since, well, Mr. Fraser here. She keeps trying to get up and leave. I can't tell if she keeps forgetting what's going on or she's pretending to so she can get out of here."

Ray barked a laugh and covered his mouth with one hand, glancing at Fraser.

Fraser smiled. "That sounds quite like her."

"Mounties," Ray said, shrugging, grinning up at the nurse.

Thatcher was gazing blurrily at the fluorescent light on the ceiling. She hated fluorescent lights. They made her hair look green.

"Um, Meg? Hi," came a soft voice from somewhere near her waist. She mustered the effort to roll her (ow!) head on the pillow enough to find the source. Ah. Miss Vecchio. "Hello," she said, or tried to say. She was pretty sure she'd made some kind of a noise, at least.

"Um, Fraser and Ray were here. I, I don't think you really noticed them, though. Fraser was really...really worried. I've never seen him look like that, quite."

Great, now her and Fraser's hormones were affecting them even when one of them was pretty much out for the count. Just swell. She made another noise, hoping it would do as acknowledgement, and tried to make her mouth work a little better for the next question. "Doorm? Door...uh..."

"What? Oh, the doorman. Fraser found him in the stairwell where Whiting was hiding when he jumped me. He was tied up and gagged, but he was okay."

"Turn? Bull? Um..."

"He has to be at the station, but he'll be here tomorrow. Turnbull--well, Whiting--there was another brother, and he went after Turnbull with another guy, but they wouldn't give him their guns and he got pi--uh, angry, and arrested them. Ray took them to the station."

Thatcher made another noise and started to let her eyes fall shut again.

"I wanted...I wonder if you'd mind if I stayed with you for a while," Frannie said in a rush. "I...just wanted to say thanks."

There was a sensation of warm pressure somewhere on her body. After a moment, she realized that Frannie was holding her hand.

Ray and Fraser trudged glumly into Ray's living room.

"How's your back?" Ray asked, slumping onto the couch. "You hit the road pretty hard."

"All right. A little soreness, nothing much."

"Yeah, okay. Good."

Fraser sat down next to Ray, and they stared at the darkened television for a moment.

"We're not gonna do it tonight, either, are we," Ray mumbled morosely.

Fraser shifted a little. "Oh, I don't know..." he sighed. "Probably not, no."

"I'm too old for this kind of shit."

"I know what you mean."

"Mutual shower sound good?"

Fraser shifted again and tried stretching his shoulders. "It sounds wonderful. Would you mind seeing if you can get at this kink after the water relaxes the muscle a bit?"

"Why not. It'll be the only kink either of us gets at tonight."

"I knew you were going to say that." Fraser smiled sidelong at him.

Ray smiled back, with just a glint of mischief. "You love it."

Fraser touched Ray's cheek gently. "Yeah. I do."

End Talking to the Dog VII: Every Virtue Has Its Price by Blue Champagne: bluecham@mindspring.com

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