Notes: Written for Stop Drop Porn. Wordwitch is entirely to blame for the pairing.
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Jack Huey has had a truly crappy day.
It's a Monday, which really should explain everything, but it actually doesn't. Because along with it being Monday, there was an abundance of things that shouldn't be happening around him: like pet woodchucks, and mimes (but mercifully not pet ones), and Kowalski (who was bad enough on his own, but when you added the Mountie and his wolf into the mix it added a whole new level of insanity), and coffee that turned out to not be coffee at all, and on top of it all, he was reasonably sure that Welsh had PMS.
So. Yeah. Monday.
And now, too late at night, when he's finally shaken off Dewey and his incessant retelling of meeting a leggy blonde at the bar last night (who Jack is reasonably sure was a man), he goes out to his car and finds a Mountie tied up and gagged in the back seat.
A new Mountie. A different Mountie. An even more obnoxious Mountie, if such a thing is possible.
He knows this because as soon as he removes the gag from the Mountie's mouth, the guy looks at him with wide-eyed admiration and practically swoons as he sighs "My hero!"
He isn't mocking Jack. He's entirely serious.
"Who are you, and what the hell happened here?" Jack asks as the Mountie wriggles around in the backseat to give Jack room to cut off the ropes holding his hands behind his back.
"Well, I'm Renfield Turnbull, and it's rather a complicated story, which involves illegal caribou hunting, and nuns, and possibly a buffalo or two. Actually, the buffalo was more related to another situation, but it's relevant here because�" he shuts up abruptly at the look on Jack's face. "Um. Got abducted?"
"In my car??"
"You see, I was delivering a message to Constable Fraser, and a masked man took me hostage. He was going to steal your car and make off with me for his own nefarious purposes, but�well, he was apprehended, and apparently no one noticed that he had already rather hastily stuffed me into your car."
"Or maybe they noticed and didn't care," Jack suggests under his breath, and the Mountie cranes his neck back to look at him.
"I'm sorry?"
"Nothing." He slices through the last coil of rope, and Turnbull's hands spring apart, only to fly around Jack's neck and squish him tightly into the pointy shoulder of his Mountie coat.
"Ow?" he tries, but the Mountie only squeezes him closer.
"How can I ever repay you?" he exclaims as Jack tries to squirm out of his grasp.
"You can let go of me and never touch me again," he suggests.
"Well that doesn't sound like any kind of repayment at all," Turnbull says, pushing Jack back to arm's length and sounding like a petulant child.
"I think it's�" Jack begins, and then stops abruptly as Turnbull's hand presses against his crotch, startling in the darkness. "Hey!" he yells out, pressing himself back against the car door and swatting at the offending hand. "Maybe that's how you do things in Canada�and wow, that would explain a lot�but down here in Chicago, if a guy sticks his hand down your pants without asking, it gets cut off."
"My hand isn't down your pants," Turnbull says, his voice halfway between confused and indignant. "This would be sticking my hand down your pants," he says, and demonstrates.
"Hey!" Jack yells out again. "This? Not okay!"
"Oh?" Turnbull asks, stroking up and down, and he leans in with an expression that's very close to a leer. "Doesn't feel that way."
Jack has to admit that he's right, but hell, he's a guy, and if his dick has a hand pressing up against it and�damn�rubbing like that, what the hell is it going to do? It doesn't mean anything.
Except�well, it feels really good. Really good. This is a guy who knows his way around other guys' pants, it appears. And it's not long before Jack's hips are pressing up into the touch without his permission, his fingers curling around the edge of the seat to give him some leverage. And Turnbull's hand is twisting, sliding, fast and hard, and way too fucking good for a goddamn Mountie who looks like the textbook fucking definition of innocent.
Jack bites his lip when he comes to keep from crying out, and he leans against the window, letting the glass cool his overheated face. He doesn't move until he feels Turnbull lean in, close to his ear.
"Thank you," he says, and Jack rolls his eyes.
"For saving you from the masked kidnapper?" he asks dryly, and Turnbull snorts, rolls his eyes too.
"Americans. So gullible."
"Excuse me??"
"Tell them a masked man did it, and they'll fall for it every time."
"You mean you�" Jack waves a hand at the rope lying innocently on the seat between them. "All by yourself?"
Turnbull raises an eyebrow. "I'm very bendy," he says, and lets himself out of the car.