Fic: Blither (Due South, G)
Title: Blither
Fandom: Due South; Arch to the Sky
Characters: Bob Fraser, Turnbull; appearances by Benton Fraser, Thatcher, RayK
Rating: G
Words: 3094
Timeline: Canon.
Summary: In a moment of pique, Bob jumps ship to a different Mountie.
Notes: Yes, Bob has his own misogynistic moments. XD Still working on mood themes. ♥ Wanted to get this out while it was in my head.
"You know, son, you should be nicer to that boy. You can blither with the best of them, yourself."
"I deal with Constable Turnbull in an even-handed manner. And I do not blither."
"Oh, yes you do. I should know, son. We can smell our own."
"It's none of your business, Dad."
Benton was busy retyping forms that had been ruined with an avalanche of broken glass and water; Bob didn't have anything important to do, either.
"Buck used to threaten to hook me up to a hot air balloon and ride it to the Maritimes for a vacation." Bob chuckled to himself, leaning back where he sat on the desk. "I guess these days you'd hook Buck to the thing. From a different end, of course."
Benton tapped a stray key on the typewriter and stopped, pinching the bridge of his nose. He sighed before snatching the paper out of the type writer and balling it up.
"Is there something you need, Dad, or are you just here to insult me and make light your partner's medical condition?"
"No. That's about all I've got on my plate. It isn't as if the dead have a vast social life, Benton. There are no heaven-hell mixers. As far as I know, anyway. It'd be just like the afterlife to invite everyone but me to the party. Their loss, if they have. Nobody ever told them about the stunt at Keeley Johnson's 35th. You could see those lights for miles, and they were very pretty, if I do say so myself. The next day I found out there were a record number of UFO reports for the Territories that night. --oh, don't look at me like that. It was completely legal, nothing was destroyed. Not that you'd know it from the rumors. Some of the junior officers are still convinced that maypole took down a light aircraft. In the last version I heard, the pilot was a bank robber flying under the radar. Stories have a way of snowballing. Well, you would know, wouldn't you?"
Sometimes Bob was still surprised at just what could push his son to red-faced exasperation; it wasn't as though Benton himself didn't go off on tangents. Maybe Benton just saw too much of himself in his father, Bob wasn't sure. Either way, his son looked like he might rub his eyebrow right off his face, and Bob was rather perturbed to find the balled up sheet of paper thrown through him.
Father and son shared a perplexed glance at Bob's midsection. "Huh."
"--go away, Dad."
"You don't mean that."
"Yes. Yes, I do. I am tired. I have no more patience right now for your blithering than I have for Turnbull's. Don't you have anything better to do?"
Bob Fraser had been many things in his life, and rebellious had been among them. He had not lost it in death.
"If that's how you want it." He glanced over his shoulder to the hallway, not far from which would sit the other Consulate blitherer's desk. Bob didn't so much wave at his son before he demanifested in favor of a seat on the edge of Turnbull's desk.
The other Mountie filled in forms with his lips pressed in a thin line.
"Your hat's still on, boy," Bob said, fully aware he wouldn't be heard. "One of those days, I suppose. Ah, well. I suppose that Thatcher woman will inform you of the mistake quickly enough. Not that most people prefer that definition of 'inform'. Well. I knew one or two that might've liked that a little too much, but they kept it to themselves, and that's what's really important."
He pretended not to see when Benton came out to glance at them, rolled his eyes, and went back in his office.
--
Bob didn't like stewing, but he'd do it. The most annoying part of his internal tirade was that now the word 'blither' was beginning to sound strange, like it wasn't a real word.
"Blither. Blith-er. Bli-ther." Bob wagged his tongue from his mouth, making a sound. "Hm. Do you have a dictionary, son?"
Turnbull didn't seem to like paperwork anymore than Bob did, though he seemed to put on a pleasant face whenever anyone else was watching. Bob found himself wishing the boy talked to himself. At least then he'd have something to respond to other than the occasional humming or 'ah' or 'hm' of acknowledgment of something. The boy was meticulously neat, a trait that Bob could admire, even if it seemed a little manic here.
