Disclaimer: I was awake.

Author's Notes: Why didn't Paul ever do those adorable little snickers again--the ones he did kinda behind his hands, after he made the dogsled joke to Ray Vecchio as they were about to cross the bridge in Ray's car into Canada? Not to mention the perky-eye-face he did just before (which we also saw in the bloopers just before he tried to bite a chunk out of Ramona's stomach), which I think the only other time I saw was right after the sled came to a halt in front of Frobisher's barbecue, where he seemed to be using it as more of a freaky-eye-face.)

Story Notes: Fraser has a sense of humor, especially in relation to cute people that he likes (I'v enoticed several associated with it) and to cardboard boxes. And maybe he was living in the consulate because he though pretty much *all* of Chicago bit it.

Suddenly, two guys in tattoos, ripped denim, motorcycle boots that'd never seen a footpeg, and weighing in at around one-eighty each--some definite beer fat, but some muscle too, Fraser speculated as they sailed past--were cursing their way through the air before them.

"JeezChrist!" Ray jumped backward into him. Fraser caught him, steadying him before they could both bang against the streetlamp pole. The aeronautics had occured at the other end of an alley they were looking down.

"Fraser, isn't that Turnbull's building down that way...?"

"The back lot, yes." Fraser resumed walking, strolling, really, down the alley, as Ray groaned in aggravation and ran forward to find out what was up.

What was up was the building's new flower bed, and Turnbull was calmly setting it to rights. While Ray held his gun on the two individuals up the alley and explosively demanded to know the story, which they just as explosively denied any blame or knowledge of, Fraser squatted next to Turnbull where the latter was setting a long, flowerbed-fencing cedar timber back in place. It looked just a tad bit bent right in the middle, but not enough to comment on with moss and grass piled back about it where they'd been.

"Standing start?" Fraser said. "Quite impressive."

"Well, they weren't listening," Turnbull shrugged, seeming a bit embarassed, but determined all the same. He continued to press the row of marigolds back into their little sod beds, tucking rootlets here and there. "I did have to at least try speaking to them first. But there'll be no bruising. My sensei was quite strict about that."

"Let me give you a hand--"

"Oh, no, sir, you're in uniform."

"Right you are." Knowing Turnbull's feelings on the uniform--well, knowing Turnbull's feelings in general--Fraser didn't bother to protest that dirt would rarely have anything to do with him anyway, and just remained companionably where he was, staring up the alley at Ray from his position crouching next to Turnbull, waiting for the signal. On call, Ray turned, throwing an arm in the air in a question. Fraser shook his head, waving his own arm in a let them go.

Ray threw both arms in the air in frustration, then turned and barked at the two guys, who wasted no time getting up and fucking leaving the area with a lot more deep-seated need than they'd ever left anyplace in their life.

Ray was now approaching at a trot, panting a little as he called "Turnbull, what the hell?"

"I was attempting to replace this gardening timber, which evidently they'd stumbled into and dislodged--I'm sure they didn't mean to be trespassing, though, technically, they were, of course--and they, well...fell against it rather sharply, I'm afraid. It's all my fault, I'm sure."

"One of 'em stumbled against it at each end."

"Yes, detective."

"Hard enough to send 'em flyin' all the way to the end of the alley."

"Yes, detective. It must've been quite something of a stumble. I even got a splinter in the hand I was holding the timber with." He displayed the large pale palm in question.

Fraser was smiling behind one hand, making little kitten-snickers. Turnbull's long, expressive lips were turned up a bit at one corner, but he certainly wasn't smiling. Oh, no.

"I should be afraid of you, Turnbull."

"I'm sure I've no idea why, detective," Turnbull managed, but a small smile escaped.

"How they growing?" Ray gave up, finally.

"Oh, lovely. I'm sure the children will be pleased with their progress. I'll have to make a little trip to the garden supply, though; I'm afraid Billy and Antonia's petunias both met with an unfortunate watering before I could inform those two gentlemen that they'd mistaken the garden for a public rest area. I'll just buy some that are of a size to be a few weeks old--they'll be none the wiser."

"You got everything else put back together?"

"Yes, I believe so."

"Okay, let's leave Fraser here for a few to make sure it stays happy and you and me can go buy petunias and bring 'em back, how about."

Turnbull looked up, his long face lighting in a happy smile. "That'd be wonderful, detective. Let me just wash my hands--"

Fraser calmly held out his handkerchief, and Turnbull smiled at him too and took it, standing as Fraser did, swabbing at his large hands. "I'll have it washed and back to you in a jiffy, sir."

"Naturally."

"C'mon." Ray reached back and nabbed Turnbull's jersey sleeve--Turnbull was something of a rabid hockey fan, it turned out, and he looked far bigger in his everyday clothes than in the serge, which for some reason tended to minimize the breadth of his shoulders--and tugged, more as a hint than any expectation of getting a mass that large moving that easily. "Let's go..." they started down the alley to the right, toward Ray's car, and Ray was shaking his head, muttering. "You guys, livin' in gutters of Chicago...yeah, Jesus ate with the lepers. And you're gonna end up nailed to a pole, too. Probably me."

"That's more than a bit sacreligeous, detective," Turnbull said primly--but he broke up laughing on the last syllable of "sacreligeous", and so did Ray, at Turnbull's first snort. They both stumbled drunkenly down the alley toward the car, laughing their asses off.

Fraser had a seat on one of the other gardening timbers in the many-tiered garden that had replaced the empty dirt lot in back of Turnbull's building, and noticed with some satisfaction that the redwood fence the landlord had been putting in was coming along rather nicely. A bit haphazardly in some places, as he was paying local youth, male and female, to do the work that Turnbull supervised, but Sandra Doormin's corner, her name carven into the crossbeam, looked perfect, and he was sure young Wilbur Harris's stretch would look more, well, coherent, once Turnbull explained the use of a plumb bob to the young man.

End Suddenly by Blue Champagne: bluecham@mindspring.com

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