Inspection   Rating: G 
Pairing: none 
Spoilers: oh, probably. 
Note: This follows "Guard Duty".  Blame Anagi for asking about a followup,
and blame Turnbull because, well, because he's Turnbull.  But don't blame
me, I'm just along for the scenery. 
Warnings and Disclaimers:  The usual - unowned but not unloved, yadda,
yadda, yadda.  If they get dirty or overheated, I'll hose 'em off before I
put 'em up.  Anything more than a friendly handshake is at your own risk,
folks, just like real life. 
Feedback: yes, please.  Comments to mhhealey@iastate.edu 

*********************** 

Inspection 
M. 

Sgt. Benton Fraser, RCMP, listened to his friend Ray Vecchio take a full
twenty minutes to say nothing.  A minor case of vandalism to the
Consulate, already nearly completely scrubbed from existence by the
concerted efforts of Constables Turnbull and Sargent, had drawn an
entirely too generous response from the 27th precinct.  Vecchio and
Kowalski had divided the investigation with a quick coin toss, suggested
by Fraser when it looked like their good-natured jostling in the doorway
might become serious.  The Italian won the toss and smugly sent Kowalski
out to canvas the neighbors. 

Ray was on a tear and wouldn't return to the actual vandalism for another
few minutes.  Fraser paid enough attention to make the appropriate
listening noises, but tuned out most of the rant.  Some days it was
quicker to let Ray ramble than to try keeping him focused. 

With part of his attention, Fraser tracked the progress of his
subordinates via barely perceived thumps and squeaks, clunks and swishes,
alert to disturbances in what he'd come to consider his domain.  His
territory.  His sod - no that wasn't right.  His green?  His turf, that
was it. 

Another part of his mind was on a quick catalog of imminent and due forms,
reports, updates, and the myriad of paperwork circulating through the
Consulate.  Turnbull and Sargent were finished outside, he heard buckets
and brushes returned to the broom cupboard, quietly respectful voices low
and companionable. 

Fresh from Depot, Sargent had been unwittingly dropped into the middle of
someone else's argument and quite understandably resented it.  His
youthful enthusiasm had withered under the strain of new duties and long
hours, a management headache Fraser had recognized but felt unable to
address directly.  When Turnbull arrived, his experience and eagerness to
shoulder more than his share of the work allowed the youngster to develop
into a quick-thinking, well-prepared worker who insisted on making his
contribution, energetic and uncomplaining.  A fine officer, if still quite
inexperienced. 

Ray finally wound down, ready to return his attention to the case at hand,
when Fraser heard the front door open and a group of people crowd into the
hallway.  Usually that many footsteps was some kind of school group, but
none were scheduled.  The treads were too heavy and the voices too low. 

That registered just as something large crashed to the deeply padded hall
floor, something loud enough to stop Ray mid-sentence.  Fraser reflected
that opening his office door was always an adventure, there was no way to
tell what had thudded or whether it might explode.  All he could do was
keep himself between Ray and the hallway, face front, and hope Ray could
get a shot off if something went wrong. 

Typically for disturbances in the Consulate, the scene outside the door
held elements of both the banal and bizarre.  Sargent sat open-mouthed
behind the large desk, half-a-dozen Mounties impassively ranged before
him.  The crash had apparently been Turnbull as he fell to the floor. 
Arms wrapped protectively around himself, rocking, head nearly touching
the deep carpet, he almost seemed to be bowing to the visitors. 

Fraser swept the scene with a quick glance, shut the office door with Ray
still inside, and went immediately to Turnbull.  He squatted carefully
beside the stricken man and ignored everyone else. 

"Turnbull, what happened?  Are you hurt?  Do you need a doctor?"  Gently,
Fraser put a hand on Turnbull's shaking shoulder and the rocking stopped. 

"No, sir."  Turnbull was having trouble breathing, it may have been his
cramped position on the floor or something more serious. 

"Sergeant Benton Fraser?"  Fraser looked up at a pinch-faced man in an
Inspector's uniform.  He saw the thin lips narrow further, disapproval
radiating like scent.  He straightened and snapped a salute, years of
careful practice burying his first, instinctive response. 

"I'm Inspector Edward Coldwell, here to make an inspection of the
facilities and functioning of this post."  He returned the salute slowly,
speculatively, glancing from Fraser's correct posture to Turnbull to
Sargent.  Thus prompted, Sargent also saluted.  One of Coldwell's cadre
scribbled a short note in his steno book.  Not an auspicious first
impression. 

