Fic: Heat (Turnbull/Vecchio, Due South, G)
Fandom: Due South
Characters: Turnbull/Vecchio
Rating: G
683 Words
Summary: A not-so-random act of kindness on a really hot day.
Notes: Written in the shared 'verse with slwatson. Post-COTW, following ' Like Fallin' Off a Cliff ' (a false summer in September).
Imagine an iceflow.
Sweat dripped down Renfield Turnbull's forehead in that odd pattern of having formed just below the hat line. The blink of it away was his only motion; he was playing sweet-faced gargoyle today. He wondered what Thatcher would do if he ended up with heatstroke.
Probably find some way to make it the fault of Turnbull's own body temperature regulation.
He would sigh, if he were one to allow himself that much movement. The air felt thick in his lungs. Like breathing in a duvet. The sun weighed upon the shoulders of his serge as heavily as might a beam across his back.
Drifting, white, pale blue... frigid and unforgiving...
At some point, the view of the stoop, fence, and indeed city beyond faded to the background of Turnbull's awareness, shades in blue coming to fore. It was a strange duality of feeling; the heat clinging to him tempered with tingling spikes of cold.
It was possible that he had unwittingly hypnotized himself.
Or he was about to faint.
Perhaps both.
A car passed by. The music from inside rattled the windshield, though Renfield couldn't see it, and bounced acoustics off of the wall behind him. He felt it through his teeth; reverberating in his skull and right down into his chest, a pounding counterpoint to that of his own heart. Passing over the ice flow in his mind, a sudden warm breeze where it didn't belong.
The car turned a corner, music tapering away.
His ice flow was quiet again. He drifted.
Another bead of sweat trickled down his nose. It froze under the arctic sky.
The scentless cold air and the smell of his own sweat in the suffocating heat reigned his senses before something else filtered through his trance.
Something familiar. Something coded onto his soul, now.
There was more sound; he'd missed the first few words before it stole into his trance.
"--kill her."
Renfield blinked. Ray.
Ray Vecchio lifted Renfield Turnbull's stetson, placing under it an ice cream sandwich sealed in a plastic wrapper.
The shock of it tore Turnbull the rest of the way from whatever nowhere he'd been inside his own head, and still not moving, he allowed himself that sigh of relief.
"You're red as that get-up, it's hotter than Hell out here, and she's got you playin' tin soldier when the Devil would be inside with a popsicle and a ceiling fan? What, you can't even move when you might get heat stroke? She gonna stick you back on this detail after lunch, too? She is, isn't she? Come on!" Ray spun around, arms out and gesturing.
Renfield didn't move.
Ray sighed. They had played this game before in various states of weather with various probably valid reasons for Renfield to move, and he never had. "Nah. Didn't really figure you'd move today either. You hang tight, Ren, I'm gonna have a little talk with the Dragon Lady." The last sentence was on Ray's heels, the consulate door already swinging shut.
At some point along the line, Thatcher must've gotten used to Ray's 'little talks'. They happened less often than one might expect, but each instance took less time than the previous.
Cold radiated in Renfield's hair, contained by the hat. It was bliss.
He heard muffled shouting; if he strained his ears he thought he could hear the thump of hands hitting a table now and again.
Sweat dripped.
Ray breezed back out, slipping his hand through Renfield's, sweat mingling in the touch. "C'mon, honey, you're relieved."
It was five minutes before he would've been released for lunch. These days, it didn't occur to Renfield to question that the order had been issued from Thatcher. He had no doubt.
He unfroze, squeezing Ray's hand and heading for the steps together. He flipped off his stetson, deftly catching the ice cream sandwich in it as it fell from his head.
"...thanks, Ray."
Characters: Turnbull/Vecchio
Rating: G
683 Words
Summary: A not-so-random act of kindness on a really hot day.
Notes: Written in the shared 'verse with slwatson. Post-COTW, following ' Like Fallin' Off a Cliff ' (a false summer in September).
Imagine an iceflow.
Sweat dripped down Renfield Turnbull's forehead in that odd pattern of having formed just below the hat line. The blink of it away was his only motion; he was playing sweet-faced gargoyle today. He wondered what Thatcher would do if he ended up with heatstroke.
Probably find some way to make it the fault of Turnbull's own body temperature regulation.
He would sigh, if he were one to allow himself that much movement. The air felt thick in his lungs. Like breathing in a duvet. The sun weighed upon the shoulders of his serge as heavily as might a beam across his back.
Drifting, white, pale blue... frigid and unforgiving...
At some point, the view of the stoop, fence, and indeed city beyond faded to the background of Turnbull's awareness, shades in blue coming to fore. It was a strange duality of feeling; the heat clinging to him tempered with tingling spikes of cold.
It was possible that he had unwittingly hypnotized himself.
Or he was about to faint.
Perhaps both.
A car passed by. The music from inside rattled the windshield, though Renfield couldn't see it, and bounced acoustics off of the wall behind him. He felt it through his teeth; reverberating in his skull and right down into his chest, a pounding counterpoint to that of his own heart. Passing over the ice flow in his mind, a sudden warm breeze where it didn't belong.
The car turned a corner, music tapering away.
His ice flow was quiet again. He drifted.
Another bead of sweat trickled down his nose. It froze under the arctic sky.
The scentless cold air and the smell of his own sweat in the suffocating heat reigned his senses before something else filtered through his trance.
Something familiar. Something coded onto his soul, now.
There was more sound; he'd missed the first few words before it stole into his trance.
"--kill her."
Renfield blinked. Ray.
Ray Vecchio lifted Renfield Turnbull's stetson, placing under it an ice cream sandwich sealed in a plastic wrapper.
The shock of it tore Turnbull the rest of the way from whatever nowhere he'd been inside his own head, and still not moving, he allowed himself that sigh of relief.
"You're red as that get-up, it's hotter than Hell out here, and she's got you playin' tin soldier when the Devil would be inside with a popsicle and a ceiling fan? What, you can't even move when you might get heat stroke? She gonna stick you back on this detail after lunch, too? She is, isn't she? Come on!" Ray spun around, arms out and gesturing.
Renfield didn't move.
Ray sighed. They had played this game before in various states of weather with various probably valid reasons for Renfield to move, and he never had. "Nah. Didn't really figure you'd move today either. You hang tight, Ren, I'm gonna have a little talk with the Dragon Lady." The last sentence was on Ray's heels, the consulate door already swinging shut.
At some point along the line, Thatcher must've gotten used to Ray's 'little talks'. They happened less often than one might expect, but each instance took less time than the previous.
Cold radiated in Renfield's hair, contained by the hat. It was bliss.
He heard muffled shouting; if he strained his ears he thought he could hear the thump of hands hitting a table now and again.
Sweat dripped.
Ray breezed back out, slipping his hand through Renfield's, sweat mingling in the touch. "C'mon, honey, you're relieved."
It was five minutes before he would've been released for lunch. These days, it didn't occur to Renfield to question that the order had been issued from Thatcher. He had no doubt.
He unfroze, squeezing Ray's hand and heading for the steps together. He flipped off his stetson, deftly catching the ice cream sandwich in it as it fell from his head.
"...thanks, Ray."