Talking to the Dog VII: Every Virtue Has Its Price	    Talking to the
Dog VII: Every Virtue Has Its Price

 by Blue Champagne

  

 Author's website: http://www.mindspring.com/~bluecham/

 Disclaimer: NO money, etc.

 Author's Notes: Thanks to the people who've been asking me what the hell
happened to the rest of this series. Sorry I haven't got to any more sex
yet. Thanks also again to Kalena for pimping me here. <g> 

 Story Notes: Thatcher ends up in the hospital, but she's not traumatized
or anything. 

 This story is a sequel to: Talking to the Dog VI: By Any Other Name 

 

 Talking to the Dog VII: Every Virtue Has Its Price  

 Inspector Margaret Crimson Thatcher was not having the best day. 

 Yeah, her face and this damn tooth hurt, but she had appointments all
morning and the fact that every one of them was getting the full frontal
view of her multicolored visage was probably worse than the pain. Applying
makeup to that mess was a completely lost cause, not to mention
considerably less than comfortable. Also, she would not take the narcotic
medication, provided by the hospital, at work, naturally; ibuprofen was
sufficing. Plus, whenever Constable Fraser came in for anything, he would
lean over and pet her face, head and throat in the vicinity of the
injuries--quite as though it were the most natural thing in the world--as
they conversed. The weird thing was, with Fraser, it did rather seem
natural. If anybody else touched her various facial distortions and
discolorations, the natural result would have been stabs of pain in her
head and demonstrations of her barehanded martial talents upon the
perpetrator; but since that wasn't the case with Fraser, there seemed
little point in protesting. If she objected, she'd have to explain
why--mere logic would demand it, since it was understood that Fraser's
efforts were helpful--and God knew neither of them wanted that. "I find
myself in a distressing state of sexual arousal at your touch, Constable,
and I know--intuitively, but with a crystalline clarity--that you
experience the same phenomenon, so please desist from such ministrations."
Yeah, that'd really clear the air in this place. 

 Plus, for some reason, she was having more trouble than usual today with
the fact that her middle name was Crimson. She was attributing that--the
trouble, not the unfortunate name--to her injured head, which was making
everything come across as just a bit odd today--even beyond--the widened
eyes on all the people Turnbull ushered into her office. 

 No, the biggest problem there was that it would make her feel like she
was taking advantage of the situation to gain sympathy if she allowed
people to think she'd been beaten into this condition--and it would make
her feel like a complete moron if she told them that it was a case of a
bad step precipitating an up-close-and-personal meeting with a dumpster.
So she had, in a burst of inspiration and practiced diplomatic prowess,
come out with a line at her first appointment: "Forgive my appearance;
there was some unpleasantness with a group of muggers, night before last,
near the Auditorium Theater, on my way home; but the damage is minor, and
the legalities are all under control and under way." She would then launch
into whatever spiel was appropriate for the guest in question. So far, it
had worked. The only related comments anyone had made after that had been
wishes for a speedy recovery during the farewell nods, bows, or
handshakes, whichever were appropriate. 

 Turnbull had been bringing her spearmint and chamomile tea, her personal
favorite to relax by, approximately every twelve minutes until she told
him, in somewhat sharper and more formal language, that if she drank that
much tea she was going to be riding the yellow wave to the tune of
"Wipe-Out" before even the most energetic sprint could get her to her
office restroom. She couldn't bring herself to a full-on snap, however;
the poor man was still feeling guilty. She had caught him wistfully
peering, surreptitiously as he probably hoped, through the crack in her
not-quite-closed double doors, twice; but she'd chosen to ignore his
presence both times. It seemed the humane balance--kinder than sending him
sharply back to his desk, yet not so encouraging to his unprofessional
behavior as yet another reassurance that she was fine. Good Lord, the man
had nearly killed two large professional muggers in his horror at seeing
her knocked for a loop by her own clumsiness. But just what exactly was
she supposed to do with him now? She supposed she'd simply have to
continue to improvise. 

 She had gone to the kitchen herself for a cup of genuine tea on the
morning break she didn't usually take (but she was taking it today, by
God) as she didn't want to encourage Turnbull's tea-fetching behavior, and
if Fraser touched her face one more time that morning she was going to
come in her pants. She'd been a bit distressed with the dizziness she felt
while she stood waiting for the water to heat; the feeling passed,
however, and by the time the kettle whistled, she felt equal to returning
to her office with the drink with a fair hope of not slopping any into the
saucer. She wished almost passionately for a mocha latte, but had the
strong suspicion it might combine in an uncomfortable way with her
currently contused head. 

 When she walked into her office, there was a stuffed toy sitting in the
middle of her desk. A grey and white husky dog. 

 "Oh, good Lord," she moaned softly as the door clicked shut behind her.
What, was he trying to give it back? Because he didn't deserve a gift from
her? Or was he only loaning it to her as a pick-me-up? The last was not
out of the question; to Turnbull, such things were commonplace. A crayoned
offering from a niece or nephew, a live flower in a pot, or, occasionally,
that damn toy itself made appearances at his desk, in or out of public
view as the object warranted, on days when Turnbull himself seemed to be
feeling not quite the thing, as he put it. 

 She sighed, approached the desk and set the tea down, then picked up the
toy, absently stroking at its fake fur with the other hand. God. She
wanted to go back to Toronto. She wanted a long, long ride on Sasha, the
horse she'd owned in her teens. She wanted a latte. She wanted to get the
rest of the morning's appointments over with and finish her afternoon
paperwork load on time. She wanted to call her cousin Barbara and have a
major bitchfest. She wanted to work around some normal people. She wanted
to fuck Fraser's brains out. Well, to be perfectly fair there, she wanted
to fuck nearly anybody's brains out right now. She wanted to go back to
the kitchen and put some milk in her tea, which she had forgotten to do.
She wanted to go to the range and blow the living shit out of some
innocent paper targets. 

 She wanted to go hug Turnbull. 

 "I'm losing it," she muttered to herself. 

 Behind her, the door opened; she glanced around, but it was only Fraser's
wolf, who had the disquieting ability to open doors, at least under some
circumstances. He slithered in and the door shut behind him. 

 "Do you think I don't know you sleep on my foot cozy?" She asked him,
raising her good eyebrow. "But I'm working. You'll have to wait." 

 He twined around her legs. 

 "You're getting hair on my suit." 

 He reached up with a paw and touched the toy, then twined around her legs
again, trying to draw her in the direction of the door. 

 "You're not Lassie, for God's sake. If you want me to do something, just
say so," she grumbled with a my-brain-is-on-vacation-oh-well-too-damn-bad
sigh. 

 "Go hug Turnbull," Diefenbaker said, sitting at her feet, panting up at
her. "And give him back his toy. He meant it as a gift, both an apology
and a bit of milk-and-honey for your unusually difficult day...but he'd
miss it. He values it a great deal, since it came from you. He actually
received quite a bit less mothering from his sisters than you'd think,
being the baby and the only boy. They were, all but one, just between the
appropriate age to mother him or to be his peers. Also, his father--" 

 "Oh, I'm familiar with his father's record, which is one reason for some
of my frustration with Turnbull himself. His father was a...a role model,
an exemplary--" hold it. 

 She was talking to the dog. 

 Listening to the dog talk, when her brain was still bruised, was one
thing; she listened to morons every day, both in and outside of work; the
dog couldn't be much worse. But talking to the dog was beyond the pale.
She touched the side of her head. "I should have taken an extra day," she
muttered. 

 Although...the advice, however bizarrely come by--and a bruised brain
speaking through a half-wolf could only be considered bizarre, strange as
her work occasionally was anyway--might easily be sound, knowing Turnbull.
Taking the toy with her, she started for the door. 