Bob never had much to do with the housework. He supposed it didn't do him any ill to accompany Turnbull on his, even if the frilly apron was a Hell of a head-scratcher. It was better than going back to Benton. It was a matter of pride, now.
"Oh, you missed a spot." Bob swiped his hand down the mirror.
He shut one eye when Turnbull immediately spotted the smudge he pointed out and wiped it away.
"Hm. Smarter than you look, son." He waved a hand in front of Turnbull's face and went summarily ignored. "Shame. Would've been nice. Oh, heads up, boy; here comes frigid."
Thatcher breezed in, and Bob stepped out of the way just in time to avoid being walked through by the only person in the room colder than he was. Perhaps it was an unfair summation of the woman; after all, she managed to dredge up enough warmth to make consistent eyes at his son, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. Bob had good genes. Caroline was incapable of creating something unattractive unless one counted her roasts, so it was no shocker that Benton was an eye-catcher. Thatcher was an odd one. A lesson in just how little Bob understood women.
Somewhere during his mental tangent Bob lost track of whatever the woman had been saying.
"--shouldn't be doing your paperwork for you, Constable. I realize it's hardly enthralling, but it was your responsibility and you shouldn't have allowed him to take over." She sighed, handing over some kind of card. "I'll let it go this time, Turnbull, but I don't want to see it happen again. Go pick up my dry cleaning. I expect you on sentry duty until the end of shift once you return. Understood?"
Lord, but the boy's 'yes, sir' was far more polite than Bob would have managed.
"Why don't you get your own dry cleaning? The boy's a Mountie, not your bell hop! Good Lord, have they replaced all the policemen with corporate pissants at Depot? If it weren't for my son sneaking up on a man from behind, that form would've been pristine. Why don't you speak up for yourself, boy?" He waved hands in front of both faces before Turnbull turned to leave. "Bah. Months of learning how to get our man, and he gets your laundry. It's criminal, that's what it is."
Bob demanifested a millisecond before realizing he had nowhere he wanted to reappear. He found himself on the Consulate stoop, staring up at the sky. Letting out a deep breath just to see if it would fog in the cold, and naturally it didn't.
Turnbull was prompt. Good to see him lose the apron when venturing into the outside world. He must've been one of the last Mounties issued with that old red-lined storm coat. The boy wore it well; it seemed to make the 'boy' descriptor a hair harder to use, but Bob was set in his ways. He folded his hands behind his back and kept step with the boy as he set off on foot, stetsons screwed on heads in unknown unison.
It wasn't a silent walk for long.
"One day you should kiss that woman full on the mouth, just to see what happens."
Turnbull seemed to have no opinion on this.
"She might surprise you. Benton would probably glare at us both - you for good measure - if I said this in front of him, but that's probably just what a woman like that needs. Firm hand. Figuratively, of course. At the very least you should speak for yourself, son. Someone needs to knock both of those two down a peg, and neither of them are interested in that kind of knocking, if you take my meaning. Not sure if you're the fellow to do it. You seem a little flighty. But you're all we've got. That wolf's only interested in his stomach, and the Yank... well. I shudder to think what he's interested in."
The boy Mountie turned a corner and stopped to lean against an alley wall. The move surprised Bob, and he walked two steps beyond the man before truly understanding that Turnbull was taking a break.
Shrugging, Bob took the place beside the man.
"Good man. I can get on board with a little private rebellion. Make the lady wait. --ooh, but watch out there, it'd be a Hell of a thing to smear across the sole of a high brown..."
The boy didn't hear him, and on a position shift, naturally stepped in it. He seemed to feel the... ah... mess as he sank down on it, and his eyes fell closed to what could only be described as a long-suffering sigh.
"Well. I suppose there are worse things," Bob commented with a wince.
Turnbull scraped it delicately off of his boot, inspecting the sole to ensure it was clean. The wrinkle of the man's nose was interrupted by movement across the alley; the mess seemed forgotten on a snapped look to whatever it was. Sure enough. There were moments when the boy truly looked like the Mountie he purported to be.
Their visitor happened to be an alleycat.
