Author's Notes: Written for a fic swap. Prompt by monroe_nell: "My father once told me to follow my dreams. He then told me that I would never amount to anything in the RCMP, so I needed a new dream."

 

"Two hours?"

"Oh, at least that, sir. There's a great deal of traffic at this time of day, and I believe Inspector Thatcher is particularly fond of the stylist's-" about to say 'assistant,' he broke off and finished more discreetly, "service."

"Ah."

The empty office shone with polish, well-dusted and redolent with authority. The furniture maintained its harmoniously angled layout like a squad of cadets on the drill field. The clock sat in conspicuous view, a silent third party.

Constable Fraser turned from it sternly. "What you suggest would be... highly inappropriate."

Turnbull lowered his head, automatically pulling in on himself in an attempt to not be the largest man in the room, keeping his face bland with just a touch of the proper anxiety.

"But I'm quite willing, sir."

Fraser's brow contracted at this hint of mutiny, reprimands hovering in the air. Turnbull waited in submission (and hope.) It was risky - his stomach fluttered with the excitement of treading such a delicate line - but really, if his suggestion were unwelcome, he guessed that it would be allowed to slip by without official notice. Convenient though his shoulders were for attracting broadly-applied, low-level blame, no one ever truly held him responsible for anything.

In fact, at times it seemed only Constable Fraser saw him at all, and that only in his capacity as a junior Mountie. Which was quite fine by one Renfield Turnbull. It was such a deeply satisfying thing to be.

Still suspicious, but also relenting somewhat - both disciplined and compassionate! - Fraser said, voice lowered confidentially, "It's not that I don't appreciate your offer, Turnbull."

"No, sir."

"Your willingness to, er... your willingness."

"Yes, sir."

He gestured in rueful acknowledgement. "As you say, it's not as though tension were a... state entirely unknown to me."

"No, sir."

Constable Fraser started to turn away, then said, "Are we talking about the same thing?"

Turnbull perked up. "I believe so, sir."

A twitch crossed the bemused, handsome face. "Then why are we whispering?"

He whispered back helpfully, "Because we're talking about the same thing, sir."

After a long, tense pause, Fraser nodded, just a fraction of a degree, but enough.

Turnbull straightened back up to his full height and beamed, indicating the nearby office chair. High-quality leather, good craftsmanship, able to withstand industrial levels of pressure-testing. "If you'll just have a seat, sir."

"Ah - right." Looking ready to bolt at a moment's notice, he dropped into its leather-padded embrace and waited, spine stiff, feet apart.

Turnbull lowered himself to the floor between them, experiencing a flood of pure fulfillment. To kneel at the feet of, between the thighs of, one of the finest officers he'd ever known, a pinnacle of Canadian manhood. To smell the well-oiled Sam Browne of his superior officer, up close and personal, without having to jump back or pretend to be checking for lint. To have his face mere centimeters from the trouser-covered groin of the son of the legendary Bob Fraser. This was what service was all about. The only word that sufficiently covered it would be 'Wow.'

Thrillingly content with his lot, he forced his eyes back open and braced a hand on the back of Constable Fraser's calf.

"If you'll just give me a moment, perhaps practice some deep breathing, sir, I'll have these boots off in a jiffy."

Renfield had loosened the laces down to the sixth grommet with swift, practiced strokes before a certain immobility to his subject struck him. He looked up; Constable Fraser was staring at him fixedly.

"Ah yes," that worthy said, voice dropping down from what he would have thought (in any other man) initially had been more of a squeak. "Tell me, Turnbull, why foot massage?"

"My father once told me to follow my dreams. He then told me that I would never amount to anything in the RCMP, so I needed a new dream. I considered my options, did some research, and - shiatsu."

Fraser cleared his throat. "I see."

"The art of addressing blockages in physical and emotional states through foot massage, sir, as you're no doubt aware. Although I quickly realized that my father had simply been testing my commitment to Her Majesty's service and rejoined, I've never regretted my sojourn in the world of alternative medicine."

With the heavy topboots removed and placed carefully upright against the base of the desk, Turnbull was free to turn his full attention to the task and privilege of taking hold of Fraser's sock-covered foot and squeezing, rhythmically and authoritatively, finding and forcing away the resistance.

"A few simple treatments, a rearrangement of the vital forces, and seemingly insoluble problems just disappear. Yes, looking at people through their feet really changes how you see the world."

"Well, that's... understandable."

"And may I say, I've been waiting a long time to get you out of these boots?"

"I'd rather you didn't say that, if you don't mind, Turnbull?"

"Yes, sir."

There was silence as the treatment continued.

"You know, for a minute back there, I actually thought you were suggesting..." he laughed uncomfortably and made an airy waving motion that went on a moment too long before fisting his hand and placing it on his thigh again.

Turnbull allowed a tiny smile onto his face and looked back down at his work, firmly and smoothly manipulating the energy centres at the ball of the foot, so licentiously effective, just the thing to unknot Constable Fraser's muscles and weaken his ultimate resistance. He still had at least an hour and a half in which to... encourage.

"Just try to relax, sir."