Author's notes: Hi.

Thanks to Evelyn, Sylvie and Eliza for their help. Remaining mistakes are mine.

This whole series is for Sarah, but this part's for Colin.

Hope you like it. Let me know.

A CERTAIN SMILE IV

The Consulate is strangely quiet when I open the door. A quick glance at my watch assures me that it's not early in the morning; in fact it's somewhat later than usual, but Ray freely admits that it's his fault that I never managed to get out of bed at my usual time. Not that I exactly fought him off with a stick. I feel a completely inappropriate smirk begin to spread over my face and quickly attempt to school my features into something approaching their usual blandness.

No, the reason for the silence has nothing to do with the hour. It has everything to do with last night's reception celebrating the Queen's birthday. I shut my mind to a comment Ray made about stepping over drunken footmen and close the Consulate door behind me, perhaps a little more firmly than intended. Nobody stirs.

I walk into the kitchen and halt abruptly. Turnbull is sitting at the table, gazing into a cooling cup of tea as if it holds the secrets of the universe. He doesn't acknowledge my presence and I get the distinct impression that he is still suffering badly from the aftereffects of imbibing far too much caffeine last night.

"So Constable," I say heartily, switching the kettle on to make a cup of tea for myself. "How are we this fine morning?" I take another cup out of the cupboard, perhaps a little more noisily than is necessary.

"Could you possibly ... not speak for a little while, sir?" he whispers, not raising his head from his hands. "I do realise that you require some explanation for my behaviour yesterday but I wonder if we could just ... wait?"

"What you did yesterday evening was ... well, it was very wrong," I say, glaring at the kettle. I don't know whether I'm angry or amused. Ray spent the whole night assuring me in his own inimitable way that I am the one for him, and of course I know that. I think, on balance, that I'm amused.

Once my tea is made I turn around and lean against the counter, still managing to summon up a glare, although there really is very little anger in me.

"So I think I'd like to hear what you have to say to me," I say firmly. "Just what were you thinking?"

Turnbull finally raises his face from his hands, looking deeply unwell.

"Sir," he says quietly. "I can't apologise enough for what happened. I was a little ... the worse for wear I think, and Detective Vecchio looked so ..." he glances up as if trying to judge my reaction.

"So what?" I ask.

"Edible," Turnbull mutters, his head sinking back into his hands. "He looked edible."

"But it's not up to you to ..." Oh dear. If I finish this sentence it will conjure up all kinds of mental pictures. I shrug mentally and dive in. "eat him," I finish, taking a large drink of tea to try and stop myself smiling.

"You have to realise something," I say to his bent head. "Detective Vecchio is my ... partner. He's made his choice and that choice is me. It's not my problem that you want what you can't have; it's yours. You'll have to learn how to deal with it. Do I make myself clear, Constable?"

Turnbull raises his head again, then very slowly climbs to his feet. I wonder for a wild moment if he's about to be sick. But no. He takes a deep breath and then straightens up properly. He does however keep his hands flat on the table.

"Yes sir, you do indeed," he says. "I am sorry that I took ... liberties with Detective Vecchio and I can assure you it will never happen again."

As if on cue, the kitchen door slams open and Ray breezes in, full of energy and life. Oh dear.

"Hey Frase!" he says. "I was on my way to work when I remembered that we're supposed to be seeing my mom tonight. Thought I'd stop by and remind you."

//Of course you could have just telephoned me, couldn't you? Or perhaps not...//

He walks over to the table and sits down opposite Turnbull, who is now standing as if he has turned to stone.

"Turnbull," he says quietly, a look of concern on his face. "how are you today? Okay I hope?"

With a strangled grunt, Turnbull drags himself round the table and out through the open door.

"Ray!" I hiss, trying not to laugh.

"What?" he says, looking at me as innocently as he can.

"You just can't help it can you?" I ask, walking around so that I can put my hands on his shoulders. "You see Turnbull and something evil in you leaps to the surface."

"I only asked how the guy was doing," protests Ray. He leans back until his head is resting against my stomach.

"No you didn't, Ray," I answer, gently kneading those always-tense neck muscles. "You asked how he was doing in that way you have."

"What way?" he asks, moving again, dropping his head forward and giving me better access to his neck.

"Stop it," I say. "You're just fishing now."