Turnbull's was an easy sink to a crouch and an instantly different demeanor; the cat must not have been feral to approach this way. The tentative reach out on the boy's part suggested he understood that the cat might be. Bob liked a man who had selective concern for his dress uniform. At least, the correct sort of selective. The cat spent only a few moments sniffing out the strange stetson'd invader of her alleyway and went nudging into a pet.
"Hello again," Turnbull said simply, petting down her back all the way to the encouraging tail. "I trust no one has disturbed you? You're very pretty, aren't you? Good girl. You know, I would still find you a home, if you like."
The cat provided no answer, aside another smooth motion into a stroke of the boy's rather large hand.
"No, I suppose not. One's territory is one's own; far be it from me to suggest it insufficient."
Bob honestly couldn't find anything to say.
--
He half-expected the boy Mountie to take the cat with him, but she was left to her alley.
Bob didn't know why he was still shadowing Turnbull, except determination to haunt someone for a while that wouldn't call into question the validity or length of his anecdotes. Or the truthfulness, for that matter.
"Is it at least work-related laundry, for Pete's sake?"
No answer came. Bob was starting to think the mirror was a fluke.
He was on point of wondering if she did her dry cleaning in the greater Chicago area when the boy turned into a shop to pick it up. Bob waited outside; he could hear the exchange, the boy unfailingly polite, offering no apparent displeasure at being his Inspector's gopher. The comments he caught in Cantonese regarding the dress uniform made Bob chuckle; personally, he'd never found breathing difficult in the thing, but maybe that was just the excess lung capacity.
When the boy rejoined him outside, dry cleaning slung over his shoulder, Bob took easy step with him. Rambling away about nothing, something he didn't like to do in actual solitude. It felt more natural with someone there, even if they were effectively as deaf as a post. It passed the time. Turnbull walked steadily but didn't hurry, and Bob couldn't blame him.
He was somewhere in the middle of the story of a poacher he tracked down in the outhouse when the Yank pulled up alongside them both.
"Hey, Turnbull!"
"...hello, Detective Vecchio."
"Hello, Yank. Anyone ever tell you your hair makes you look like a man taken permanent fright? I find it hard to believe that's intentional. Surely you come off second best in a fight with a blow-drier every morning..."
"What the Hell are you doing all the way out here? You've gotta be freezing your pumpkin pants off. You wanna ride back to the consulate?"
"Ah-- you certainly don't-- that's a very-- "
"Spit it out, son. It's hardly going to run away from you."
"--my uniform is sufficiently warm, and I appreciate the offer, however--"
"The American might, though, if you make him wait any longer."
"--I do prefer to walk. Thank you kindly."
Detective 'Vecchio' chuckled and shook his head. "...o-kay, Turnbull. Whatever grates your cheese. Hey, listen, do you know if Fraser's gonna be stuck on the stoop today?"
Turnbull frowned; Bob thought he'd have gone yumpy if he'd ever been shoved behind a desk, forced to beck and call, and then kept frustration the size of Nunavut entirely to himself. "No. I will be performing that particular task."
"Oh. Sucks. Thanks, Turnbull. Last chance for a ride..." The last word was musical, drawn as the Detective pulled away, and Turnbull merely waved him off until he was gone.
"...thank you anyway," the boy sighed, briefly pinching the bridge of his nose.
--
"Has anyone ever told you that you're more boring than a burnt-out tree?"
Turnbull didn't answer. At least Bob could pretend he could hear, now; sentry duty necessitated the appearance of obliviousness.
"At least you can climb the tree. It's dangerous, the thing could disintegrate at any second, gives you a rush. It has mystery. Atmosphere. Smoke. Not you. Just standing there. Lord, son, how do you do this dreadful job without climbing out of your skin? They shoved Buck behind a desk and something up there snapped. Never been the same since." Bob slung open his serge, letting it hang from his chest, and sank to the stoop. "If this was my life every damn day I'd probably slap on a mask and fight crime by night. Or cuddle up to some cabbage leaves, but I'd better not talk too much about that in case old Tiberius is listening."
Bob sighed. Maybe Benton would be apologetic by now.
Maybe.
