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ds_flashfiction2004-11-24 06:19 am
laughingacademy.livejournal.com) wrote in ds_flashfiction2004-11-24 06:19 am
Entry tags:
“Variation on a Popular Theme” by laughingacademy
Hi! This is my debut in the due South fandom. If anyone can suggest a better title, I will be extremely grateful.
BF/RK implied (pre-slash)
PG
600 words
* * *
As Fraser gave the janitor his usual friendly wave, he realized that some detail of the familiar surroundings was tugging at him. There was something…off…
Frannie Vecchio was seated at her desk and flipping through the contents of a file folder. “Hi, Fraser!”
“Good afternoon, Francesca.”
She put aside the folder and began going through the papers on her desktop. “You looking for Ray? He stepped out a couple of minutes ago, said he’d be right back.” She found the sheet she’d been searching for and stood. “I’m about to go on a sandwich run. Can I get you anything?”
“No, thank you, I just ate.”
“’Kay.” Frannie slung her purse over a shoulder and trotted away. Fraser noticed she had a two-day-old bruise just above her right elbow, and charming dimples. He blinked, sat in what he thought of as his chair, set his Stetson in his lap, and frowned at it ruminatively.
“Hey,” said Huey, en route to his desk.
“Hello…Detective…”
Fraser’s voice trailed off. Huey scowled. “What?”
“Ah…” Fraser realized his right hand had risen, and that he had no idea what gesture he’d been planning to make.
“Aw, jeez, I didn’t get it all off. Where is it, in my ears?”
Fraser cleared his throat. “Excuse me?”
“Who knew beet juice stained this bad? Hey, have you got any tips for cleaning this stuff? Do they have borscht in Canada?” He opened one of the lower desk drawers. “I think I still have some of that goop from Ray. He uses it to clean up after working on his car, so maybe it’ll do the trick.”
“Beets? Borscht?” Fraser echoed. “Um, where…”
“Oh, Dewey and I were chasing this guy through the kitchen at Shotzi’s, and I zigged when I should have zagged.”
“Is that why…your clothes—”
Huey said, “Aha!” and straightened up, holding an orange jar. Fraser refused to let his eyes focus on anything other than the container. “Hey, if Welsh yells for me, tell him I’m in the john?”
“Certainly.”
“Thank you kindly.” Huey tipped an imaginary hat and turned to leave, seemingly unaware or unconcerned that his other clothes were equally illusory.
“Oh, dear,” Fraser murmured, and glanced down. Red tunic, check; blue jodhpurs, check; hat, check. Thank Heaven.
“Dad?” Fraser said under his breath, then wished he hadn’t. Even if his father could provide him with an explanation, this was, perhaps, not the best of times for a visit, given the prevailing trend.
The Mountie’s train of thought, now on the express route to Hysteria, was completely derailed when a familiar voice snorted and said in his ear, “You have the goofiest look on your face.”
“Ray!” croaked Fraser. He turned to find a barechested Kowalski taking his seat, modesty preserved by the intervening desktop. Darn, Fraser thought, to his considerable surprise.
“Man, your expression, you’d think I’d just goosed you. What’s up?”
“Urk,” said Fraser.
“Hey, are you feeling all right? You sound awful, and you’re really red in the face. Maybe you oughta be lying down.”
“Vecchio! Fraser!” Lieutenant Welsh was leaning out of his office. “Gentlemen, if you have a minute?”
“Coming, Lieu!” Ray stood, and Fraser was helpless to prevent his gaze from slipping downward. Blue eyes, mobile mouth, collarbones, pectorals, pink nipples, flat stomach, navel, and a line of hair leading to—
Fraser jerked, spluttering, and realized he was face-to-muzzle with Diefenbaker, who was halfway onto the cot. He wiped his face and glared. “You have the worst timing in the entire world.”
Dief grumbled.
Blushing, Fraser stumbled to the bathroom, mumbling, “Earlier, obviously.”
BF/RK implied (pre-slash)
PG
600 words
* * *
As Fraser gave the janitor his usual friendly wave, he realized that some detail of the familiar surroundings was tugging at him. There was something…off…
Frannie Vecchio was seated at her desk and flipping through the contents of a file folder. “Hi, Fraser!”
“Good afternoon, Francesca.”
She put aside the folder and began going through the papers on her desktop. “You looking for Ray? He stepped out a couple of minutes ago, said he’d be right back.” She found the sheet she’d been searching for and stood. “I’m about to go on a sandwich run. Can I get you anything?”
“No, thank you, I just ate.”
“’Kay.” Frannie slung her purse over a shoulder and trotted away. Fraser noticed she had a two-day-old bruise just above her right elbow, and charming dimples. He blinked, sat in what he thought of as his chair, set his Stetson in his lap, and frowned at it ruminatively.
“Hey,” said Huey, en route to his desk.
“Hello…Detective…”
Fraser’s voice trailed off. Huey scowled. “What?”
“Ah…” Fraser realized his right hand had risen, and that he had no idea what gesture he’d been planning to make.
“Aw, jeez, I didn’t get it all off. Where is it, in my ears?”
Fraser cleared his throat. “Excuse me?”
“Who knew beet juice stained this bad? Hey, have you got any tips for cleaning this stuff? Do they have borscht in Canada?” He opened one of the lower desk drawers. “I think I still have some of that goop from Ray. He uses it to clean up after working on his car, so maybe it’ll do the trick.”
“Beets? Borscht?” Fraser echoed. “Um, where…”
“Oh, Dewey and I were chasing this guy through the kitchen at Shotzi’s, and I zigged when I should have zagged.”
“Is that why…your clothes—”
Huey said, “Aha!” and straightened up, holding an orange jar. Fraser refused to let his eyes focus on anything other than the container. “Hey, if Welsh yells for me, tell him I’m in the john?”
“Certainly.”
“Thank you kindly.” Huey tipped an imaginary hat and turned to leave, seemingly unaware or unconcerned that his other clothes were equally illusory.
“Oh, dear,” Fraser murmured, and glanced down. Red tunic, check; blue jodhpurs, check; hat, check. Thank Heaven.
“Dad?” Fraser said under his breath, then wished he hadn’t. Even if his father could provide him with an explanation, this was, perhaps, not the best of times for a visit, given the prevailing trend.
The Mountie’s train of thought, now on the express route to Hysteria, was completely derailed when a familiar voice snorted and said in his ear, “You have the goofiest look on your face.”
“Ray!” croaked Fraser. He turned to find a barechested Kowalski taking his seat, modesty preserved by the intervening desktop. Darn, Fraser thought, to his considerable surprise.
“Man, your expression, you’d think I’d just goosed you. What’s up?”
“Urk,” said Fraser.
“Hey, are you feeling all right? You sound awful, and you’re really red in the face. Maybe you oughta be lying down.”
“Vecchio! Fraser!” Lieutenant Welsh was leaning out of his office. “Gentlemen, if you have a minute?”
“Coming, Lieu!” Ray stood, and Fraser was helpless to prevent his gaze from slipping downward. Blue eyes, mobile mouth, collarbones, pectorals, pink nipples, flat stomach, navel, and a line of hair leading to—
Fraser jerked, spluttering, and realized he was face-to-muzzle with Diefenbaker, who was halfway onto the cot. He wiped his face and glared. “You have the worst timing in the entire world.”
Dief grumbled.
Blushing, Fraser stumbled to the bathroom, mumbling, “Earlier, obviously.”