Disclaimer:

Author's Notes: Thank you thank you thank you, Trenna, my one and only beta. Thank you, mounties. Goodnight, moon.

Story Notes: I wondered how Turnbull broke toilet. It's kind of like religion. If no one really knows, you get to make it up and believe it.

Like Turnbull in a China Shop...
by Cythera

A falsehood by omission. Safety in silence, oh it felt wrong. Turnbull blinked spastically, clasping his hands over the front of his serge. The age-old question again, duty or self-preservation? No, selfishness. Why were the facilities out of order? Because he, Constable Renfield Turnbull of the RCMP, had bent to temptation. Even -- treachery. He looked dismally ahead, still unwilling to admit aloud that this mishap, like many before it in recent weeks, was entirely the cause of his own weakness.

"Hey, Turnbull..." That foreign, now familiar voice took on a gravelly, almost tender tone. "It's okay, really. It's a freaking flusher, thing's probably as ancient as the Queen, huh?"

Turnbull allowed himself a small smile. Detective Vecchio was attempting to distract him from his shame with an invitation to petty bickering. No, he could not accept after this incident. Maybe after the first case, or even the second; but not now. Turnbull made his face pensive again.

"Actually, Detective Vecchio, this was a considerably obscure piece of steel craft, a replacement will have to be flown in from Prince Rupert -"

"It's a fucking toilet flusher," Detective Vecchio cut him off. Oh, but the problem was not with the water closet...

"This..." Turnbull cast his eyes down, away from the intense hold of Ray's, "...it is not the first such occurrence, Detective. I have also been...present for a malfunction of the upstairs facilities, the electric floor waxer, the copy machine, my personal office computer and Inspector Thatcher's espresso machine. Within the month."

Detective Vecchio raised his eyebrows as Turnbull looked up.

"Wow. You been busy." Turnbull looked down again. "In a sense, yes..."

"So, uh....I mean, I can see that. You're probably used to tougher stuff, can't help breakin' stuff around here, things like toilets probably seem kinda dinky when you're that built, huh?"

Turnbull forced himself to continuing staring at the floor. This, this was the cause of his distress, what he had to learn to control before he was the cause of the consulate's collapse. Detective Vecchio had just complimented his physique.

Earlier, when the detective had been questioning him concerning his interest in country western music, the casually playful man had asked offhand, "So, you ever tame a wild stallion? I mean, to ride?" Of course he was inquiring in jest, but Turnbull had been barraged by complete sensual hallucinations by that short phrase, and excused himself to the small refuge of the water closet. Unfortunately, somewhere between working off the unmerciful tunic buttons and his painfully noiselessly release into the already-swirling bowl water, the handle had broken off into his free hand, probably in a subconscious attempt to gain control over himself. Just like the copy machine button before it, and the keyboard before that, and the nozzle of the cherished coffee-maker...

"Yo, Turnbull. Hey, Turnie. TurnBULL!"

Turnbull's head snapped up. "Yes, Detective Vecchio." He gave his best Blank Mountie expression.

"You kinda spaced there." The detective was looking at him somewhat skeptically.

"Ah, my apologies, Detective."

"No, just...makin' sure you're still there, would get kinda quiet, just me an' your broken toilet piece." Detective Vecchio lifted the metal part from the table, then smiled at Turnbull. "But you looked kinda cute all glazed-out, Canadian bacon or somethin'."

Surely that...innuendo, and the mischievous grin that followed, were not intentional. This could not continue.

"Actually, Detective, there is some irony in your choice of words. That which Americans call `Canadian bacon' originated not in Canada, but in what would later be the western regions of the United States. The use of the term, `American' is also incorrect, considering the `Americas' actually extend from the Queen Elizabeth Islands to the southern tip of Chile, however, to date, a more appropriate term has not been settled upon, `Citizens of the United States' being rather lengthy for casual use, and the more popular `Yank' not having found wide acceptance within the party in question."

"Uh, nice, you wanna sit now?"

Satisfied that the extended narrative had effectively distracted the detective from any further comments upon his appearance, Turnbull took the seat offered him, placing his hat conveniently on his lap and his hands on his knees.