"Yes, I thought you might be", Fraser replied evenly.  He glanced at
Turnbull, silent and shaking on the floor, re-opened the office door and
met Ray's annoyed expression with a desperate cautionary look. 
"Turnbull's told me so much about you.  Please use this office while
you're here, make yourselves quite at home.  If there's anything you want,
or anything you can't find, please let me or my staff know."  Coldwell and
the others filed in behind him, oozing apart to fill the spacious room. 
Fraser intercepted a murderous glare from one young woman, wondering what
prompted her hostility.  Then he identified her and some things came
clear. 

The threat contained, there was still Ray to be dealt with.  And
Turnbull.  "Ray, if you'll come with me, we can finish the interview in
another room."  Miraculously, Ray remained silent and complied.  Ray was
in the doorway, Fraser just behind, when Coldwell asked conversationally,
"Is that your American boyfriend?" 

Ray raised two very startled emerald eyes to Fraser, who'd turned without
missing a beat and replied, "Detective Vecchio is here to investigate an
incident of vandalism committed last night.  I'm sure his inquiry will not
be disruptive to the normal functioning of this post."  Frost rimed his
words, the careful intonation skating insubordination, leaving just enough
unsaid.  Fraser met Coldwell's insinuative sneer with quiet confidence and
waited.  Motionless, he let none of his anger show, nor did her respond to
Ray's hand on his arm.  Coldwell dropped his eyes, only then did Fraser
pivot smartly and exit. 

Ray Vecchio was not a patient man, by nature or nurture.  He saw Turnbull
doubled up on the carpet, and snarled, "What the hell is going on?" 

"Please, Ray, if you'll go through to the kitchen, I'll join you in just a
moment.  Sargent, keep Detective Vecchio company while I have a word with
Turnbull."  Wide-eyed, Sargent skirted both his colleagues and bolted for
the kitchen.  Ray trailed behind, shooting wary looks back at Fraser. 

The vestibule was quiet now.  Fraser reviewed his options and dropped to
his knees beside Turnbull.  Anyone coming through the door will think this
is a prayer meeting, he thought.  Better that than to remain standing and
ask the Constable to speak to his belt buckle.  Long minutes of silence as
Turnbull battled to control his breathing.  Fraser had never seen anyone
in so much pain without bloodshed. 

"What happened, Turnbull?"  It devastated him to see cheerful, childlike
Turnbull so miserable. 

Turnbull's friendly face spasmed.  His mouth worked a moment before a
harsh whisper emerged.  "A message from my father." 

"News from home?"  Emergency leave, i.e. compassionate leave, six forms,
triplicate everything, personal letter from the commanding officer,
inconvenient but not insurmountable.  He almost missed the low reply. 

"I have no home, sir." 

Benton Fraser was not a man given to profanity, his grandmother had too
much influence for that vice to take strong root despite frequent exposure
to some of its most inventive practitioners.  On occasions like this, he
regretted the restrictions of polite behavior and wondered whether a
string of excommunicable oaths would relieve his distress or compound it. 
He'd ask Ray, one or the other would have an answer.  For the moment, all
he could do was rest a hand on Turnbull's shoulder and say gently, "I'm so
sorry, Turnbull.  Is there anything I can do?" 

Fascinated, Fraser watched Turnbull pull himself together.  The effort was
visible, physical, a knight slowly transmuting flesh to armor.  Layer on
layer, piece by piece, his spine straightened, his shoulders squared, he
shrugged Ben's hand away, his head lifted.  Last of all, his anguished
face settled into a pleasantly blank Turnbullian expression, and Fraser's
heart stuttered with surprise.  He'd never recognized the reflection of
his own defenses, his own pain, behind the younger man's mildly demented
manner before. 

"Thank you, sir, but I'll be fine.  I was caught by surprise, that's all. 
It won't happen again."  Still desolate around the eyes, Turnbull begged
wordlessly for something Fraser didn't entirely comprehend. 

"It's because you transferred here, isn't it?"  Fraser knew Turnbull's
family had not supported his return to the RCMP, and his choice of posting
had alienated his few friends on the force.  Including Inspector Edward
Coldwell, who had tried unsuccessfully to persuade Turnbull into taking
another assignment.  Any other assignment. 

"Not entirely," Turnbull shrugged and smiled, a resigned gesture made
fluent with practice.  "I've been a disappointment to my familiy for a
long time; this was just the last straw." 

"I'm sorry." 

