Running in under the wire
Mar. 16th, 2004 10:15 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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the_star_fish for her speed-beta and for coming up with Ray's "artwork".
Fraser could hear the front door of the Consulate open and slam shut. Ray burst into his office.
“What the hell is going on, Frase? I fucking flew down here.” Ray stopped short and looked down on the floor. “Jesus.”
“O Canada! Terre de nos aïeux,
Ton front est ceint de fleurons glorieux!”
“Well, Ray, as you can see –“
“Turnbull finally lost it?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Is he drunk or is he speaking French?”
“Both, actually.”
“Car ton bras sait porter l'épée,
Il sait porter la croix! “
Ray winced. “So why is Turnbull hitting the sauce? Did the Ice Queen let him have it?”
“We were having a celebration for the Queen’s Birthday.” Fraser leaned over to whisper in Ray’s ear. “You know how Turnbull feels about the Queen.”
“Yeah, but I prefer not to think about it.”
“Well, he started toasting her family. Things got a little out of control once he hit the Edwardian era.”
“Ton histoire est une épopée
Des plus brillants exploits.”
Ray rubbed his chin. “Uh-huh. So what do we do with Prince Charming?”
“Et ta valeur, de foi trempée,
Protégera nos foyers et nos droits.”
“I think we should take him to the Queen’s Bedroom.”
Ray snickered. “Appropriate.”
“Ray, please.”
“Et ta valeur, de foi trempée,
Protégera nos foyers et nos droits. “
Fraser could hear a familiar voice howling from his closet. “Protégeraaaa nooos foyeeers et nos droiiits.”
He turned to Ray. “Excuse me.”
Ray shrugged and said, “No problem. You got a Sharpie around here anywhere?”
“In my desk. Why?”
“No reason.”
Fraser shook his head and ducked into the closet. “Dad! Do you mind?”
His father was leaning back in his chair at a precarious angle. “Son! Come join me for a drink!”
“Dad, you’re dead. Not only can you not drink, but you certainly can’t get drunk.”
“Aren’t we the expert on the afterlife.” He waved a small flask, nearly tipping himself over. “It’s the Queen’s birthday, son. S’heresy not to toast her.”
“It’s treason, not heresy, and I did toast her.”
“Grammar police, just like your Grandmother.”
His father got up and unsteadily wove his way toward the door. He peered into Fraser’s office.
“Now that young man right there, he’s a Canadian. Not quite right in the head, but by God, he’s dedicated.” He frowned and squinted. “What’s that Yank doing now?”
Ray. He had nearly forgotten. He pushed past his father and out into his office.
“Ray!” He stopped short. “Are you writing on Turnbull?”
“C’mon, it’s an American ritual. A guy gets drunk, passes out, and you break out the Sharpies. Or the razors.”
“Razors?”
“For the eyebrows.”
“That’s …barbaric.”
Fraser leaned down so he could see what Ray had written. Scrawled across Turnbull's forehead, in Ray's nearly illegible handwriting, was,“Property of Canadian Consulate. If found, drop in any mailbox.”
Fraser sighed. “Perhaps we could tell Inspector Thatcher that he did it himself.”
“She’d buy it. So, are we dragging this big lug upstairs?”
“We’d better.”
The next morning…
“Fraser!”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“I don’t suppose you have any idea what happened to Turnbull?”
“I haven’t seen him yet. This morning. Sir.”
“Mmm-hm.”
“Sir?”
“Tell him to keep his hat on.”
“Yes, sir.”
the_star_fish for her speed-beta and for coming up with Ray's "artwork".Fraser could hear the front door of the Consulate open and slam shut. Ray burst into his office.
“What the hell is going on, Frase? I fucking flew down here.” Ray stopped short and looked down on the floor. “Jesus.”
“O Canada! Terre de nos aïeux,
Ton front est ceint de fleurons glorieux!”
“Well, Ray, as you can see –“
“Turnbull finally lost it?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Is he drunk or is he speaking French?”
“Both, actually.”
“Car ton bras sait porter l'épée,
Il sait porter la croix! “
Ray winced. “So why is Turnbull hitting the sauce? Did the Ice Queen let him have it?”
“We were having a celebration for the Queen’s Birthday.” Fraser leaned over to whisper in Ray’s ear. “You know how Turnbull feels about the Queen.”
“Yeah, but I prefer not to think about it.”
“Well, he started toasting her family. Things got a little out of control once he hit the Edwardian era.”
“Ton histoire est une épopée
Des plus brillants exploits.”
Ray rubbed his chin. “Uh-huh. So what do we do with Prince Charming?”
“Et ta valeur, de foi trempée,
Protégera nos foyers et nos droits.”
“I think we should take him to the Queen’s Bedroom.”
Ray snickered. “Appropriate.”
“Ray, please.”
“Et ta valeur, de foi trempée,
Protégera nos foyers et nos droits. “
Fraser could hear a familiar voice howling from his closet. “Protégeraaaa nooos foyeeers et nos droiiits.”
He turned to Ray. “Excuse me.”
Ray shrugged and said, “No problem. You got a Sharpie around here anywhere?”
“In my desk. Why?”
“No reason.”
Fraser shook his head and ducked into the closet. “Dad! Do you mind?”
His father was leaning back in his chair at a precarious angle. “Son! Come join me for a drink!”
“Dad, you’re dead. Not only can you not drink, but you certainly can’t get drunk.”
“Aren’t we the expert on the afterlife.” He waved a small flask, nearly tipping himself over. “It’s the Queen’s birthday, son. S’heresy not to toast her.”
“It’s treason, not heresy, and I did toast her.”
“Grammar police, just like your Grandmother.”
His father got up and unsteadily wove his way toward the door. He peered into Fraser’s office.
“Now that young man right there, he’s a Canadian. Not quite right in the head, but by God, he’s dedicated.” He frowned and squinted. “What’s that Yank doing now?”
Ray. He had nearly forgotten. He pushed past his father and out into his office.
“Ray!” He stopped short. “Are you writing on Turnbull?”
“C’mon, it’s an American ritual. A guy gets drunk, passes out, and you break out the Sharpies. Or the razors.”
“Razors?”
“For the eyebrows.”
“That’s …barbaric.”
Fraser leaned down so he could see what Ray had written. Scrawled across Turnbull's forehead, in Ray's nearly illegible handwriting, was,“Property of Canadian Consulate. If found, drop in any mailbox.”
Fraser sighed. “Perhaps we could tell Inspector Thatcher that he did it himself.”
“She’d buy it. So, are we dragging this big lug upstairs?”
“We’d better.”
The next morning…
“Fraser!”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“I don’t suppose you have any idea what happened to Turnbull?”
“I haven’t seen him yet. This morning. Sir.”
“Mmm-hm.”
“Sir?”
“Tell him to keep his hat on.”
“Yes, sir.”
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