 Once there, she paused, looking back a moment. If she was missing some
marbles today due to this knock on the head--or, rather, if they were
scrambled around in such a way as to make the dog one usable route to her
common sense--why not make the most of what she had? "Won't he be upset if
I refuse it?" 

 "No, not if you make it clear you do appreciate the gesture--thus, the
point of the gesture has, in fact, been made. If you understand his
intention, and he realizes that, there's no need for you to keep the toy,
and you don't want to deprive him of his, ah, birthday gift. So be sure to
stress that point," the wolf advised her. 

 "Which point?" 

 "All of them." 

 "Of course," she muttered, then turned and went out. 

 And turned right around and came back in before the door could close.
"You really think I should hug him?" 

 "Oh, yes indeed. Though I'd suggest a location other than the foyer. The
kitchen, perhaps. Make it brief, with a nice professional pat to the back,
and smile at him--with the, ah, part of your face that it won't be painful
with--and I guarantee you, you will ease that poor creature's conscience,
considerably. Which, under the circumstances, will have the added benefit
of easing your stress level. Considerably." 

 "True enough," she muttered wryly, then turned and went out again.  

 Ray trotted up the steps to the consulate, tapped on the door and stuck
his head in. "Morning, Turnbull...uh, Turnbull?" 

 Turnbull, at the reception desk, looked up at his entrance and sniffed,
smiling brightly through two big tears that stood, undripped, in his eyes.
"Detective--" 

 "Ray, already." 

 "--Ray. Welcome to Canada. Constable Fraser is--" 

 "Wait a minute on Fraser, what's, uh, up here, big T?" Ray wondered,
leaning on the reception desk. "Everything okay? You're lookin' kinda
overcome, there." 

 "Oh, it's--um, really, nothing, nothing you need to worry about--" 

 "Hey, your little husky buddy." Ray patted the toy where it sat perched
on a corner of the desk. "Fraser mentioned him. Said he was just white,
though. Guess he was too busy not looking at you and Meg on the couch to
get a good--" 

 Turnbull snatched the toy up and put it away out of sight somewhere
behind the desk. "Terribly sorry. He shouldn't--I shouldn't have my
personal things out on the desk during working hours." 

 "So get a toy dogsled to go with him and you got a whattayacallit, it'll
be like an advertising thing for Canada, an, uh..." 

 "Mise-en-scene?" Turnbull began to look interested. "Not with
Heathcliff--um, that's my, uh--" 

 Ray smiled. "I had a teddy bear named Skunkbait." 

 "But perhaps a small dogsledding scene, I could modify the materials out
of--oh, yes, Constable Fraser is in his office. Shall I tell him you're
here?" 

 "Not yet; I thought I'd check on my patient in there." Ray tossed his
head in the direction of Thatcher's office. "Then I'll just go on back to
Fraser's office; uh, are you sure you're okay?" 

 Turnbull was sketching something rapidly on a small pad. "Oh, yes,
fine..." he said, as the lines began to come together into what Ray could
only assume was the skeleton of a dogsled. 

 "F'you're sure." Ray got up and tapped at Thatcher's office door. After a
moment, the call "Come in," came, fairly clear--she sounded like she was
holding something small in her mouth out of the way and talking at the
same time, but that was a lot better than she'd been the day before. 

 Ray strolled in, letting the door bonk to behind him. "Hey, boss lady." 

 She was already looking up, but, rather than rolling her eyes at him and
barking, she just muttered "Oh, you. Detective." 

 "Wonderin' how you were." Ray slumped in a chair in front of her
desk--the same one he'd sat in when Fraser fixed his head, he realized.
"Whether you're bumpin' into the walls and like that. You probably should
have taken another day, you know. I would have, if my brain had taken a
couple spins. Feelin' dizzy? Double vision? Sick?" 

 "No, no and no." 

 "Liar. Which is it?" 

 She sighed again. "A bit dizzy earlier, but I was standing next to the
stove burner. " 

 "You got any of that shit going on, you need to be lying down. Hurts less
when you pass out that way." 

 "It simply isn't necessary, Detec..." she trailed off. Her gaze had slid
downward, toward her lap. 

 "Somethin' wrong with your knees now?" 

 "What? No. Just...are, ah, auditory hallucinations a normal part of
recovery from such injury, Detective? In your experience?" 

 Ray sat upright, looking alarmed. "Hell, you hearin' things? That's not
good, Meg. Like what--loud noises, grinding sounds, kind of a roaring?
Like that?" 

 "No, no, nothing like that. Voices...well, one voice...ahm..." she looked
down again. 

 "Comin' from your knees? You got spectral knee voices?" 

 "No, from..." she sighed again. "Fraser's wolf." 

 Ray just stared for a moment, semi-comprehending, then used both hands
and a puzzled shake of his head to mime
what-has-that-got-to-do-with-your-lap. 

 "He's on the rug under here," she explained, in mild exasperation. 

 "Dief..." Ray cleared his throat and tried again. "The dog talked to
you?" 

 "Only a few...just a..." she dropped her pen and closed her eyes, rubbing
the temple that wasn't a funny color. "Yes, the dog talked to me. Turnbull
tried to give me that ridiculous stuffed toy I gave him as a...well, the
wolf told me to give it back, and to hug Turnbull." 

 Ray started that huge, room-lighting grin. "He did, did he?" 

 "Um...as I asked you before, Detective, are you familiar with--" 

 "Oh, sure, that's just your head talkin' to itself. Routing around the
bruises, you know." Hell, whatever, in the shape she was in she was
probably ready to buy anything he said if it reassured her, and be happy
to fool herself. "But it'll quit on its own." 'It had damn well better,'
he thought, struggling to stop grinning, 'or Fraser is in big trouble.'
"You say he's sleepin' on your feet?" 

 "He likes this foot cozy rug. The staff keeps it clean, so I haven't said
anything to Fraser about it; it's one of the more easily ignored dozen
daily annoyances I put up with around here." 

 "But he doesn't sleep on your feet, usually. Dief, I mean." 

 "Not, er. No, not usually, but I, the, that is--he's not bothering me
right now." She sighed. "In fact, I was thinking of taking my afternoon
paperwork home, unless you were planning to make off with my second." 

 "Not if you need to go home, nah. I brought some stuff with me, we can do
a little work here--" 

 "No, no, that's all right. I'll stay until we close for the day. I'm
fine." 

 "You were fine the day you got clobbered, too." 

 She glowered. "Detective..." 

 "Inspector," he said right back at her, only he was grinning instead of
glowering. "Can't fool me, and you're not my superior. I don't have to be
nice to you when you're fucking yourself over." 

 She slumped, head on forearm, on the desk, purplish side of her head
upward. "This total disrespect is because you saw me naked, isn't it." 

 Ray rolled his eyes. "No it is not, I've seen naked women, I was married
for God's sake. It's because I've seen you with your cuckoo-clock chimin'
the hours when it shouldn't be, if you get my drift. I know you're barely
holding it together back there." 

 "Cuckoo-clocks don't chime, they say 'cuckoo', which is why they're
called that, and I can hold it together as long as necessary. Feel free to
get out of my office." 

 "Should I take the dog?" 

 "Fuck off, I'm comfortable," Dief muttered invisibly from under the desk.
"She has warm feet. And they smell better than yours. Maybe even
Fraser's." 

 Ray controlled a smirk and watched Thatcher. 

 "Ah...no," Thatcher hesitated, "He'll be fine where he is." She weaved a
little, then reached for her daybook and flipped it open. "I'm assuming
you didn't lie when you said this...auditory symptom would vanish of its
own accord?" 

 "It damn well better or somebody around here is gonna have to undergo a
little unexpected medical procedure," Ray said, raising his voice and
aiming it at the desk. "We wouldn't want that. So you just keep me
informed." 