Fiercely, Turnbull declared, "I'm not!"  He sucked in a full, deep breath
and held it a few seconds, exhaling in a gust.  "I'm not sorry.  Not for
joining the force, not for transferring here.  I'd like to go back to work
now, if that's acceptable."  Fraser was left kneeling alone as Turnbull
rocked forward, then back, and stood in one fluid movement, extending a
hand to his commanding officer. 

He took the proffered hand and was returned to an upright position
somewhat less gracefully.  "You go ahead, then.  I'm sure Detective
Vecchio will want to ask you a few questions about the graffitti.  I'll be
along in a bit.  And Turnbull", he searched the Constable's eyes for the
man beneath the carapace, "Thank you."  Fraser smiled, self-deprecating. 
"Inadequate recompense for what you've lost, I know." 

"Not at all, sir."  Turnbull beamed and practically floated toward the
back of the house.  Fraser fled to the reception room and sat on a
comfortable loveseat, waiting for the tears he'd felt threaten his
composure. 

They didn't come, his unruly emotions as contrary as Dief had ever been. 
Wrapped in memories and plans, he felt Ray's presence.  Waiting. 

"Want me to go?" his friend asked quietly. 

"No.  I came in here to have a nice cry, but now I don't feel like it." 

"You don't cry, Benny." 

"Ah.  I suppose that would explain it." 

"Turnbull?" 

"Disowned.  For joining the RCMP, again.  For being transferred here,
again.  For being Turnbull, still." 

"You know, Benny, you're about the only cop I know whose dad wanted him on
the force," Ray observed. 

"I'm sure that's not true, Ray."  Fraser sighed.  "Although I admit it
seems that way sometimes." 

A moment's quiet, while Ray searched for another opening.  "So, what's
with the seven dwarfs?" 

"Surprise inspection." 

"Ouch." 

"It's the least of my problems at the moment." 

"And the boyfriend crack?" 

Fraser grunted a short laugh.  "A widely-circulated rumor that started a
few years ago.  The question itself was unprofessional and discourteous. 
I'm sorry he subjected you to it." 

"I've been called worse.  Mostly by my own family."  Ray shrugged. 
"Stanley'll be finished with the canvas soon.  Anything else we can do for
you?  Drop a couple Mounties down a deep, dark hole?  Give 'em an up close
and personal tour of the American penal system?  Same difference, really."


"No, thank you."  Vecchio turned to leave.  "Ray?  There is something you
could do, if you would." 

"Anything.  Name it." 

"Invite Turnbull to dinner." 

"What?  How does taking Turnbull out for a meal help you any?" 

"Not out.  Home.  Ask Turnbull to have dinner at your house."  Ray stood
in the doorway, his confusion plain.  "Ray, please." 

"Why?" 

"Because I don't have a family of my own." 

"Is that supposed to make sense?" 

"I owe him, Ray.  He's sacrificed so much to be here, and I have no way of
repaying that." 

Bewildered, Ray shook his head.  "I don't understand it, but I'll do it. 
How about tonight, you're still coming, right?  Maybe I'll invite the new
kid, too?  Make it a Mountie's night out?" 

"Yes, to dinner.  Yes, please invite Sargent, too."  A genuine smile of
gratitude lit Fraser's face, then suddenly snuffed out.  Seriously, he
said, "It isn't fair, Ray, I can't protect them.  I'm not worried for
myself, but Turnbull and Sargent will be tarred with the same brush and
they don't deserve it."  A sharp rap sounded and Sargent's sleek head
popped through the doorway. 

"Excuse me, sir, but the Inspector is asking for passwords and access to
confidential information." 

"Thank you, Sargent.  I'll take care of it."  Fraser paused a moment to
gather himself. 

Ray twisted a smile and said, "Bet you'd rather chase down a vandal." 

"Trade?" 

He laughed.  "No chance.  We'll check in if anything pops up.  Otherwise,
I'll see you tonight." 

"Don't forget about Turnbull." 

"I'm on it.  I'll ask him before I go."  Concern clouded Ray's
expression.  "Take care, Benny." 

"I will."  As he exited the room, he heard Ray ask Sargent how he felt
about Italian cooking and smiled to himself.  He'd first started to feel
at home in Chicago when Ray brought him home for supper.  Mrs. Vecchio had
a soft heart, it wouldn't be long before a sweet stray like Turnbull was
taken in and adopted.  It wasn't enough, he hadn't the power to repair
what had been done by others over the years.  All he could change was
himself, and all he could offer Turnbull was the opportunity Ray had given
him long ago.  He hoped it would be enough. 
  
  

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