Something Borrowed, Someone Blue   

 Disclaimer: The characters in this story are the property of Alliance
Communications. This story is a parody of due South characters and as such
is protected under international copyright law. 

 Author's Note: This due South vignette was conceived, written and posted
in honour of ::drum roll, please:: 
* * * Hamlette's 30th birthday * * * 

 Happy Birthday, Hamlette! 

 Of course this little Birthday story features the Love God, Renfield
Turnbull. I'm afraid it's mostly PWP; I promise to have more plot in my
next story. It's set during Asylum, and is told from Turnbull's POV. 

 Grateful acknowledgments to Hamlette, without whose inspiring saga,
"Beautiful Oblivion", this story never would have been written; and to
Blarney Stone, for beta advice on short notice. 

 

 M/M premise. Rated R for adult situation. 

 Sorry about the title, once again. Apparently I just can't help myself.
;') 

  SOMETHING BORROWED, SOMEONE BLUE by Jack 

 

 This uniform will have to go to the dry cleaners, after what it's been
through today. It's such a relief to have it back on. At first, when
Detective Vecchio, or rather I should say Ray, didn't come back right
away, I had been a little bit embarrassed to be at the Consulate wearing
nothing but my underclothes. As time went on and he still didn't return, I
had grown increasingly worried, both that something might have happened to
him after Constable Fraser had left him in my care, and that Inspector
Thatcher might return unexpectedly early and find me in that state. I
ended up sequestering myself - I really feel Ray's term, 'hiding', was
excessive - in Constable Fraser's office. I had been able to answer the
Consulate phone just as well from there. 

 *Ray.* His name had nearly given me away, when he first gave me
permission to use it. Terrified he would catch me staring at him, I'd had
a difficult time hiding my reaction when he'd insisted I call him by his
given name, over our tea. I'd been calling him Mr. Vecchio, using
formality to keep my actions if not my thoughts within the bounds of
propriety. And he'd corrected me, first mumbling, "Detective," then
shaking his head and looking me right in the eye, so that I couldn't move.
I'd felt pinned in place by that gaze. "No," he told me, "don't call me
that, call me Ray. It's my name," he'd said, then leaned forward
conspiratorially, dropping his voice to a husky whisper. "It's my *real*
name." The intimacy of the moment had been absolutely frightening, but oh,
how good it felt to have his name in my mouth. I try it out again now,
barely making a sound, just forming the proper shape with my lips and
tongue and breathing out softly. 

 I start unbuttoning my uniform again, and a wave of delicious odours
rises from the just-opened collar. It still smells like him. Quickly I
remove it, holding the front open and reaching my nose inside. The entire
inside of the jacket is imprinted with a variety of scents from Ray's bare
skin. Inside the high collar, I find faint traces of aftershave. Further
down, clean sweat and just a hint of Ray's own musky scent linger where
the fabric touched his chest and back during those tense hours. And,
overlaid with the artificial-spicy scent of American anti-perspirant, a
deeper muskiness rises to my nose from under the tunic's arms. My mouth
waters. Ray's marks on my clothes, rich with pheromones, are touching me
now. Clutching the stiff material to my face, I inhale deeply, savouring. 

 Blood is rushing to my head and my groin and all the other places where I
feel arousal rising. Pulling my undershirt free of my pants, I slide a
hand up my chest, letting one fingertip trail over my nipple. I remember
the first time I met Ray, this mysterious man who is not Ray Vecchio. 

 The Inspector had prepared me. Well, she had told me that Detective
Vecchio's appearance would change, and that he would be coming by the
Consulate during Constable Fraser's holiday so that I could 'recognise'
him and not give away what was going on. Whatever that was; Inspector
Thatcher had been rather vague, though I suspected this was in part
because she didn't know the full details of the situation either. But
nothing could have prepared me for the man who sauntered into the
Consulate that afternoon. 

 We were in the midst of moving into the new building, so I was packing
and carrying boxes under the Inspector's direction and scrutiny. She was
in her new office, supervising the hired movers' placement of her
furniture, when I heard the front door open. I was just putting down a
tall stack of boxes. A rich, warm and completely unfamiliar voice behind
me said, "Hey, Turnbull." I turned. For some reason, I had expected that
the 'new' Ray Vecchio would be more-or-less like the original, and I had
never particularly cared for the loud, brash, very American detective. So
when I saw Ray, that first time, even with the warning and the obvious
hint that he knew my name, I couldn't imagine who the gorgeous stranger
was. 

 His clothes were rumpled and rather unflattering, as I've since come to
expect. The first thing I noticed was his hair, portions of which were
laying down and sticking up at random, as if it had been allowed to dry
uncombed, or as if someone had been running their hands through it. Then I
noticed his smile, which was open and apprehensive at once. And then my
gaze traveled downwards to gauge the body inside those unassuming clothes.
I must have been standing there gaping, because the next thing I'd known
he was speaking to me. 

 "Turnbull. Hey, Turnbull," he repeated. I met his eyes for the first
time, and it was like an electrical connection leapt between us, myself
being the ground. His lovely smile had widened; I returned it reflexively,
transfixed. "It's me, Ray Vecchio," he 'd added when I still didn't say
anything. 

 Then the Inspector had come out into the foyer looking for me, but I push
that out of my mind now. 

