ds_flashfiction | Prompt 71 for _inbetween_ by <user site="livejournal.com" user= (Reply)

Fraser surveyed the bounty before him. Mrs. Cake had not, as yet, managed to completely consume the festivities for the 2-7. This was not for want of trying. She had turned up in October, when Fraser had first put the notice about the party up at the Senior Center. She had offered to organize the baked goods section. She had claimed some expertise with the preparation of traditional cream teas, and, nostalgic for those served at the detachments his father had been stationed at in his youth, Fraser leapt at the chance to have one at the holiday party.

Leftenant Welsh's reaction to Fraser's news was the first hint that in accepting her offer of help, Fraser had done something horribly, totally wrong.

"You understand, Constable," the grizzled station chief had said in hushed tones, seated at his desk, blinds to the office carefully drawn, "that Mrs. Cake is not, really, a citizen of this city of Chicago. She is force of indeterminate cause that many of us have sought to rescue ourselves from for years. Childhood traumas throughout this station can be traced plainly to her feet. Well, I say 'feet,' but really, they're more like cloven hooves."

"Those would be the cloven hooves shod in round toed, lace up, brown leatherette oxfords with knitted wool knee socks?" Fraser asked, tugging his ear.

"Indeed. Camoflauge. Ask Ms. Vecchio about her. I think she ran the Sunday School at Blessed Mary of Perpetual Assumption when she and Detective Vecchio were children."

Fraser had asked Francesca.

Francesca had gotten a wide-eyed look on her face and started hyperventilating. Two paper bags and a stiff drink later, Fraser repeated the question. She shook her head mutely.

Ray Kowalski was similarly unable to answer Fraser's question about Mrs. Cake directly. He had pulled Fraser into the closet and said, "Fraser, there are some things a guy's gotta do when he's undercover and learning about the new lay of the land, but he doesn't ever have to repeat them to anyone else. It wouldn't be buddies for me to tell you what Ray Vecchio had to say about Mrs. Cake."

"Wouldn't be buddies."

"Wouldn't be buddies."

Fraser pinched the bridge of his nose. "If I promised you sexual favors, would you at least explain?"

Ray smiled, and Fraser's mind went to the wicked, dark place it always went when Ray smiled. "You don't have to promise sexual favors for that, Frase. But here's the deal. As soon as you mention something, if it's good, it goes away. If it's bad, it happens. Mrs. Cake? Is bad. Very, very, bad."

Fraser did not find this very enlightening, but the blowjob was hardly a hardship for him to give Ray in reward for explanation. Even if it was cryptic.

Despite Ray's foreoding, the cakes, cookies, candies, cream, jam, and other delicacies procured by Mrs. Cake appeared to be more than adequate to the task of the 'baked goods' section of the 2-7 Holiday Bash. Fraser smiled at the bounty, and sniffed the contents of his tea mug.

It was then that he realized why Lt. Welsh had said, "Mrs. Cake will take your favorite thing in the universe, and, in the guise of trying to make you happy, make you never, ever, want to touch it again. Or even think about it. Unless you needed to induce projectile vomiting. There are rumors of it being a superpower of hers."

Fraser's tea was correct in color: orangish-brown. It was correct in scent: tangy, and distinctively tea-like. On tasting it, however, Fraser was hard put to swallow, and only just barely managed it. Eyes were closed. Nostrils blocked. Images of Elizabeth Windsor, in full regalia, were conjured. Fraser swallowed.

Then he dove across the room to tackle Turnbull and smash the mug out of his hand.

"Happy Christmas, Constable." Fraser said, and got a paper towel.

Turnbull looked confused, but answered "Happy Christmas, Constable."