Disclaimer: Oh, if only.
Notes/Warnings: This is entirely the fault of the wonderful ladies (and gents) of the DS slash list Bindlestitch (join us-- we swing both Rays ;)) who would continue to mention Turnbull and slick, sensual wrestling. . . Oh, my. . . ;) If you find a plot, throw a big, sweaty Mountie at me. (No, wait, I'd enjoy that, wouldn't I?) This was written in one sitting with no beta, so mea culpa and all that.
For Canada
© 1999, Khirsah
"So then I says to her, 'Look, lady, ifya wanna head on outta here, that's no skin off of my teeth, but dontchoo think you'd be best staying here where the PD can help keep you safe?'" Ray rotated his shoulders as he leaned forward to snag another cookie off of a gleaming ceramic tray, bracelet brushing up against the polished wood as he looked up at his host and smiled.
"More tea, Ray?" Turnbull offered helpfully, rising out of his seat before Ray could wave him off.
"Nah-- don't know how ya got me to accept the first cup." He made a face, nose wrinkling as he looked down at his delicate porcelain cup. "Tree bark tee. You Canadians are really screwy-- ya know that?"
A small, swiftly-concealed smile twitched at the corners of the Mountie's lips as he re-seated himself, neatly folding his large body onto the stiff, hard-backed chair. "I do believe that the fact has been mentioned to me before, yes."
"Oh. 'Kay." Really, Ray looked quite endearing when he blinked like that, blue eyes watching the other man as if he suspected a trick. "Gotcha."
"And what did Miss Kervall say to that, Ray?" Turnbull prompted after a long moment, hands resting on his knees as he leaned forward in a show of attentiveness. Not that he particularly had to pretend like he was fascinated. Ray Kowalski -- er, Veccio -- could be talking about the history of crocheting and Renfield would be enraptured, content to listen for hours to the rise and fall of that strangely flat voice and watch the way sunlight caught on the few, golden hairs on the back on his hands. . .
And he really wasn't doing such a good job of listening at the moment, was he?
". . . which was impossible. Then Fraze walked into the room, and I thought that we'd haveta peel her offa the chair-- she just kinda melted down, ya know? And Fraze just stood there and smiled, all unsuspecting-like, and the lady said, 'Why, detective, I believe I may have changed my mind.'" Ray snorted good-naturedly, taking an indelicate sip of his tea and pulling another face. "Just the Mountie charm going into play again, I guess," he added, shaking his head as he put the cup back onto its saucer and leaned back into the chair, looking strangely boneless and relaxed in the hard-backed furniture. "Works every time."
"I don't know about that, Ray," Turnbull countered evenly, hands folding together as he shifted in his chair. Once he had tried to emulate the loose, relaxed posture of the Chicago cop, but he had merely fallen out of the chair and broken a lamp in the process. "I've never noted this happening to me." Ah, his treacherous brain reminded him, but you're not Benton Fraser.
Not that he needed any reminders about that -- the proof was staring him in the face every day in every amused and mildly pitying look. No-one ever looked at Benton Fraser with pity.
"Nah." Ray's firm negative blessfully cut into his self-depreciating train of thought. "It happens-- you just don't notice it, I guess. Frazer don't either-- it wouldn't be polite." His bright gaze drifted away for a moment and fixed on the far wall. "Ifya notice the people wipin' the drool offa their faces, then ya gotta admit that you're handsome or whatever, and that's like Rule Seven in the How to Be a Canadian handbook, right after 'Live in crappy apartments' and 'Have a funky name.'"
"So. . . you think I'm. . . attractive?" He wet his lips, half-ashamed that he had dared to ask, but wanting to know, needing to know, too badly to not ask. "Like Constable Fraser?"
That level blue gaze was too much-- Turnbull could feel himself heating up under it's steady light, turning as red as his uniform. "Nope." His heart plummeted from where it had taken residence in his throat at the easy negative, and he attempted a small, polite smile, hoping feverently that his disappointment didn't shine through.