Detective Vecchio proffered one smile to his hat, then continued his inspection of the flusher. After a short silence, he inhaled purposefully.

"So, Mounties..."

Turnbull's eyebrows twitched minutely.

"If you guys live in the city, take taxis, spring strolls through the city parks an' all that, an' you're not mounting anything really, how you got the right to keep that name?" He looked up from the metal in his fingers to meet Turnbull's eyes. "Or don't you mount things?"

Turnbull felt his face grow warm. Detective Vecchio shifted in his chair so one knee was up at a...dangerous angle...

"Photographs," Turnbull managed, swallowing on his scratchy tone, "some pastel work..."

Detective Vecchio grinned, his expression taking a decidedly feral cast. "No, no no. That don't count."

"You were thinking large game, perhaps?" He felt his voice speed up as his fingers gripped the brim of his Stetson. "Detective, I'm sure you'll find caribou and elk are scarce in urban areas, and hunting permits for non-residents -"

"No, but I get it." Detective Vecchio smiled again and leaned smoothly back in his chair. Turnbull exhaled.

"You like workin' here?" Detective Vecchio began again. Turnbull had been instructed to remain in the room at all times with him, and he now had no excuse to leave for the small water closet if the conversation...evolved to uncomfortable realms again, as it so often did with this man. He shifted in his chair, keeping the Stetson in place.

"Oh yes, Detective, this position has afforded me comfort and satisfaction, with admittedly less work than other positions require for the same benefits."

Detective Vecchio smirked, as if someone had whispered him an obscene joke. "Ah," he said.

Turnbull nodded, mentally reviewing his response for any...oh dear.

"The position of Constable," he amended.

Detective Vecchio raised his eyebrows slightly, a smile still shadowed on his face. "Uh huh?"

Oh dear.

"You..." he tried. Detective Vecchio waited.

Dear.

Turnbull looked down at his hat. He heard Detective Vecchio lean forward.

"Only problem is, stuff keeps gettin' busted around you."

Turnbull nodded, wanting the privacy the Stetson brim provided, but not daring to relieve it from its current concealment.

"How'd you break the copy machine, Turnbull?"

Simple question. Impossible answer. "I was simply completing a stack of 137C forms for Constable Fraser when -" ...he passed behind me and patted me in a friendly appreciative manner that happened to send me against the warm vibration of the machine as he grunted my name and in a primal struggle to maintain control... " - the button came off in my hand."

A daily battle.

"Musta been some heavy-duty copying there." One falsehood leads only unto another, thought Turnbull sadly.

"Yes, Detective."

"And the mocha thingie?" Detective Vecchio asked conversationally.

"Much the same." Only it was a particularly fetching tourist that time...

"And, uh, the toilet there?"

Turnbull cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"Just came off?"

This was not right. It may have been...acceptable to omit his reasons for past similar acts of involuntary vandalism, but this...he had, in truth, been indulging in extremely inappropriate imaginings involving the man he now faced not three feet away, and to lie bold-faced about it, that was utterly reprehensible.

He cleared his throat as the door opened and the sturdy form of Constable Fraser entered.

"Good day, Ray, Turnbull." He smiled mildly, removing his hat.

Ray sat up and waved lazily, then turned a playful smile on Turnbull. "Some other time," he assured. Or threatened.

Turnbull took his cue and stood as Fraser moved into the room to relieve him from his post. He heard Detective Vecchio behind, slurp his coffee and offer the ritual greeting, "Hey, Frase, what's shakin'..."

As Turnbull reached the door, Detective Vecchio's voice cut through the room. "Hey, uh, when I get outta here, you know you could always swing by my place if you ever need the can on any springy strolls to the park - plenty of things there to break off or mount or whatever..."

After a pause, he answered hoarsely, "Thank you kindly, Detective," and closed the door behind him, carefully placing the silently wrenched-off doorknob in his pocket for later repair.

-end-

End Like Turnbull in a China Shoppe by Cythera: SphinxEyes@aol.com

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