"Nah," he says. "Can't fish in a kitchen. Not enough water."

He pulls away and stands up. "Gotta get to work," he says regretfully. He leans forward and kisses me briefly, then heads out of the kitchen. I hear him say goodbye to Turnbull and he has that tone in his voice again.

Halfway through the morning I decide that I have had enough of Turnbull mooning about like a lovesick calf. And if he knocks over one more valuable ornament he will be paying off the damages for the rest of his life.

A quick call to Ray is the order of the day.

"Vecchio," he snaps when he picks the phone up, full of that attitude I love. But what I think I love more is the way that his voice softens when he realises who he's talking to.

"Hey," he says in response to my greeting. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing at all," I say. "I was just wondering if I could possibly borrow you for an hour or so?"

"'Course you can," he answers. "Do you want me to come over there?"

"Yes please," I answer, looking out of my office door and wincing as Turnbull just manages to catch a priceless plate before it hits the floor.

"D'you want me to bring anything? Handcuffs, chocolate sauce ...?" he continues and I can hear the smile on his face.

"No Ray, just yourself will be more than adequate," I assure him. "We have to tell Turnbull a few things."

"With pictures or a practical demonstration?" he asks, then his voice changes and he turns back into Detective Vecchio. Somebody has obviously approached his desk.

"Listen, I gotta go. I'll be there as soon as I can okay?"

"Okay Ray," I say. And then I can't resist it. I turn my back on Turnbull and say, low voiced, into the receiver, "I loved what we did last night. I can't wait to do it again."

His voice sounds slightly strained as he says, "Okay, that's fine. I'll ... I'll take care of that. Goodbye."

Sometimes it's nice to feel that I've won, however small the victory.

Ray appears at the door of the Consulate some 45 minutes later and steps into my office accompanied by the crash of breaking crockery. He raises one eyebrow at me in question and I shake my head.

"At least he's made it as far as the kitchen," I say by way of explanation. "I don't think there's anything in there which is irreplaceable."

"Why are you letting him do it?" asks Ray. "Couldn't he just, I dunno, sit somewhere out of the way?"

"Unfortunately, the after effects of his caffeine overdose have left him full of energy. It's better to find him something to do. I do feel though, that dusting was a bad suggestion."

"Dusting's always a bad suggestion," says Ray, perching on the edge of my desk and picking up a pencil, which he immediately puts into his mouth. I have reason to be grateful for that oral fixation.

"So what do you want from me?" he asks, his voice somewhat muffled.

"I want both of us to try and tell Turnbull to snap out of his crush on you," I answer. "I've told him before that he needs to try and ... get out more, but it doesn't seem to work. Perhaps if you told him?"

He shrugs, and even around the pencil I can see an evil grin trying to break the surface.

"Call 'im in," he says, and I can feel my heart sink. There is a very good chance this isn't one of my best ideas.

Still. Mustering myself as best I can, I stand up and walk around the desk, intending to call Turnbull in so that we can begin our talk. I'm not prepared for Ray's hand shooting out and grabbing my lanyard, pulling me close for a long, wet kiss. He pulls me even closer and I stumble until I'm pressed against his knees, which he willingly parts. Almost involuntarily I put my hand in his hair, holding him so that he has no chance of getting away.

Eventually lack of breath forces us apart. Ray is flushed and panting, eyes bright with devilment.

"Call 'im in," he says again.

I go to the door and call Turnbull's name. He appears out of the kitchen and I beckon to him. Shedding his apron and rubber gloves, he makes his way into my office, freezing in his tracks as he sees Ray sitting on the desk. Turnbull's face is a marvellous mirror to his feelings and I would have to say that at the moment he feels rather sick.

"Constable," I say, "I think we need to talk about this problem you have with Detective Vecchio."

"Problem, sir? Oh no, I don't have a problem as such. No, well that is to say, yes..."

Oh god. Sometimes I understand why Ray gets that glazed look in his eye when I start to blither. Turnbull has that rare ability to put a normally healthy person into a coma when he really gets started. Always better to nip it in the bud.

"Thank you Turnbull," I say loudly, cutting across his monologue. "I think that we all know that you do have something of a problem, and although I don't really wish to discuss my private life with anybody, and certainly not with you, it may be the easiest way to make you understand." I gesture to Ray who smiles at Turnbull, immediately making my job degrees harder.