"Well, I. . ."
"You're attractive in a completely different way than Fraser." The calm statement floored the Constable, and he stared in amazement as Ray leaned forward easily and snagged the last two cookies from the tray, raising one to nibble around its edges, teeth delicately pulling away small crumbs that scattered down his chin and onto his rumpled blue shirt.
"Oh." Oh, my. . .
"Fraser's got this big old 'who, me'? thing going on-- like offended innocence or somethin', but that man knows a lot more than he's letting on. Yer more like, I dunno, really clueless, which is kinda cute to some people and all." He shrugged casually, face averted and fingers brushing absently at the trail of crumbs along his shirt and coat. "Yer both freaks, though."
"Of course." At this moment, Renny could have agreed to anything to keep the Chicago cop talking. Ray thought he was attractive? He thought he was cute?
Now how on earth did one mention that cops with electric blue eyes and spiky blond hair made a Canadian Constable's heart twinge and insides. . .
Oh, my.
Renny shifted in his chair, eyes darting away from what Ray's tongue was doing to his fingers, trying to clear the sudden thick congestion in his throat without being obvious about it. Ray continued to lick the crumbs off of his fingers, attention averted elsewhere, like he was embarrassed to look at the squirming Mountie.
He thinks I'm a queer, Ray thought darkly as he swiped his tongue over the web between his thumb and index finger, chewing slightly at the fold of flesh, missing the strangle whimper coming from across the table. He's probably freaked as hell and doesn't wanna be here with me. Geez, he's practically trying to jump outta his skin over there!
Oh, my. Oh. Ah. Ahh. . .
Is he gonna say something? Ain't it impolite or something to let me just sit here?
Tongue. . . finger. . . tongue. . . wet. . . oh. . .
Blue eyes darted over to glance at the red face, then away again. Wonder what he's thinking?
Ah, goodness, sex. . . . no, no, no. . . Mountie. I'm a Mountie. I will not pull him over the table and press him hard into the wood and lick that hollow below his collar bone until he screams. . . Control, Constable! Control! Think of Canada! "Uh-- would you, uh, like some more tea, Ray?" Dark liquid poured over a white chest, heat causing the man to hiss in pleasure, nipples puckering in the pleasure-pain as he thrust up against. . .
Canada!
"Um, that would mean 'no', Turnbull," Ray cut into his thoughts, touching the Constable's wrist lightly before pulling away. Renny stared into those blue eyes for a long moment, teeth impulsively chewing on his full bottom lip as he gaped, then cast his gaze down to where his hand gripped the tea pot, ready to pour.
Oh. "Oh, I am quite sorry, Detective. I was. . . I was not. . ."
"Space cadeting, huh?" Ray grinned suddenly, comfortable again in the face of the Mountie's crimson-faced apology. "'Sokay. Happens."
Renny couldn't look away-- he was trapped by the blue eyes, blue too bright to be real that reflected his face back, elongated and amazed.
"So-- you wanna come over to my apartment? There's a game coming on, and we could, I dunno, watch it?" Oh, smooth Kowalski. What the fuck else would you do with a game but watch it?
"I don't care for sports." He almost winced as the words spilled out of him without thought, immediately regretting them. He invited you over to his apartment and you turned him down? Maybe you are a freak, Renfield.
"Oh, okay." Ray shrugged lightly, like it didn't matter to him, but he didn't move to leave. "Well, ya know," he continued after a moment, licking his lips reflexively, causing Turnbull to shift again in shame and desire, "it's kinda weird thatcha don't, seeing how it's like a requirement of all Canadians to have rippling muscles. . ." Oh, smooth, Kowalski, why dontcha just paint 'take me, ya big Canuck-- I like it rough' on yer scrawny chest? "Or somethin'."
"I don't object to sports, Ray," Turnbull rushed to explain, wondering if there was any way that he could politely re-invite himself. "They are a necessary exercise and mental stimulation."