 Dief said "Shove off, when she's normal she couldn't hear me even if I
wanted her to." Then he made a grmphing sound, evidently rearranging
himself. 

 "Of course," she sighed. "Now, I have an appointment in another few
minutes and I need to get my notes ready, so if you don't mind..." 

 "Sure." Ray got up. "But you let us know if your favorite word turns back
into 'Huh?' because we wouldn't want Turnbull beating himself up any
worse--" 

 "Oh, my Lord--" Thatcher raised a hand to her forehead as that thought
came to her attention. "Look, I have your cell number. If I...have any
trouble, I'll call you from my office phone here, and you'll come and get
me out past him, all right? Without letting him know I'm, ah, ill?" She
finished with a mutter, more to the distance than to Ray, "I'm not sure
waking up with Turnbull so often is terribly good for discipline around
here, today being a case in point..." 

 "If you have to, I'll distract T while Ray gets you out," Diefenbaker
volunteered, and Thatcher glanced down at her feet a moment, muttered
"Ahm...thank you," then looked back up at Ray. "All right?" 

 Ray shrugged and nodded. "Yeah, will do. But you'll likely be okay, at
least with regards to this latest, um, symptom thing. Right, Dief?" 

 Dief made an affirmative-sounding dog noise that didn't sound like
anything but an affirmative-sounding dog noise, and Ray smiled, then came
and leaned against the desk with one hip, hands in the pockets of his
coat, in a mildly flirtatious and overfamiliar way that he knew would make
her glare at him, and she did, but he was pretty sure she was trying not
to smirk, though it also kind of looked like her eyes weren't quite
focusing on him. She sure had pretty eyes, he thought, not for the first
time; you couldn't walk into the room without falling into those eyes if
you weren't prepared for them, kind of like with Frannie's, though he'd
never seen Frannie's with one of them all beat to hell like that. "You
sure the talking dog won't bug you?" he asked, with his best
ain't-I-a-stinker smile, hoping to irritate her into a better mood; she
seemed to enjoy being irritated, often as she got that way. "Anything else
I can maybe do...?" 

 She rolled her eyes, then made a face with the parts of it that weren't
already nasty-looking. "Can you do anything about my middle name?" 

 He blinked. "Your middle name? I thought Canada didn't go in for middle
names that much. Anyway, it can't be worse than bein' named Stanley
Kowalski." 

 She stared. "Your name is Stanley Kowalski?" 

 "Stanley Raymond Kowalski. My father was a big Brando fan, okay? That's
why I've always gone by Ray. Now tell me you got a middle name worse than
all that." 

 "I don't suppose it's worse, really, but I'm finding it especially
annoying today, for some reason." She sighed, but not at him, more into
the distance again. "Crimson," she said. 

 Now Ray stared. "Crimson? Like the color? Like 'I'm just mad about
Saffron'? Well, if it was saffron. Like clover over and over?" 

 "That would be the crimson, yes. My parents were...um...well..." 

 Realizing what the word she could not get out had to be, he wondered
incredulously "Your parents were hippies?!" 

 "My mother," she said, "was an American hippie who moved to Canada in
protest of the draft." 

 "Wait. Your mother? The draft blew your mother to Canada?" 

 "As I said, it was apparently some sort of protest--encouragement to
others who were subject to the draft to do the same, or simply a show of
voting with her feet over the US involvement in Viet Nam, or some such. My
father is Canadian, thank God, and she obtained citizenship by marrying
him. After she had me. Having already had my brother. Both of us by our
ostensible father, as far as we or anyone else ever knew." 

 "You're a half-American hippie's bastard named Crimson?" Ray said, his
eyes like saucers. That explained a few things. Talk about reverse
rebellion... 

 "Yes." 

 "It must've taken some serious cojones to become a Mountie and
everything." 

 Instead of blowing up, she just nodded, eyes still not tracking all that
well. "Yes. That...caused a little trouble too." 

 "Mm. And you probably had a 'little trouble', har de ha ha, after you got
in..." 

 "You could say that. My father acknowledged both me and my brother, but
since my mother was a US citizen when we were born, and my parents weren't
married, we became Canadian citizens only through legal process. Oh, it
was really only a matter of verification of my parents' wishes on the
matter--no one questioned that one of my parents was Canadian, and in any
event I had been born in Canada--but I can't count how many times my
slightly unusual status there, and my gender, were thrown in my face for
the purpose of either bribing me into bed--you know, 'I can make the fast
track easier for you', that kind of garbage--" he smirked, rolling his
eyes, and nodded, as she continued "--or tried to use the same status for
the purpose of straight-ahead blackmail toward the same end. Along with
all the other childish insanity a minority member has to get through in
such an institution." 

 "Yeah. Damn. All that, and then you're so pretty, too--I'm surprised you
made it without killing somebody," Ray said, and she finally looked up at
him, but apparently saw nothing but speculative sympathy in his
expression. So they just looked at each other a moment, and Ray finally
added "Well, yeah, maybe not right now, right now you look like shit, but
usually. Were your folks alive when you decided to go into the RCMP?" 

 She was quiet a moment, with a slightly distant expression. "Yes. Oh, it
wasn't all tiresome dramatic scenes--my father was supportive. He thought
it quite a good thing for more women to break into male-dominated
professions. My mother, predictably, was very upset; part of the reason
she'd come to Canada in the first place, she said, was because it was less
'establishment', whatever she meant by that, exactly. My brother was upset
too, but more because he assumed it would be a horrible experience for
me." 

 "And it turned out there were days he wasn't wrong." 

 "Yes, there were." Then she looked up at him and asked--actually sounding
as though she wondered what the answer was--"Why am I telling you this?" 

 He just shrugged amiably and went on "Beats me. But the crap doesn't
always come down on you just 'cause your mother's from someplace else, or
that you're a woman--no, I'm talkin' about me. Stuff like pissed-off
parents and crappy days at the Academy. Went through my share of shit
there and probably a couple of other people's, too--and my pop, he didn't
talk to me for years, about since the day I graduated...said I was...was
gonna have a stink on me, bad people...we only started talking again a
little while ago. And then, you know...when I nearly lost the car..." 

 There was a tapping on the door. "Inspector?" Turnbull peeked in. "Oh,
you're still with Detective Vecchio, I'll tell the Director--" 

 "No--" Ray got up off the desk fast. "She's not busy." He looked back at
Thatcher, pulled his cellphone out of his coat pocket, and waved it once
in a significant fashion; she nodded, briskly shaking and resettling
herself. 

 Under the desk, Dief was making a noise that had a vaguely singsongy
sound to it, and Ray glared at the desk before turning away, patting
Turnbull's arm on his way out.	

 "Ah, Miss Vecchio. What brings you to the Consulate today?" Turnbull
stood politely, eyeing Francesca warily. He liked her, quite a lot, but he
also knew very well what brought her to the consulate today, and it wasn't
primarily the stacked paper package she was carrying. Especially since she
was also carrying a food container that emitted succulent aromas. 

 "Hi, Turnbull, is Fraser around? This is some paperwork--you know how Ray
is about paperwork--that needs his signature. And, uh...some other things
need filling in. I think Welsh has given up on getting Ray to finish it;
he's pinning his hopes on taking advantage of Fraser's good nature." Her
gaze skittered inquisitively around the foyer. 

 "Yes, constable Fraser is in his office, along with detective Vecchio--he
mentioned that he brought some paperwork along with him. Shall I just run
that back for you? They can take care of it all at once." Paperwork was
not, to Turnbull's almost-sure knowledge, what was getting taken care of
back there, but it certainly wasn't his place to inform anyone else of
that. 

 "No, don't let me put you to the trouble, I'll take it back myself--" she
started for the hallway. 