"Ray has made his choice," I say, going over old ground. "But he has an ... aspect ... of his personality which, regrettably, makes him something of a flirt."

"Hey!" Ray glares at me, but I ignore him. He knows as well as I do that it's the truth.

"And unfortunately you have latched onto that aspect of his personality," I continue. "However, just because the detective is a flirt..." I can feel Ray's eyes boring into my back, but I press on regardless. "...doesn't give you the right to, er, make advances towards him. Do I make myself clear?"

Oh dear. I can feel a hole being burned in the back of my uniform, I know that I'm blushing and if Turnbull's head hung any lower, he'd be in danger of overbalancing.

"Oh no," says Ray in that quiet way which always spells trouble. "We wouldn't want to give anybody the wrong idea would we? After all, when somebody's got it in their head that somebody else is owned by that first somebody the other somebody has to do exactly what they're expected to do. Right?"

"I have absolutely no idea what you mean by any of that," I answer turning to look at him. "However, taking a stab at it, I just want to say that I don't own you, and if that's what you think then I'm sorry. You know that I would never stop you doing what you want to do. I don't stop you doing what you want. Actually I don't think I * could * stop you." I stop before Turnbull feels the need to hand me a shovel so I can dig myself even deeper into this hole I'm making.

"So would you like to take another stab at that then?" he asks politely, before a look of mixed horror and surprise crosses his face. "Another stab," he repeats softly and then glares at me again. "That is so your fault."

"Would you mind leaving now, Constable?" I ask, gesturing towards the door. "Just bear in mind what I've said." As if he's likely to forget the absolute drivel I have managed to come out with in the last half hour.

Confusion showing even more clearly than usual, Turnbull does as he's told and departs, leaving me with a very quiet Ray. I turn to face him, not sure what I'm going to be looking at. Quiet Ray can be dangerous.

To my relief he looks more amused than anything.

"We've known each other a while now, Frase," he says conversationally, "and I have to say that I've heard you ... what's the word you use? Blither, that's it. I've heard you blither on before, but that deserves some kind of award."

"That wasn't at all the idea Ray," I say taking a step towards him. "I just wanted Turnbull to snap out of it."

He slides off the desk and covers the remaining distance between us.

"Turnbull," he says, just before kissing me, "would have trouble snapping out of anything. To snap out of something you have to be in something first."

Much as I enjoy the kiss, my mind has yet again decided to try and keep pace with Ray's.

"So," I say, when Ray finally releases my mouth. "Are you saying that Turnbull isn't in ... something?"

The feel of Ray's clever fingers running up and down my back almost distracts me from the reply, spoken softly against the flesh of my throat.

"Turnbull just wants what we have. It doesn't have to be with me. The poor guy's lonely. I told you once that we should get him laid. And we should."

I put my hands in Ray's hair and pull him away so that I can look at him. Some of my concern must show because he laughs again.

"Not me!" he says. "God, I've already got what I want. We'll find somebody stupid ... I mean willing, and then just stand back and watch the fireworks." Then all the laughter dies from his eyes and he stands very still, just looking at me.

"What's the matter?" I ask eventually, unable to stand it any longer.

"I wish you'd get it into your head that you're it," he says. "IT, do you understand? How can somebody as gorgeous and just incredibly nice as you not believe that you're worth loving?"

I gather him into my arms and hold him him as tightly as I can. I can't tell him, can I? I can't tell him that I look at him every day and wonder what this creature of light is doing with me. I have darkness in my soul, such darkness, and just by looking at me in a certain way, by smiling a certain smile, he drives it away. And it frightens me to need that as much as I do. I always thought I'd be alone, and he's made me start to believe that it doesn't have to be like that.

"Do you think you could let go?" he says into my ear. "Cracked a rib here."

I laugh and let him go. He grins at me and kisses me again.

"I gotta go," he says. "Don't worry about Turnbull, don't worry about me. I'm just a flirt, remember? Doesn't mean a thing."

I watch him leave my office, and I laugh out loud as he looks back over his shoulder giving me a ridiculously overdone lascivious wink. That's the difference, I suddenly realise; he works to make me laugh. He wants me to laugh with him.

As long as he does that, then I'm safe.

The End