 The hand not roaming under my shirt moves to my shoulders, slipping my
braces free, then drifts to the catch of my pants. For a moment I simply
lay it there, gently cupping the rising flesh within. Its heat and weight
are inflammatory even through the thick fabric. Ray's hand was here, on
this flap, just like my hand. Opening it just like my hand is doing. More
unfamiliar smells waft faintly upward, and my rising erection jumps
against the half-open fly. Ray was right next to me, earlier today when it
swelled last, close enough that I could have smelled him. But I was too
distracted to think about that, at the time. 

 I had been trying so valiantly to be a proper, polite host in Constable
Fraser's absence. It hadn't been easy, between Ray's pouting, and the way
he slouched, still yet fairly crackling with energy, on the Consular
furnishings. There had been nothing easy about spending those hours with
him, though I'm sure both he and the Constable would have been surprised
to learn that dissuading him from leaving the Consulate was the easiest
part of my task. At least, it was until I let him leave. My hand gives a
comforting squeeze. How could I have resisted, after he asked me to
disrobe? 

 My first reaction had truly been simple duty, duty to my uniform and all
it stood for. But once I realised I would have to give it to him, I knew I
couldn't possibly undress in front of Ray, as Constable Fraser had done so
shamelessly. As soon as I thought of removing my clothing, with him
standing there waiting eagerly, blood had rushed to my groin. It may have
spared me a telltale blush, but it would have given me away much more
tellingly had I not retreated upstairs. Even now I can scarcely believe I
used the Queen's bedroom, that I exposed myself before Her portrait, that
I splashed cold water from Her sink on myself. There had been no choice,
though; the cold water on my face hadn't been enough to restore my
circulation to normal. 

 Now I have privacy, and so now I ease the fastenings of my uniform pants
open all the way. Another wave of Ray-scents meets my nose, and I gasp.
One particular, musky odour, not overpowering, but discernible, reminds me
of... I consider. It reminds me of my own, I decide. Familiar, yet
different, and not strong enough at this distance for me to truly
appreciate. Setting my jacket to the side, I start to push the pants down
over my hips. 

 Then I stop, waistband caught on the outlines of my pelvis, the paleness
of my overfull boxer shorts showing in startling contrast to the dark
serge. I think about removing my pants, of putting them over my face as
I'd done with the tunic, smelling, *learning* what traces of Ray remained
on them. After only a moment, disquietened, I ease the trousers back up.
Somehow that would seem too personal, too intrusive a thing for me to do
without Ray's knowledge. Instead I move just the front of my boxers down,
stretching the elastic waist and tucking it below my genitals. I cup
myself and squeeze again through the heavy cloth that's now directly
against my sensitive skin. 

 My hips thrust upward, and tantalising whiffs of both Ray's muskiness and
my own drift to my nose. Reaching out blindly, I fumble the tunic back
over my head, seeing just a flash of red before dimness surrounds me.
Salty fabric brushes my cheek, and I inhale deeply again. The movements of
my hand and groin settle into a rhythm. In the dark already, I close my
eyes and remember the last time I was alone with Ray, after he and
Constable Fraser returned. 

 The Constable and I had both blushed when the two of them came into his
office and found me there, still undressed at the desk. Ray, oblivious to
our discomfort, mentioned that his clothes were still in the other room as
he tossed my hat to the desktop right in front of me. Then, as Fraser
excused himself to retrieve Ray's garments, Ray started unfastening my
lanyard and Sam Browne. I wanted to offer to help him with the
accoutrements, which I knew were unfamiliar to him, but I didn't think I
dared touch him. In any case my voice probably would not have worked,
especially when he'd popped the collar and opened the tunic's buttons, and
I had seen that he had no undershirt on beneath it. 

 I had tried not to look, or at least not to stare, which only became more
difficult when Ray stood barechested, so close. He made my attempt at
modesty impossible by conversing with me, thanking me for the use of the
uniform. Shocked by his politeness, I had glanced up to find his gaze
meeting mine. Before I could even remember a proper acknowledgment, he was
apologising for having been gone so long, holding my eyes with his as he
removed my boots, then the pants, too. He was standing, unashamed, within
my arm's reach, stripped down to nothing more than his underwear,
brief-style boxers that were entirely too becoming on his lean body. A
crooked grin had lit his features, and I'd managed a weak smile and a nod
in return. It had seemed very hot in the little room. 

 Holding the image of that smiling, half-naked Ray in my mind, I thrust
upward again with my hips, keeping my hand on the outside of my pants. The
wool of the jodhpurs is harsh on my erection without my underpants to
soften that scratchiness, but the sensation feels good to me. I think of
Ray wearing these pants against his own groin, and a low groan leaves my
throat unheralded. Then I think of Ray's deft hands opening them, only
this time while I am wearing them. My fingers dip inside the fly, stroking
lightly down the side of the shaft, then back up along the sensitive
underside to the glans. Letting the red serge hold itself in place, I
reach my other hand down to cup my scrotum from outside the pricklish
cloth. I pull at my foreskin, letting the wool gently abrade my
hypersensitised flesh, and turn my head almost into the sleeve of the
jacket, breathing in Ray's scent. 

 It's all I can do not to call his name aloud as orgasm seizes my body, my
pelvis bucking up again and again, my testicles crowding inward, delicious
contractions pumping my seed onto my abdomen and the inside of the pants.
"Ray," I whisper, just a breath shaped like my heart's desire. 

 I really will have to take this uniform to the dry cleaner's, now. 

 

  

 The End 
 Questions, comments, kudos and/or constructive criticism welcomed at
felizia@netzero.net