Oooh, five dollar word. "Yeah, and I betcha Canadians are just killer at 'em, huh?"
"Well, while I would prefer not to generalize, Ray, I cannot deny that many of the men and women in my acquaintance are rather, as you say, 'killer' at sporting. In fact, Constable Fraser. . ."
"I betcha I could beat you."
Turnbull blinked, surprised. "Excuse me?"
The bright, sudden grin was almost blinding. "I said, I bet I could beat you. At sports. Ya know, what we've been yammering about?"
"Oh." Oh, sports. He had thought. . . No, no, no. . . that's just. . . Ray did not mean that! "Oh, of course." Then he blinked again at the devilish gleam. "I mean, no. No, Ray, I don't believe so."
"You don't think I could beat you?" That smile should be outlawed-- it was really quite evil and, and stimulating, and. . .
"Well, while it depends largely on the sport, I would be amiss if I did not say that I am fairly certain that I am quite able to uh, 'take you on.'"
Oooh, dirty Mountie talk. And he don't even know it. "You're on, Mountie. I'll nail ya to the ground."
Oh, my, please. "Um. . ."
"Figure of speech, Turnbull."
"Of course."
"So we on?" Ray asked brightly, jumping up and filled with energy, bouncing up briefly onto the balls of his feet.
"Well. . ."
"Just think of Canada," he grinned, eyes gleaming devilishly. "When I beat you, that is."
"In that case," Renny replied, standing to face the other man, "you are on."
*********************
"Fuck, is there a game that you don't know how to play?" Ray groused, slouching against the concrete column with a sigh, fierce glare directed at the offending fooseball table.
Renny looked up with a grin, eyes sparkling as he pushed back a fall of tawny hair, shoulders amazingly broad in the whiteness of his undershirt. Ray tried valiantly not to stare, aware of the many eyes on the other man now that the stiffly formal Mountie had lightened up a bit. He hadn't lied to Turnbull before-- there was something guilelessly attractive about his long, accepting face, something that was unbelievably attractive to people who had been burned before. You just took one look at the large, simple and accepting smile and realized that heaven would fall before this man would do anything to bring you to harm. Or let anyone else hurt you.
"Well, Ray, that's quite an unfair question. There are many games that I do not know how to play."
Ray snorted inelegantly. "Yeah, and we ain't played none of them." He motioned around the semi-crowded arcade disgustedly. "Ya beat me at hoops and at air hockey and fooseball three times, and putt-putt. . ."
Renny leaned against the table, comfortable and informal. "You did win at pac-man, Ray," he pointed out with a smile.
"Yeah, but do ya even have arcade games where yer from?"
"Well, no. . ."
"That's what I thought." He looked around darkly, feigning a scowl. He'd had a lot more fun than he'd had in a very long time, letting loose completely. He felt almost like a child again, which was something that he hadn't quite been able to admit to himself that he needed. Now, if he could only beat the Mountie to keep him from getting insufferable. . .
Then his eyes fell on a sign on the back and he grinned.
"Hey, Ren, whaddaya think about lazer tag?"
He almost forgot to answer, too swept up in the warm emotions that his given name on those lips sent through him. "Lazer. . . tag?"
"Oh, man, you mean ya never heard of lazer tag?" He was fairly bouncing with excitement as he reached forward and snagged the larger man's sleeve, tugging the Mountie after him determinedly. "It's great-- like paintball 'cept cleaner."
"Paint. . . ball?"
The spiky blond head shook on disbelief. "You need to be indoctr. . . ind. . . you need to be taught the American things, Ren. The good stuff."
"Like lazer tag?"
"And paint ball."
"Ah."
"I betcha I can beat you at this, at least," he continued brightly, handing the man at the counter a twenty. "It's in my element."
*************************
"I can't believe you beat me!" Kowalski groaned, throwing himself down on his couch in a tumble of limbs. "I coulda sworn that I'd be able to take your base long before you caught on."
