Locks and Keys	Locks and Keys

 by Alex SisterWolf

  

 Author's website: http://neverpromise.badb.net/

 Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended or implied.

 Author's Notes: 

 Story Notes: 

 

 

 Constable Renfield Turnbull lost all sense of charity at approximately
4:25 on a Friday evening. As he stared at the mess of countless keys
strewn across his desk, he fancied he could still hear the ringing echoes
of the Inspector's final order. "Find which keys belong to which doors!
And I mean every single one of them, Constable!" 

 The Inspector had, with a smile of vindictive pleasure, dumped the entire
contents of what the Consulate staff had long referred to as "The Key Box"
across the top of Turnbull's desk before stalking away in a high dudgeon
(not to mention, in very uncomfortable high heels, which a more charitable
man might say accounted for her foul mood). Turnbull had once been that
very same charitable man, but no more. 

 "The Inspector has quite simply Gone Too Far!" Renfield protested to
Gervais, his stuffed Arctic wolf (who, unbeknownst to the Inspector,
accompanied Renfield on nearly all of his daily responsibilities). 

 Gervais (who had, of course, been named after the legendary curling
champion) simply yawned at him. Well, as far as a toy wolf can be said to
yawn, which was actually quite a lot, as it happened that Gervais had been
sewn with a lopsided mouth. 

 "Well, you would say that, wouldn't you," Renfield snipped. Immediately,
he felt abashed-- Gervais couldn't help that his expression appeared
permanently cynical. 

 Apologetically stroking Gervais' soft fur (genuine rabbit fur, which had
led to an unfortunate incident in which Constable Fraser's wolf,
Diefenbaker, had mistaken Gervais for a true lagomorph and had nearly
devoured him), Renfield sighed and contemplated his assignment, the latest
in a seemingly endless parade of pointless tasks deemed too minor and
simple for even Renfield to bungle. 

 The edifice that served as the Canadian Consulate in Chicago dated from
the late 1880's, when a nouveau riche timber magnate with more hubris than
taste had thrown together a towering monument to his own importance. With
over seven stories of rooms (including the attics and basements) and a
long and checkered history of half-finished renovations, the building had,
over the past century-and-a-few, accumulated an enormous number of
mysterious and mismatched keys, which were now Renfield's responsibility
to sort and identify. Every single one of them. 

 "This is intolerable. I had a date," Renfield complained-- or, more
accurately, whined. Gervais, Renfield fancied, gave him a look of some
sympathy. 

 The sound of the Consulate doors opening jerked Renfield away from
contemplation of his dreadful fate. Ray Kowalski, or rather, the Ray
currently known as Vecchio (yet far preferable to his temporary namesake
for a great many reasons, Renfield had always felt) practically danced his
way across the intervening marble floor to lean, hip-slung, against the
edge of the receptionist's desk. 

 "Good evening, Detective Kowalski. Welcome to Canada." Renfield attempted
to sound very serious and formal, though he knew the silly grin he wore
rather spoiled the effect. 

 "Pitter patter, Renny! It's quittin' time!" Ray, abandoning decorum as
usual (actually, he wasn't entirely sure Ray had ever had any decorum to
abandon in the first place) insinuated himself between the desk and
Renfield, straddling his lap quite wantonly. (Renfield, for his part, felt
that any and all variations on the theme of Ray Kowalski, wanton behavior,
and Renfield Turnbull were indeed Good Things and should be Encouraged If
At All Possible.) 

 "Hey, Gervais, you might wanna close your eyes, buddy." Ray turned the
stuffed wolf to face away from them. "Don't wanna scare the wolf," he
stage-whispered. 

 "Ray." Renfield beamed at him and was kissed soundly for his reward.
Sometime after Ray twined his arms around Renfield's shoulders, just as he
slid a hand down the back of Ray's loose jeans, a sudden clinking sound
from the desk stopped Renfield cold. "Oh dear," he gasped, pulling himself
away from Ray's warm, lithe form, his restless hips and wiry arms, his...
Renfield shook his head abruptly. He needed to focus. 

 "What's the matter, Ren?" Ray lounged with his back against the desk,
giving Renfield his very best wide-eyed pouty look. Ray's eyes were an
uncanny mixture of gray and blue, with flecks of gold. Renfield had spent
many hours gazing into their depths (well, minutes, really-- an awake Ray
was a restless Ray), seeking to define just what shade... Renfield
blinked, realizing he'd lost his train of thought again. 

 "It's the Inspector. She's given me a task to be finished before 8 am
Monday morning. I'm afraid our evening plans are quite ruined." His hands
were drawn like magnets back to the smooth, warm strip of skin between the
bottom of Ray's thin tee-shirt and the waistband of his faded jeans. He'd
planned to lick each and every inch of Ray's skin, from the soft nape of
his neck to the ends of his delightfully bony toes... Renfield forced his
hands to stop moving before he gave into temptation and stripped the
tee-shirt right off of Ray. 

 "That bitch! Doesn't she know it's Friday night and you got a hot date
with a Chicago flatfoot?" Ray's eyes seemed to spark magnificently with
outrage. 

 "Well, no, of course not, I would never have told her about-- Oh. You're
joking." Renfield felt dreadfully foolish. 

 Ray gave him a light, teasing kiss, just a flicker of tongue across his
lips. "What's she done this time? You gotta polish all the silver again?" 

 "No, this time it's much worse. I have to match all those keys--"
Renfield gestured to his brass-encrusted desk-- "To their proper doors." 

 Ray stared at the desk, then at Renfield, his eyes narrowed. Renfield
dropped his head forward onto Ray's shoulder, breathing in his warm,
musky, sweet scent, unmistakably Ray. 

 "You know I hate that woman like-- like-- there's nothing I hate enough
to explain how much I hate her." Ray sighed heavily through his nose,
sounding uncannily like a young moose. 

 "You don't need to stay," Renfield mumbled against the soft cotton
covering Ray's shoulder. He sat up straight (not without some struggle
against his body's rebellious urges to conform himself against every curve
and angle of Ray's body and never move again) and added, "I must apologize
for disrupting your weekend plans--" 

 "Fuck 'em! They ain't my weekend plans without you there, Renny." Ray
chewed on his lower lip, thinking. "Listen, you ever heard of, um, well,
there's this game we used to play. It's called Locks'n'Keys. See the rules
are, you go around with all these keys and you try to fit them to the
locks and every time you get a key right you get a kiss." 

 "Ray. I don't believe there's any such game," Renfield chided. 

 "There is too! We used to play it all the time. Then Larry Wroblewski
came up with this version where instead of keys you figure out how to
jimmy the lock and-- well, anyway, that's another story." Winking
mischievously, Ray demanded, "So, are we playing the game or what?" 

 Renfield was, truthfully, too choked up to say a word. Ray grinned and
kissed him on the nose. 

 "I'd play with your keys anytime, Renny." Ray dug in his pocket, holding
up a small silver key. "Then we can figure out what this goes to..." 

 "But, Ray, that's your handcu-- Oh!" 

 end 

End Locks and Keys by Alex SisterWolf: alex@badb.net

Author and story notes above.