He frowned deeper. Not yet.
Cars passed. People tended to rubberneck at the streak of red on the stoop. Bob didn't blame them. It was quite a uniform.
"Caroline always said my pride would get me in trouble one day."
A young couple walked by, breath fogging in the air. The young blonde took a photo of Turnbull. Bob waved; it was a long shot, but might as well be presentable.
"...she never said it would get me into posthumous tedium."
Time passed. Bob thought Buck would mutter something about finally finding the miracle person who could outlast Bob's ability to flap his face 'til kingdom come.
He raised an eyebrow when the second police cruiser in a row slowly passed; he wondered who the Hell cracked a window in this weather, but he didn't wonder it for long.
"...two-four-two-oh, ten-four..."
The radio was pinched off when the passenger rolled up the window, and with it was pinched off Bob's boredom.
Because at that, the boy had looked over.
It was automatic; Bob could still remember his own, and he recognized the jerk a mile away. The kid had broken stance to do it, and hadn't melted the strange expression just after off his face quickly enough to hide it from a man he couldn't see. He seemed to shiver, a first since they'd been out in the cold.
Bob squinted at him.
"Hm."
--
He'd sat in silence with the boy for the rest of the shift. It had begun to snow, and maybe it was all the years spent where the falling snow was the frequent only companion that staved off his boredom.
Turnbull had a soft fringe of snow across his stetson. Bob's mirrored it, if only for fashion's sake.
When he started to speak, he knocked the snow off his own.
"My FTO was a bastard of a man." Bob sighed. He hadn't thought of old Byrne for a long time now, and with good reason. "In it for all the wrong reasons, though God only knows what some of them were. He did his job, I learned what I was supposed to, but I hated every minute of it. There's rarely been a man more deserving of a cattle prod to the delicates. Self-serving, shrivel-hearted, egocentric fool that wanted to foster his own personal army in the name of the red wall. I transferred out as soon as I could, once it was over. I heard years later that some poor bastard that man trained ended up killing himself. Tried to write it off as a weapons malfunction, but most of us knew. Heard it was something to do with guilt over abusing some of the natives. Terrible thing."
Turnbull still had no opinion. Bob pulled his hat off and shook the rest of the snow free.
"I got lucky. Sometimes I wonder what it is they set out to do with the young minds coming through Depot. What the Hell it's all for. Disposable men. Hell, disposable women."
Bob stood up, knocking the snow off his uniform. He stopped just to look at the boy. Counting down the seconds.
"What the Hell are you doing here, son?"
There was no answer.
Distantly, the clock down the streets chimed, and Turnbull breathed out.
"Have a good night, Constable."
When the Consulate door opened, Bob stepped through, ignoring the puzzled look on his son's face.
Fandom: Due South; Arch to the Sky
Characters: Bob Fraser, Turnbull; appearances by Benton Fraser, Thatcher, RayK
Rating: G
Words: 3094
Timeline: Canon.
Summary: In a moment of pique, Bob jumps ship to a different Mountie.
Notes: Yes, Bob has his own misogynistic moments. XD Still working on mood themes. ♥ Wanted to get this out while it was in my head.
"You know, son, you should be nicer to that boy. You can blither with the best of them, yourself."
"I deal with Constable Turnbull in an even-handed manner. And I do not blither."
"Oh, yes you do. I should know, son. We can smell our own."
"It's none of your business, Dad."
Benton was busy retyping forms that had been ruined with an avalanche of broken glass and water; Bob didn't have anything important to do, either.
"Buck used to threaten to hook me up to a hot air balloon and ride it to the Maritimes for a vacation." Bob chuckled to himself, leaning back where he sat on the desk. "I guess these days you'd hook Buck to the thing. From a different end, of course."
Benton tapped a stray key on the typewriter and stopped, pinching the bridge of his nose. He sighed before snatching the paper out of the type writer and balling it up.
"Is there something you need, Dad, or are you just here to insult me and make light your partner's medical condition?"