"Well, Ray," Turnbull began, laying aside his red uniform coat and sitting on a sagging chair with a smile, "I could say something about how your rather intensive offensive techniques left your own base vulnerable to an attack. . ."
"Butchoo won't."
"But I won't."
"Thought so." He sighed again and shifted to look at the other man, line forming between his brows. "There anything you and Fraze can't do?"
Oh, so much. Lean forward and kiss your lips gently while I run my fingers through your beautiful hair. . . Pull you into my lap and hold you there. . . Yes, there is a lot that I cannot do. And that Constable Fraser had better not do. "Well, of course Ray. . ."
"You box?" Then he blanched. "Never mind-- forget I asked."
"Understood."
"Uh. . ." There really was something breathtaking about the way that Ray moved his hands, as if he were dividing the air with each delicate stroke of his fingers in front of him, sure and certain and amazingly sensual.
"Wrestling."
Ray blinked at the sudden outburst that broke the comfortable silence.
Turnbull colored beneath that gaze, averting his face in embarrassment. What's this, Constable? Are you looking for an excuse to grapple with Ray and pull him, sweaty and heaving, into your arms?
How many ways could he define 'yes'?
"Wrestling?" Ray quirked a brow in surprise, head tilting as he looked at the other man, weighing him with a glance. Then he shrugged and grinned, bouncing out of his chair with a grin. "Sounds good to me."
Oh, dear. "Maybe it's not such a good idea," Renny stalled, gulping down the sudden surge of arousal that thrilled through him as Ray began to pull off his tee-shirt.
"Ya scared?" Ray winked, shaking out his arms and legs and cracking his neck as he toed off his sneakers in preparation. Renny stared, shock and arousal fighting for dominance as he watched his favorite fantasy unfold before him, mouth suddenly dried as Ray peeled off clothing layer by tantalizing layer until he stood wearing cotton boxers, socks, and a devilish smile as he crossed his arms over his beautifully smooth, firm, corded. . .
Oh, dear. This is not a good thing.
Somehow, his body didn't quite agree with him. One part of his body in particular thought that this was a very good idea indeed.
"You coming, Ren?" Ray tilted his head in that endearingly anticipatory way he had, eyes a challenge. "Or ya gonna let Canada down? Come on, buddy-- do it for yer country."
"For Canada." There was no way that he'd be able to hide his arousal once their bodies began to slide together, slick with sweat and arms grappling for position, for dominance, for control. . .
Shuddering, he stood and began to pull off his extraneous layers.
"Yeah-- fer Canada." There was that lopsided grin again, that smile that drove him absolutely crazy with a strange mixture of tenderness and lust, and Renny increased his attempts to pull off his boots as the other man shifted impatiently, energy high and almost tangible in the air. If he were to taste his skin, there would be the thick tang of sweat and soap and cinnamon and Ray there against his tongue.
What he wouldn't give to taste him.
"Okay, good," Ray said as Renny pulled off the last inhibiting layer, hair adorably tousled by the removal of garments. "Now, lets head to it."
"Pitter patter, Ray." The bright, engulfing smile almost took his breath away, and Turnbull hid his shy flush by settling into a waiting position, arms braced and ready for the first move that he knew that Ray would make. There was no way that the other man would be able to just sit there and wait for an attack-- he would move in immediately and try to take him out, which would mean. . .
"Ooof!" He was taken off guard by the sudden lunge as wiry arms wrapped around his middle and clung on, tight and determined as Ray shoved against the floor with his feet, trying to knock the larger man down with the momentum of his attack. Turnbull took an involuntary step back but otherwise remained unaffected, his own arms twining down into position as he tried to grab hold of the cop, fingers sliding against the heated skin as he searched for a position.
Ray shifted against him, moving lower as he braced his shoulder into the hold, trying to slide away from the large hands that danced across his naked chest, ignoring the fire that crept up through his system with a muttered curse. Renny was larger than him, and stronger too, in all honesty, but he didn't have the flexibility of the Chicago cop, or the unconventional thinking.
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