 Turnbull leaped to intercept her, proving that his long limbs were good
for something besides tripping over. "We wouldn't want to disturb their
concentration, Miss Vecchio--if you left the paperwork with me, I'm sure I
could--" 

 "Oh--" she smiled suddenly, "--before I forget, Ma wanted your recipe for
vegetarian lasagna--she wants to put Maria's husband on a diet. Ma's idea
of a diet is leave out a couple of tablespoons of oil from the sauce, you
know, but when I brought home some of what you sent to the station with
Fraser, and she tasted it--" 

 "Oh! Of course, I'd be happy to just jot it down for you--" Turnbull
turned back to his desk, Frannie slipped past, and Turnbull, feeling the
breeze of her progress, muttered "Darn." He simply must learn to be less
credulous. For the moment, though--he lunged for his desk phone and buzzed
constable Fraser's office. "Constable Fraser, I thought you might like to
know that Miss Vecchio is on her way back with--" 

 There was a thud, a soft wet smack and a couple of erfs, in two distinct
male voices, and a breathless sounding Fraser replied "Who? Ah, that is,
what? That is, Francesca?" 

 Diefenbaker came around the slightly-open door of Thatcher's office and
behind Turnbull's desk, nudging a serge-clad elbow with his nose. 

 Turnbull leaned down and murmured conspiratorially "You smelled her?" 

 Diefenbaker made a soft hruf. 

 "She got past me. Would you mind terribly?" 

 Diefenbaker hrufed again and trotted quickly down the hallway toward
Fraser's office. 

 "Yes, constable Fraser, Francesca is on her way--" then he heard the
sound of Francesca's muffled voice, both from the intercom speaker and
from down the hallway, trying to tell a playfully yipping Dief that she
loved him, too, but she couldn't play right now. It went from loving and
tolerant to irritated and puzzled after Dief refused to stop whatever he
was doing--probably dancing around her, pawing at her and the food
container and otherwise just getting in her way. Over that, through the
intercom, were the sounds of truly obscene nasally-accented swearing, and
the violent rustling of cloth. "Sorry, sir." 

 There was a brief pause, as Fraser apparently digested that last, then
the soft response "It's all right, Turnbull. I'll take care of it." 

 "Yes, sir." Turnbull, sighing, sat back down and continued sorting mail.
He nodded to the Director of Parks and Recreation on the latter's way out,
who had come to see about possibly securing a professional hockey player
or two as instructors for the season's teen hockey program--there were
quite a few in Toronto and Ottawa who donated their time or sold it for a
small fee for such programs--as the latter emerged from Inspector
Thatcher's office. 

 A few seconds later, Inspector Thatcher came wandering out, too, in her
stocking feet. "What else is on the schedule for this morning, Turnbull?"
She yawned. 

 "If you'll forgive me, sir, you look as though you could use a bit of a
lie-down." 

 She gave him a tired glance. "The schedule, please, Turnbull." 

 "Of course, sir. It appears...you're through with appointments for the
morning, but there is a short list of return calls..." he plucked the list
neatly from a pocket in the big schedule/daybook. "You had intended to do
these today, sir, but none of them are marked urgent." 

 She reached over and took the list. "I might as well. If--oh,
for--Turnbull, why didn't you tell me I forgot to put my shoes back on?" 

 Turnbull shrugged timorously. "You looked so comfortable." 

 "Be that as it may, if--ahm, Miss Vecchio?" 

 Wobbling back up the hallway came Francesca, minus the paper package, but
still carrying the Tupperware bowl that emitted the tasty tomato-cheese
fumes. Diefenbaker was walking next to her, carefully keeping pace. If not
literally, she was at least leaning on him figuratively. She paused at the
lintel of Thatcher's office door to lean against it, too. "Boy," she
muttered, looking dazed. "I shoulda paid better attention to the chapter
about self-delusion and wish fulfillment..." she bit her lip, looking
ready to laugh, cry, throw up, combust-- 

 "Miss Vecchio?" Turnbull said. Dief was still leaning against her leg. 

 She looked up at Turnbull. "Did you know that er. Hello, Inspec--OH my
God." The tupperware in one hand, she managed to focus and came over, the
other hand out toward Thatcher's multicolored face. "What hap--well, I
know what happened, but I had no idea..." she made a face, evidently
distracted from her recent unpleasant revelatory experience. 

 "It's nothing, really," Thatcher said, backing away from the extended
hand a startled step. Her pantyhosed foot slipped on the parquet and she
flailed for balance. Turnbull reached for her but Frannie skittered
forward a step and caught her first, one thin arm around Thatcher's waist,
pulling her upright with surprising strength. 

 "You shouldn't be here," Frannie said, her eyes wide. "You should be
lying down, you can barely stand, there's a couch in your office, isn't
there? I'll bet you haven't eaten, either, have you? Come on, I brought
some of my Ma's manicotti, that won't be hard for you to chew--my God, you
look terrible." 

 "Thank you," Thatcher managed to mutter, with tired sarcasm, as Francesca
dragged her by main force back into her office. "I'll cherish that
sentiment." In their sudden lurch of motion, Thatcher lost the little
rectangle of paper containing her list of return calls and it came
fluttering, like a homing pigeon, to land lightly in the middle of
Turnbull's desk. Thatcher was continuing "Miss Vecchio, you don't need to
put yourself to any trouble; I have Detective Vecchio's cell number, and
if anything--" 

 "Oh, Ray. Ray couldn't pull a splinter out of his own skinny--thanks."
Diefenbaker had got the door for her, since her hands were both occupied.
She glanced back over her shoulder at Turnbull and wondered "Could you
maybe get us whatever the inspector here drinks, tea or whatever?" 

 Thatcher's eyes got big and she opened her mouth again, but Turnbull had
already leaped to his feet. "Certainly. You'll be needing napkins and
utensils as well, I presume?" 

 "Thanks, that'd be..." the rest of her comment was muffled by the door
closing. 

 Dief and Turnbull traded a look. "Thank you for the stall," Turnbull
said. "That would have been quite a mess. I take it they were at least
dressed?" 

 Dief hrufed. 

 "Good. Though obviously Francesca's powers of perception are adequate to
detect...um...you know." 

 Dief whined. Then he tossed his head toward the kitchen. 

 "Yes, I'll meet you there, I just need to put this list--constable
Fraser. Detective Vecchio." Ray and Fraser had come up the hallway,
looking embarrassed. "I'm sorry I didn't do a better job of detaining Miss
Vecchio, but--" 

 "Say no more," Ray said, waving a hand dismissively, looking preoccupied
and somewhat beaten down. "Nothing can keep Frannie from that on which she
has set her sights." 

 "Your efforts are appreciated as always, Turnbull," Fraser sighed. 

 "Might I suggest that if you and detective Ve--" 

 "Ray." 

 "Ray were on your way somewhere, that you might proceed with all
dispatch? Miss Vecchio is in inspector Thatcher's office. Apparently she
felt the inspector was in need of attention." 

 Ray smirked. "Meaning down-home Italian attention? When she saw Meg's
face? Yeah, let's move, Frase, before Frannie sticks her head out the
door." 

 "Indeed. Thank you kindly, Turnbull." 

 "Not at all, sir. Would you mind if Diefenbaker remained to--" 

 Dief came back through with a large cloth napkin filled with something
that clinked and another piece of cloth poking out the side; he had the
first napkin by all four corners, using it as a bag. Turnbull scuttled
over to let him into Thatcher's office; he slithered through the narrow
opening and Turnbull closed the door quickly behind him. 

 "Yes, it would seem his efforts are needed more urgently here," Fraser
noticed. "You'll look after him if--?" 

 "Of course, sir." 