"No. That's about all I've got on my plate. It isn't as if the dead have a vast social life, Benton. There are no heaven-hell mixers. As far as I know, anyway. It'd be just like the afterlife to invite everyone but me to the party. Their loss, if they have. Nobody ever told them about the stunt at Keeley Johnson's 35th. You could see those lights for miles, and they were very pretty, if I do say so myself. The next day I found out there were a record number of UFO reports for the Territories that night. --oh, don't look at me like that. It was completely legal, nothing was destroyed. Not that you'd know it from the rumors. Some of the junior officers are still convinced that maypole took down a light aircraft. In the last version I heard, the pilot was a bank robber flying under the radar. Stories have a way of snowballing. Well, you would know, wouldn't you?"
Sometimes Bob was still surprised at just what could push his son to red-faced exasperation; it wasn't as though Benton himself didn't go off on tangents. Maybe Benton just saw too much of himself in his father, Bob wasn't sure. Either way, his son looked like he might rub his eyebrow right off his face, and Bob was rather perturbed to find the balled up sheet of paper thrown through him.
Father and son shared a perplexed glance at Bob's midsection. "Huh."
"--go away, Dad."
"You don't mean that."
"Yes. Yes, I do. I am tired. I have no more patience right now for your blithering than I have for Turnbull's. Don't you have anything better to do?"
Bob Fraser had been many things in his life, and rebellious had been among them. He had not lost it in death.
"If that's how you want it." He glanced over his shoulder to the hallway, not far from which would sit the other Consulate blitherer's desk. Bob didn't so much wave at his son before he demanifested in favor of a seat on the edge of Turnbull's desk.
The other Mountie filled in forms with his lips pressed in a thin line.
"Your hat's still on, boy," Bob said, fully aware he wouldn't be heard. "One of those days, I suppose. Ah, well. I suppose that Thatcher woman will inform you of the mistake quickly enough. Not that most people prefer that definition of 'inform'. Well. I knew one or two that might've liked that a little too much, but they kept it to themselves, and that's what's really important."
He pretended not to see when Benton came out to glance at them, rolled his eyes, and went back in his office.
--
Bob didn't like stewing, but he'd do it. The most annoying part of his internal tirade was that now the word 'blither' was beginning to sound strange, like it wasn't a real word.
"Blither. Blith-er. Bli-ther." Bob wagged his tongue from his mouth, making a sound. "Hm. Do you have a dictionary, son?"
Turnbull didn't seem to like paperwork anymore than Bob did, though he seemed to put on a pleasant face whenever anyone else was watching. Bob found himself wishing the boy talked to himself. At least then he'd have something to respond to other than the occasional humming or 'ah' or 'hm' of acknowledgment of something. The boy was meticulously neat, a trait that Bob could admire, even if it seemed a little manic here.
Bob never had much to do with the housework. He supposed it didn't do him any ill to accompany Turnbull on his, even if the frilly apron was a Hell of a head-scratcher. It was better than going back to Benton. It was a matter of pride, now.
"Oh, you missed a spot." Bob swiped his hand down the mirror.
He shut one eye when Turnbull immediately spotted the smudge he pointed out and wiped it away.
"Hm. Smarter than you look, son." He waved a hand in front of Turnbull's face and went summarily ignored. "Shame. Would've been nice. Oh, heads up, boy; here comes frigid."
Thatcher breezed in, and Bob stepped out of the way just in time to avoid being walked through by the only person in the room colder than he was. Perhaps it was an unfair summation of the woman; after all, she managed to dredge up enough warmth to make consistent eyes at his son, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. Bob had good genes. Caroline was incapable of creating something unattractive unless one counted her roasts, so it was no shocker that Benton was an eye-catcher. Thatcher was an odd one. A lesson in just how little Bob understood women.
Somewhere during his mental tangent Bob lost track of whatever the woman had been saying.
"--shouldn't be doing your paperwork for you, Constable. I realize it's hardly enthralling, but it was your responsibility and you shouldn't have allowed him to take over." She sighed, handing over some kind of card. "I'll let it go this time, Turnbull, but I don't want to see it happen again. Go pick up my dry cleaning. I expect you on sentry duty until the end of shift once you return. Understood?"
Lord, but the boy's 'yes, sir' was far more polite than Bob would have managed.
