The Party	 The Party

 by Sylvie Grenon

  

 Author's Website: http://www.geocities.com/khristaz

 Disclaimer: Alliance owns them.

 Author's Notes: This is for my wonderful list-kids on Serge, who wanted a
story to go along with the mental picture.

 Story Notes: Spoilers: Eclipse 
Warning: Silliness and giggling Mounties.

 

 

 Constable Turnbull was putting the finishing touches on his last form of
the day when he heard a sound from Constable Fraser's office. Not that
this was anything extraordinary - at times, he could swear he heard sounds
from Fraser's office even when his co-worker wasn't there. He was quite
certain, though, that this time, the sound in question had emanated from
the proper occupant of the room. 

 It had sounded like a sigh. 

 With a flourish of his pen, he signed the form, placed it neatly into
Inspector Thatcher's in-basket, and went to see what was bothering his
fellow Mountie. He gingerly approached the closed door, stepping over a
dozing wolf on the way, and knocked softly. 

 "Come in." 

 He entered the small office to find Fraser at his desk, pencil in hand,
staring at a blank piece of paper. The Constable looked up at him,
blearily. "Ah, Turnbull. I thought you'd left for the day." 

 "I was just finishing up, Sir. I thought I'd come by and see if you
needed anything." 

 Fraser regarded him silently for a moment, then nodded. "Yes, Turnbull, I
would like your help with a certain matter." 

 "Of course, Sir." Turnbull took the proffered seat across from Fraser,
puzzled, though honoured to be taken into his hero's confidence. "What
seems to be the problem?" 

 "Well, tomorrow is Detective Vecchio's birthday. I had thought to do
something special for the occasion - perhaps a party, at the 27th
precinct..." 

 "Ah, I see. You need help arranging the festivities?" 

 Fraser seemed uncomfortable at even this small admission of helplessness.
"Precisely. You see, I really don't have much experience with parties." 

 "Say no more! Were you thinking of a catered affair? Some light music
perhaps? I know a scrumptious recipe for..." he trailed off, noticing the
odd look on Fraser's face. "Sir? If those suggestions aren't adequate..." 

 "No, Turnbull, they're fine; I was just thinking that the party should be
... well, should be geared more towards the people who will be attending
it." 

 Turnbull thought of what he'd seen of the precinct and of the people who
worked there. "Ah, yes, I see what you mean. Cake and party games, then?" 

 "That sounds more appropriate. I'd like to put something of a northern
spin on it, though; perhaps incorporate some Inuit customs." 

 Turnbull nodded thoughtfully. "The challenge, then, would be coming up
with activities that won't make the Americans turn tail and run." He
smiled suddenly. "Do you suppose you can convince them that Twister is
actually a common Inuit party game?" 

 Fraser considered that. "Possibly. You know, you can convince them of the
most outlandish things, if you simply look earnest enough." 

 Turnbull rolled his eyes. "Tell me about it!" The two men's eyes met and
held for a long moment, and then, with a mischievous grin, Fraser picked
up his pencil and wrote 'Twister' on the paper. 

 Turnbull stifled a chuckle. "How about 'Pin the tail on the moose?'"
Fraser shook his head, writing instead 'Pin the tail on the beaver'. "I
can just imagine them trying to inform me about the ... sleazier ...
connotations of the word," he explained. 

 After a moment's thought, Fraser added 'Spin the bannock' to the list.
"After all, we could only use it as a hockey puck in the winter; we needed
something to do with it in the summer." 

 "It's a shame you couldn't convince even them that the Inuit invented
pinatas," Turnbull added. Fraser shook his head. "I don't think I'd like
to be in a room with a blindfolded detective waving a large stick around
in the air." 

 "Well, we could do without the stick; after all, wood of any sort is
rather rare in the far north, isn't it?" 

 "True," Fraser acknowledged. "Then how would they reach the pinata?
Striking it with their arms doesn't sound all that challenging." 

 Turnbull grinned. "All right, then; instead of 'hit the pinata' they can
play 'kick the cabbage!" 

 Fraser chuckled. "Sounds good. Why cabbage, though?" 

 "I was experimenting with sauerkraut the other day, and there's a whole
cabbage left over; we should do something with it before it goes bad." 

 "Ah yes. By the way, Turnbull, I wish you wouldn't be so generous when
you share your culinary accomplishments with Diefenbaker. He's almost
unbearable when he eats cabbage." 

 Dief, who had chosen that moment to join them, grumbled sullenly. 

 "It's a shame apples aren't plentiful in the Yukon," Turnbull mused. "It
would be fun to see the Yanks bob for them." 

 Fraser pondered that. "Hmmm... what about pemmican? No, that would get
soggy... What could they bob for?" 

 Dief deigned to join the conversation, barking his own suggestion. Fraser
stared at him, and then, wonder of wonders, giggled like a schoolboy. "Oh,
yes. Bobbing for trout it is." 

 The next few moments were spent trying to get Turnbull to breathe
properly again. Wiping tears of mirth from his eyes, the younger man shook
his head in admiration. "Oh yes," he exclaimed. "That's perfect!" 

 With matching smiles, they turned their attention back to the paper...  

 And that's the story of how Constables Fraser and Turnbull stayed up long
past their bedtimes one night, planning Ray (Kowalski) Vecchio's
un-birthday party. 

End