 "C'mon, Fraser, pitter patter, we don't need your punch-drunk boss
wonderin' why we both got funny walks and puffy lips comin' out of your
office." Ray herded Fraser toward the front door. "Doubt she wants any
foolin' around in the consulate. Nor do we need another face-to-face with
Frannie right now. Let's count our blessings Meg distracted her and get
out of here." 

 Fraser was saying, back toward Turnbull, "Feel free to call Ray's phone
if anything should..." Ray dragged Fraser out, shutting the door behind
them. 

 "I will, sir," Turnbull murmured to the door, smiling a little. "Best of
luck."	

 "I guess we deserve that for, you know, when we were supposed to be
working," Ray muttered glumly after they'd both climbed carefully into the
car. 

 Even the certain knowledge stealing across Frannie's face as they'd both
stood there, looking almost painfully loved on, with glaze-eyed fake
smiles, hadn't been enough to banish the stiffies from hell. She'd shoved
the paper package at Ray, told him what it was, smiled a perfunctory smile
with an extremely brief version of her usual social noises, then bolted.
She even forgot to make any explanation for the tupperware food. Ray and
Fraser had both wilted--most of them had, at least--in a combination of
shock, embarrassment, and frustration. 

 "Dief might have warned us," Fraser muttered. 

 "He was with Meg, remember?" 

 "Mm." 

 "So like...if we're not gonna...the station, they're..." Ray struggled to
focus. "They're checking that rooming house number Whiting...oh, fuck it,
I can't work like this. Um--Fraser, buddy, partner, I gotta stop at my
place real quick for, uh, something. Official business." He clutched at
Fraser's chest with the near hand and begged desperately "Okay?" 

 "Official business, Ray," Fraser agreed quickly, nodding real fast,
reaching for the seatbelt. He then sat there with it in both hands,
apparently puzzled as to how to fasten it so that it wouldn't snap his
dick in two if they actually did hit something. "You know," he said
speculatively, "I knew a man in Summer Valley who raised horses, and
apparently, one day, when one of them kicked him--" 

 "Just don't tell me, don't tell me, I don't wanna know, Frase," Ray
groaned, starting the engine, having resisted the temptation to forgo his
seatbelt altogether, not sure he'd be able to tolerate hearing "It's not
just a good idea, Ray, it's the law." Well, his dick didn't wanna hear
about the law right now. God, if it wasn't the dog it was the dog's human
driving him batshit. 

 And now, apparently, Fraser could drive him batshit without even opening
his mouth. Ray's brain would do it for him. He let his head fall against
the steering wheel and chuckled, which escalated to a giggle, which got
louder from there. 

 "Ray? Are you all right?" Fraser touched his back tentatively. 

 "No, my brain is in my pants, Frase, I'm not all right. But I will be
fine when we get to my place. Hang on." He seized the gearshift, stomped
the clutch and peeled out, wondering if Fraser was rolling his eyes. He
didn't look to find out.  

 "No no no not against the door--" Ray struggled and bumped Fraser away
with his hip. They were both still breathless from charging up the stairs,
and Fraser had started trying to climb back into Ray's clothes as soon as
they got the door shut behind them. "No, I mean yes, I mean God yes, but
not the living room--Fraser!" Ray was about in the state to give up and do
it crossways on a fence, which was what two people their size trying to
fool around on his couch would amount to, but he hadn't been washing and
changing his sheets pretty much every other freaking day for a week just
so they could alert his landlady to the new--well, not exactly
new--element in their friendship via thumping around on the floor, which
was where they would end up if they tried the couch. He didn't bother
trying to tell Fraser any of this; he just let Fraser keep noshing around
on him and such while he himself dragged them both into the bedroom. Hey,
no skin off his nose if he was naked by the time they got there. 

 He nearly was, just the pants-around-the-knees problem happening, causing
him to fall over, fortunately landing on the bed; he made a frustrated
noise at the loss of contact, but Fraser, before Ray even finished one
bounce, had his own tunic the rest of the way off and was crawling over
Ray, and Ray was pulling up Fraser's henley trying to get it off, which
was a bad idea because Fraser still had his suspenders on and the henley
ended up rammed up under his arms and throat, which meant Fraser was like
a guy in stocks trying to get it on, and Ray was pulling at the back strap
of Fraser's suspenders trying to pop them off, which was pulling Fraser up
on the bed all right but putting kind of a bug-eyed look on his face, not
to mention they weren't popping off, and Ray's phone rang. 

 Fraser's head went up automatically, because it was the department cell,
but Ray grabbed Fraser's head again and pulled it down, but he had a hard
time keeping hold because he was thrashing his feet around at the same
time as he tried to keep Fraser's attention focused, trying to get his
jeans and boots off, and Fraser was squirming and trying to kiss Ray and
get him to stop yanking on his suspender strap, but the phone kept
ringing. And ringing. And ringing. 

 Ray realized "Oh fuck, it might be Meg, I told her if she got bad--" 

 Fraser lunged over the edge of the bed--as well as he could lunge, being
hampered by a rock-hard dick, henley stocks, and the Wedgie from Hell--and
answered it, his voice rather higher than usual. He sounded pretty dazed.
"What! Ah, sorry, Detective Vecchio's cellular--I'm sorry, I can't quite
make you out, my testicles are in my ears." Ray stopped pulling on the
suspender strap. "I said my--ahm, never mind, you were saying...? He was?
He did? Ah. Where? Of course. We'll be right there; thank you,
Lieutenant." He clicked the phone off, dropped it, and collapsed across
Ray in despair. 

 Fuck. "Search on Whiting came up positive?" 

 "Yes." 

 Fuck. "We gotta pick him up like now?" 

 "Yes." 

 Fuck. "I hate it when we're the only ship in the quadrant." 

 "What?" 

 "Fraser, I love you so much," Ray sighed, with every ounce of feeling he
possessed as his hands squeezed Fraser's beautiful, beautiful, currently
pinched-in ass. 

 "I love you, too," Fraser moaned, meeting his eyes and looking as close
to crying, apparently in sheer frustration, as Ray had ever seen him. He
started struggling up. "We'll do this later. I promise. No matter what,
next time." 

 "I'm right behind you, Benton-buddy. Tonight, we fuck. Fuck or bust. Fuck
or die." 

 "Well, maybe not die, Ray--" 

 "You know what I mean." Ray was hopping around pulling his briefs and
jeans back up. 

 Fraser's fingers flew over buckles and buttons. He'd destrangulated
himself, henleywise at least, but hadn't bothered undoing his pants to
retuck the undershirt, possibly fearing he wouldn't be able to get them
redone. "Of course; right you are." 

 Ray didn't even try to find his shirt; Fraser had probably eaten it
somewhere between the front door and the bed. He snatched a tee out of a
drawer and reached for his holster and gun; Fraser was throwing a jacket
at him. They ran back out of the apartment at the same speed as they'd run
in, with the difference of Fraser being occasionally delayed by his
trousers. For jodhpurs, they really seemed to be snug, judging by the way
he was hopping down the last flight of stairs with both hands tugging at
his inseams, looking like a big red Canadian frog. To give him credit, he
was keeping up with Ray even so. 

 "I will kick Whiting in the head," Ray muttered as they lunged into the
car. He turned the key and the engine roared. 

 "Ray." 

 "I will kick his head around the room like a basketball. I will--" 

 "Ray." 

 "--dance upon his cranium, I will party on his parietal bone--" 

 "Ray." 

 "--and then I'll get started on his teeth, I'll use 'em for--" 

 "RAY!" 

 "What?!" 

 "O'Hare is that way." 

 "...I knew that."  

 "I still think you should have called a cab," Frannie said. She was
walking close on to Thatcher, eyeing her sideways as though expecting to
see her keel over at any moment. Dief was trotting along to Thatcher's
other side. 

 She probably wasn't far wrong, Thatcher thought sourly, but only said
"Unnecessary, Miss Vecchio. A brisk walk always refreshes me." 

 "Even when kids are running away from your face?" 

 Thatcher's mouth quirked. "I'm sure they'll recover from the trauma.
Thank you for lunch, by the way." 

 "Oh, forget about it, it's nothing," Francesca said, smiling a little.
The expression looked more distracted than friendly, but it was a smile.
"Are you sure I shouldn't hail a cab? You're wearing high-heeled pumps." 

 "I'm afraid I don't...see the relevance," Thatcher finished in a mutter,
with a long stare at the hand Frannie'd just wrapped around her elbow. She
decided not to make issue. After all, it was better than being steadied by
the wolf. 

 "The relevance is you can fall off high-heeled pumps," Frannie sighed, as
though talking to an idiot, which, Thatcher reflected detachedly, she
might be doing. It was difficult to say. Subjective observations of one's
own mental states were so rarely accurate. 

 "And you're dizzy," Frannie added. 

 "Oh, not dizzy, no, no. Merely a...bit of a headache." 

 "Whatever you say. Well, we're nearly there anyway, and you can lie down
and--what?" 

 Thatcher'd stopped dead. So did Dief. 

 "Did you see it?" Diefenbaker said. 

 "Yes," Thatcher murmured back. "Back of the delivery truck." 

 "There's one in the alley, too. See the shadow?" 

 "You're right. I'd been wondering if they might show up." 

 "What?" Frannie said. "Right about what? Calling a cab? We're nearly--" 

 "Nothing, miss Vecchio. Please don't trouble yourself further on my
behalf; I'll be fine." Then she whispered to Dief "Let's keep walking.
Miss Vecchio--" she cast about for a way to keep Frannie out of harm's way
without alerting her to the presence of the two lying in wait. The girl
might scream or something, the thugs waiting for them would bolt, and from
then on they'd be aware that Thatcher knew of their existence and their
designs; it might be impossible to apprehend them, then, without a lot of
undue carrying on over the safety of her person, at least. 

 "Think there's a third?" she asked Dief. 

 "Most likely. Probably stationed inside," Dief said. "Unless they think
I'm a pet, they might not try for you now at all, and if they did, they'd
be smart to wait and follow you in, not jump you out here." 

 "I guess we're about to find out if they're smart, then," Thatcher
agreed. 

 Frannie rolled her eyes. "Is it just a Canadian thing to answer dogs when
they bark, or what?" 

 "Miss Vecchio, do you think you could..." hell. She couldn't think
quickly enough of a way to get rid of Francesca without alerting her to
the problem, and thus alert the lurkers in wait. "We'll both have to keep
one eye on the girl here," she mouthed silently at Dief, hoping that he
really could read lips and it wasn't just one of Fraser's various
insanities. 

 "I know. At the door, drop your keys. Francesca will try to pick them up
for you. When the one in the alley moves..." 

 "Right. Back to back. You pull down the other one and keep him there.
Remember not to bite him." 

 Dief gave her a slightly annoyed look, but only replied "Got it." 

 "God, you really do need a rest," Frannie was saying. "Now you're
answering yourself." 

 "Yes, a nap would be just the thing. Oh, dear." 

 "Let me," Frannie said, leaning down. "You shouldn't bend over with your
head all--" 

 When the first man came around the corner, Thatcher let loose with a
roundhouse right over Francesca's ducked head. It connected with a sharp
crack of knuckles on bone and jolted him back against the wall; behind
her, she could hear a wordless snarl and a very brief shriek. She banged
into Francesca with a shoulder block that knocked the other woman the rest
of the way clear, ignoring the squeal of protest; she then barreled into
the man before he could get his balance back and twisted his gun arm up,
then down, yanking him around with his back to her and ramming him into
the wall again. He lost the gun and started to sag. She rammed him one
more time, and he went deadweight. She let him drop and spun around. 

 The other man was lying on the ground, his jersey shirt torn completely
off one shoulder, his gun knocked out of reach just under a mailbox,
staring in horror at the snarling sixty or so pounds of wolf that had its
bared teeth right in his face. "You will remain where you are," Dief was
saying via the snarling. "Do not reach for your weapon. You are under
arrest." 

 "Ohmigod!" Frannie, lying in the street under the grill of a car, started
trying to scramble up. 

 "Francesca, the loan of your scarf, if you please," Thatcher said,
snatching the item from around the strap of Frannie's shoulder bag and
twisting it into a tie. She got the conscious man's hands behind his back
and secured them with a figure-eight knot. 

 There was a screech of rubber against asphalt and a blue Buick Skylark,
circa about 1968, peeled around the corner of the next block over, pouring
on the power of its three-fifty V8 engine as it hurtled down the street
toward them. Right on its bumper roared a black GTO with Fraser hanging
half out the passenger window. In only a moment, as they watched, he swung
onto the hood, then jumped to the trunk of the Skylark. The driver jerked
the wheel toward the alley one of the gun-wielding men had come out of,
but Fraser managed to hang on and reach the roof, dropping the black
leather jacket he was carrying over the windshield, blinding the driver.
The Skylark fishtailed sideways into a streetlight pole, Fraser was thrown
into the road, and the driver came bolting out the passenger side of the
car, running hard. 

 The GTO screamed to a less-than-legal stop, blocking the way into the
alley. The running man switched directions, now heading down the block
toward Thatcher. As he made to get past, she reached out, grabbing at him,
and got a handful of shirt that she combined with the man's own momentum
to swing him violently around and hit the building door with enough power
to knock him flat. Unfortunately, since she weighed far less than he did,
this also catapulted her all the way around him. She fetched up with her
back to the mailbin, striking it with a bang and flipping over it to the
curb on the other side. 

 Lying there stunned, she heard Dief saying "You do realize that I
could've gotten that one?" 

 "He was moving too fast. To stop him, you might have had to bite him,"
she explained. "If he pressed countercharges, you could have ended up on
doggie death row. Not to mention the possibility of his crying illegal
arrest." 

 "Doggie death row?" Francesca said in confusion. Thatcher realized that
she was lying with her much-abused head in Frannie's lap. "What the hell
is doggie death row?" 

 "I don't believe you called it that," Dief said, rolling his eyes. 

 "Sorry," she managed, then reached for the mailbox and hauled herself to
her feet. "Fraser! Ray! There might be another--" 

 At that point, as the man Fraser and Ray had been chasing started to get
his feet back under him, Thatcher and Frannie found themselves lunging out
of the way as the two deeply pissed law officers jumped on him in a
tooth-gnashing fury that seemed just a bit too enthusiastic, for some
reason. Figuring they probably had that part of the situation under
control, Thatcher managed to hop over them all, though it gave her a wave
of vertigo, and she crashed into the door herself before managing to get
her keys picked up and get it open. She bolted in, hearing Frannie yelling
"Hey! Wait! Your head!" 

 Inside, the doorman was nowhere to be seen; probably incapacitated and
secured somewhere. There was no good cover here for a third (or possibly
third and fourth or whatever) attacker to be hiding behind. The world was
kind of shimmying, and there seemed to be too many loud reports of pump
heels against the stone-flagged lobby flooring. 

 Any associates of the two men outside would have to be warned by this
time, probably they'd had an open line via cellphone--damn. She should've
detailed Francesca to call for backup. God, it was hard to do all this at
once with her brain still whirling. There was only one other door into the
lobby, a locked service door; if the hypothetical third party was less
than brilliant and tried to take the elevators, he'd have to get past
Fraser and Ray, but if they were busy enough with the three men they were
currently involved with, he might make it. Well, she could only take one
route or the other. She ran for the stairs. 

 Up the stairs. No time for subtlety now. About all she could do was hope
whoever it might be didn't expect her to come in search of him. 

 "Hey! Wait a second! Where are you going, anyway?" 

 Oh dear God, Francesca was down there behind her. That explained the
anomalous footstep echoes. "Francesca, go back to the lobby!" she yelled
desperately. "Use the payphone! Call for help!" 

 Francesca shrieked. 

 Thatcher tripped in startlement and hit the stairs in a flying
crash-landing. The pain in her head blinded her a moment; she started
trying to get back up before she could see again, though she wasn't sure
she was still in any state to do anybody any good anyway. Below her--thank
God--she heard the door at the lobby floor crash open and Ray yelling
"Meg! Frannie! Where're--oh, shit." 

 She leaned dizzily over the banister, gazing down at the landing below
her, and muttered a bad word to herself, too. A tall, heavyset man with
reddish, curly hair--she thought she'd seen him before--was standing down
there with Francesca in one arm; she was struggling, but he was holding
her easily with both her feet off the floor; there was no way she could
get loose from that. His other arm was employed holding a snub-nosed
automatic to her neck. 

 The bastard must have been hiding under the stairs, she realized, cursing
at herself for not thinking of it. He'd been waiting to grab a
hostage--probably her, but she'd proven problematical to subdue, so he
wisely took Frannie--to get him out past the blue-and-whites she could now
barely hear, muffled by walls and distance. Ray must've gotten backup.
Apparently, the assailant didn't know she'd stopped; he wasn't backing out
of his position right under her. 

 "You only have one hostage," Fraser was saying softly, hands held up in a
let's-all-cool-it gesture, "and if you kill her, you won't get out of
here. But we know that you know that. Dead, she's useless, but if you keep
her alive to--" 

 "Shut up! Just shut up!" the man snapped. 

 "Fraser, don't give him ideas!" Frannie yelped. 

 "Don't fight him, Frannie," Ray put in grimly, poised with his gun in
both hands, glasses on, ready to fire. 

 "I don't need to give him ideas," Fraser said, still calmly. "He knows
that as soon as he fires, Ray will shoot. He will die. On the other hand,
since we all know he can't kill you and still use you--" 

 "Shut UP!" the man bellowed. "Shut up now! I don't have to kill her! I'm
betting I could fuck her up pretty bad and still keep her alive--you want
that? Do you? Now I am walking out of here and the chickie's coming with
me. If you--" 

 "Chickie!?" Francesca yelled, turned her head and bit his wrist. 

 As he blurted a curse, Thatcher swung over the banister and dropped on
him.  

 As Meg's pump heels contacted the man's head, Frannie hit the floor.
Thatcher tumbled sideways as the gun-wielding felon went down hard; she
hit the lowermore banister with a breath-whooshing jolt and rolled over
it, falling to the basement stairs below. 

 "I'll take him, you get Meg," Ray snapped, and kicked the man's fallen
gun out of reach. "Stay down!" he snarled. 

 "Yeah!" Frannie added. "Stay down, you jerk!" 

 "Shut up, Frannie," Ray sighed. "Jerome Whiting, you got the right to
remain silent, so keep the fuck shut. Anything you say will be cheerfully
used to fry your nuts in a court of law. You got the right to an attorney,
for some strange reason. You can't afford one, the people will provide
your sorry criminal ass with one. Got that? Good. Fraser, is Meg all
right?" 

 "She's semiconscious, Ray. When the ambulance crew arrives, send them in
with a backboard and brace." 

 Frannie helpfully--and happily--fastened the man's hands behind his back
with Ray's handcuffs, having snatched them out of his belt as soon as she
got back up. "There! Jerk." 

 "You fasten both switches, Frannie?" 

 "Better believe I did." 

 "Good. We don't want any messy details standing in the way of a
conviction. Come on," Ray said, grabbing the man by the collar and, with
some effort, hauling him up. "Move it! C'mon, let's go!" 

 Fraser, his voice tense, was saying "Sir, try not to move. We don't know
how badly your spine might be injured--" 

 "S'fine," Meg was saying blearily. "Doorman. Find...gotta...uh...what?" 

 "Oh, no," Frannie gasped. "Will she be all right?" 

 "No way to tell that right now," Fraser said quietly. "We'll locate the
doorman, sir." 

 Ray, muscling the cuffed man out, heard Frannie descending the basement
stairs. "She saved me. She can't--Fraser, who were those guys who jumped
us...?" 

 Ray lost the thread of the conversation, but Fraser wasn't saying
anything he didn't know. The man Ray was currently prodding ahead of him
with his gun barrel was Jerome Whiting, brother of John Whiting, brother
of James Whiting--who was one of the men currently in the hospital after
Turnbull's distraught reaction at seeing his commanding officer lying
unconscious in a particularly dirty alley. It had turned out that Whiting
was heading for the airport, ultimately--but dispatch had radioed them
with the identity of one of Meg and T's attackers, since they were
currently in pursuit of the brother and it was pretty safe to assume a
connection. Neither Fraser nor Ray were surprised to realize that James
Whiting, having bolted through a grocery store and into the
Skylark--leaving the car's owner on the pavement--was heading here to pick
up his other brother and get them both out of the city posthaste. 

 "Sometimes things really work out handy, y'know?" Ray was saying, giving
Jerome Whiting another shove. "It's all just so simple sometimes. I really
like it when it works like that, don't you? Huh?" Ray whacked him in the
shoulder with the butt of his gun. "I said don't you?" 

 "Sure," Whiting muttered dispiritedly. 

 "Y'know, there were better ways to make sure Meg couldn't testify against
your brother. This all was pretty stupid, y'gotta admit. You really think
you could just jump her, whack her and head for the airport? When we were
already on you for armed robbery and two assaults? And she'd already beat
up one of your little pals? Not to mention every cop in the city was
looking for you. Shoulda gone to ground, man. But hey, too late now!" Ray
grinned as he booted Whiting ahead of him out the door. "Your family
really oughtta look into another line of work." 

 "You don't have all of us," Whiting growled, "they still won't--" he
apparently realized he was letting rage make him talk too much, and shut
the living fuck up. 

 "What's that!?" Ray asked with heavily overmimed interest. "What was
that? I don't know if I heard that. Did you say something to me? HUH?" Ray
spun Whiting around and slammed him against the side of one of the
blue-and-whites. "Hey, sir," he called as Welsh headed for him. "This
asshole has something to say. Sounded like it might've been important. You
think maybe riding around in the engine compartment for a while would jolt
his memory? I've heard that works good." 

 "Yeah," Welsh said with a grim smile. "I've heard that, too." 

 "Sounded like he doesn't think Meg and T will be testifying--ohmigod,
Turnbull!" 

 "Shit," Welsh said. "I'll take Whiting. Go." 

 "Dief!" Ray yelled. 

 "What?!" Dief yelled back. He was still standing over the man Meg had
tied with Frannie's scarf; the crew of one of the blue-and-whites were
heading for them to take over. "Try it, asshole," Dief was snarling.
"C'mon, try it, gimme an excuse, you pathetic fuck, just try something--" 

 "Dief, c'mon! Turnbull! There's at least one more of these fart hammers
and he's probably after T!" 

 Dief looked around. "Oh, fuck--yeah, I'm coming--" Dief waited until two
uniformed officers had the guy, then bolted toward the GTO after Ray. "The
ambulance crew!" Ray hollered over his shoulder to Welsh. "Fraser can't
move Meg!" 

 "I'll send them in, go on!" Welsh yelled back, then muttered "Jeez. Is
everybody talking to the dog now?"  

 "Take my phone and--shit," Ray said as they roared off again. He hoped a
cruiser would try to pull him over; the faster he got some bodies to the
consulate, the better. 

 "Yeah. I can't drive the car, either," Dief said. 

 Driving one-handed, Ray got the call into dispatch. "God, T, if they're
there already, just don't panic," he muttered. "Here's hoping they piss
him off and he puts 'em through the wall." 

 "He could." 

 "If he doesn't panic." 

 "He won't." 

 "You sure?" 

 "No. Drive faster, the light ahead's going to turn green." 

 "Right." Ray drove faster. 

 At the consulate, they went over the curb by a healthy amount, bouncing
the both of them like BBs in a cocktail shaker. Ray ripped the keys from
the ignition and they lunged out, bolting up the stairs at the speed of
frantic worry. Ray yanked the door wide and charged in and tripped and
fell down real fucking hard. Dief swore but managed to keep going, over
him, and landed up past him, barking "What the hell--?" 

 Ray made an unlovely grunting noise and rolled over on his back. Turnbull
had gotten up and was standing over him. "Oh dear," he murmured. "Welcome
to Canada, Ray. Terribly sorry about that." He held out a hand. Ray
grabbed it, let T pull him up, and turned around to see what the hell he'd
fallen over. 

 Two guys--one of them with curly red hair--were lying in front of the
door, where evidently they'd been sitting until Ray came through. They
were both groggy-looking and apparently restrained somehow, with their
arms behind their backs. There were what looked like wet linen napkins
stuffed in their mouths. 

 "I'm afraid I had to make two arrests, you see," Turnbull informed him.
"When I explained Canada's firearms laws and told them they would have to
check their weapons for the duration of their visit, they became,
well...not liking to speak ill, but honestly." Turnbull tsked. "They were
quite rude. And right in the middle of washday, too. I'll have to do a
second rinse cycle; the kitchen linens are a mess--I'm afraid we can
consider those napkins a write-off. I must admit, I'm impressed with their
command of invective, but we can't allow that sort of thing in the foyer;
who knows when someone might come by? Where are my manners--would you care
for a cup of tea, Ray? Diefenbaker?" 

 Dief gave a tired whine and collapsed where he stood, weak with relief.
Ray seriously considered lying back down on the floor for a while, too. At
least until his heart started again.  

 "Hi," Ray murmured in Fraser's ear, sitting next to him on the
waiting-room sofa. "How goes it? She gonna be okay?" 

 Francesca was sitting in the chair next to the couch; Dief came up and
sat down with her, leaning his upper half in her lap and whining softly.
She absently started stroking his head, looking worried. 

 "They think so. She never went completely unconscious. They'll probably
keep her a night for observation, though. Turnbull?" 

 Ray smiled. "Two guys, one of 'em another brother--T gave 'em a little
Mountie-style lesson in manners and Dief and me kinda sorta extradited
their asses down to the station. Apparently they interrupted wash day."
Fraser actually had to stifle a snort. Grinning, Ray finished "They're
cooling it in holding with their family and friends." 

 Fraser smiled, too. "I'm relieved to hear he's all right." 

 "Just fine. I'm gettin' a big picture of why he never seems to get really
angry, though. Hell, I've seen you a lot more pissed off than I've ever
seen him." 

 Fraser gave an I-get-you sideways nod. "Apparently he has some
idea--possibly not a conscious knowledge, but some idea--of the fact that
he's quite dangerous when he's angry. The remorse he felt at beating one
of the Whiting brothers and cohort would certainly be explained by that." 

 "If he's been fighting all his life to stay in control? Yeah, I was
thinking something like that. I could kick his damn dad, though, makin'
him be a mountie. If he'd gone into interior design or something, he
wouldn't have to fight it so much." 

 Fraser shook his head. "I doubt it would have mattered. He can't watch an
injustice happening and not try to help--no more than I can, really. And
this way, he has both the skills and the inarguable right to put that
tendency to good use." 

 A woman came walking up to them, dressed in nurse's whites. "Mr. Fraser?"


 "Yes?" 

 "Is she okay?" Frannie blurted. 

 The woman looked down at her. "Are you her sister?" 

 Frannie stared. "Huh?" 

 "It's the eyes," Ray smirked. "No, she's just a worried friend. Meg
okay?" 

 "No, but she will be. As I told Mr. Fraser, we'll be keeping her
overnight. If she's still disoriented in the morning, we may have to admit
her for a while, but it would be precautionary. She's been thoroughly
beaten up; we don't want to take the chance she might start bleeding
internally." 

 "No," Ray said, "she didn't get beat up. She thoroughly beat up the other
guy--well, guys--but I get what you mean." 

 "I'm not surprised." The woman shook her head. "She's the stubbornest
patient we've had to deal with since, well, Mr. Fraser here. She keeps
trying to get up and leave. I can't tell if she keeps forgetting what's
going on or she's pretending to so she can get out of here." 

 Ray barked a laugh and covered his mouth with one hand, glancing at
Fraser. 

 Fraser smiled. "That sounds quite like her." 

 "Mounties," Ray said, shrugging, grinning up at the nurse.  

 Thatcher was gazing blurrily at the fluorescent light on the ceiling. She
hated fluorescent lights. They made her hair look green. 

 "Um, Meg? Hi," came a soft voice from somewhere near her waist. She
mustered the effort to roll her (ow!) head on the pillow enough to find
the source. Ah. Miss Vecchio. "Hello," she said, or tried to say. She was
pretty sure she'd made some kind of a noise, at least. 

 "Um, Fraser and Ray were here. I, I don't think you really noticed them,
though. Fraser was really...really worried. I've never seen him look like
that, quite." 

 Great, now her and Fraser's hormones were affecting them even when one of
them was pretty much out for the count. Just swell. She made another
noise, hoping it would do as acknowledgement, and tried to make her mouth
work a little better for the next question. "Doorm? Door...uh..." 

 "What? Oh, the doorman. Fraser found him in the stairwell where Whiting
was hiding when he jumped me. He was tied up and gagged, but he was okay."


 "Turn? Bull? Um..." 

 "He has to be at the station, but he'll be here tomorrow. Turnbull--well,
Whiting--there was another brother, and he went after Turnbull with
another guy, but they wouldn't give him their guns and he got pi--uh,
angry, and arrested them. Ray took them to the station." 

 Thatcher made another noise and started to let her eyes fall shut again. 

 "I wanted...I wonder if you'd mind if I stayed with you for a while,"
Frannie said in a rush. "I...just wanted to say thanks." 

 There was a sensation of warm pressure somewhere on her body. After a
moment, she realized that Frannie was holding her hand.  

 Ray and Fraser trudged glumly into Ray's living room. 

 "How's your back?" Ray asked, slumping onto the couch. "You hit the road
pretty hard." 

 "All right. A little soreness, nothing much." 

 "Yeah, okay. Good." 

 Fraser sat down next to Ray, and they stared at the darkened television
for a moment. 

 "We're not gonna do it tonight, either, are we," Ray mumbled morosely. 

 Fraser shifted a little. "Oh, I don't know..." he sighed. "Probably not,
no." 

 "I'm too old for this kind of shit." 

 "I know what you mean." 

 "Mutual shower sound good?" 

 Fraser shifted again and tried stretching his shoulders. "It sounds
wonderful. Would you mind seeing if you can get at this kink after the
water relaxes the muscle a bit?" 

 "Why not. It'll be the only kink either of us gets at tonight." 

 "I knew you were going to say that." Fraser smiled sidelong at him. 

 Ray smiled back, with just a glint of mischief. "You love it." 

 Fraser touched Ray's cheek gently. "Yeah. I do."  

End Talking to the Dog VII: Every Virtue Has Its Price by Blue Champagne:
bluecham@mindspring.com

Author and story notes above.