"Why don't you get your own dry cleaning? The boy's a Mountie, not your bell hop! Good Lord, have they replaced all the policemen with corporate pissants at Depot? If it weren't for my son sneaking up on a man from behind, that form would've been pristine. Why don't you speak up for yourself, boy?" He waved hands in front of both faces before Turnbull turned to leave. "Bah. Months of learning how to get our man, and he gets your laundry. It's criminal, that's what it is."
Bob demanifested a millisecond before realizing he had nowhere he wanted to reappear. He found himself on the Consulate stoop, staring up at the sky. Letting out a deep breath just to see if it would fog in the cold, and naturally it didn't.
Turnbull was prompt. Good to see him lose the apron when venturing into the outside world. He must've been one of the last Mounties issued with that old red-lined storm coat. The boy wore it well; it seemed to make the 'boy' descriptor a hair harder to use, but Bob was set in his ways. He folded his hands behind his back and kept step with the boy as he set off on foot, stetsons screwed on heads in unknown unison.
It wasn't a silent walk for long.
"One day you should kiss that woman full on the mouth, just to see what happens."
Turnbull seemed to have no opinion on this.
"She might surprise you. Benton would probably glare at us both - you for good measure - if I said this in front of him, but that's probably just what a woman like that needs. Firm hand. Figuratively, of course. At the very least you should speak for yourself, son. Someone needs to knock both of those two down a peg, and neither of them are interested in that kind of knocking, if you take my meaning. Not sure if you're the fellow to do it. You seem a little flighty. But you're all we've got. That wolf's only interested in his stomach, and the Yank... well. I shudder to think what he's interested in."
The boy Mountie turned a corner and stopped to lean against an alley wall. The move surprised Bob, and he walked two steps beyond the man before truly understanding that Turnbull was taking a break.
Shrugging, Bob took the place beside the man.
"Good man. I can get on board with a little private rebellion. Make the lady wait. --ooh, but watch out there, it'd be a Hell of a thing to smear across the sole of a high brown..."
The boy didn't hear him, and on a position shift, naturally stepped in it. He seemed to feel the... ah... mess as he sank down on it, and his eyes fell closed to what could only be described as a long-suffering sigh.
"Well. I suppose there are worse things," Bob commented with a wince.
Turnbull scraped it delicately off of his boot, inspecting the sole to ensure it was clean. The wrinkle of the man's nose was interrupted by movement across the alley; the mess seemed forgotten on a snapped look to whatever it was. Sure enough. There were moments when the boy truly looked like the Mountie he purported to be.
Their visitor happened to be an alleycat.
Turnbull's was an easy sink to a crouch and an instantly different demeanor; the cat must not have been feral to approach this way. The tentative reach out on the boy's part suggested he understood that the cat might be. Bob liked a man who had selective concern for his dress uniform. At least, the correct sort of selective. The cat spent only a few moments sniffing out the strange stetson'd invader of her alleyway and went nudging into a pet.
"Hello again," Turnbull said simply, petting down her back all the way to the encouraging tail. "I trust no one has disturbed you? You're very pretty, aren't you? Good girl. You know, I would still find you a home, if you like."
The cat provided no answer, aside another smooth motion into a stroke of the boy's rather large hand.
"No, I suppose not. One's territory is one's own; far be it from me to suggest it insufficient."
Bob honestly couldn't find anything to say.
--
He half-expected the boy Mountie to take the cat with him, but she was left to her alley.
Bob didn't know why he was still shadowing Turnbull, except determination to haunt someone for a while that wouldn't call into question the validity or length of his anecdotes. Or the truthfulness, for that matter.
"Is it at least work-related laundry, for Pete's sake?"
No answer came. Bob was starting to think the mirror was a fluke.
He was on point of wondering if she did her dry cleaning in the greater Chicago area when the boy turned into a shop to pick it up. Bob waited outside; he could hear the exchange, the boy unfailingly polite, offering no apparent displeasure at being his Inspector's gopher. The comments he caught in Cantonese regarding the dress uniform made Bob chuckle; personally, he'd never found breathing difficult in the thing, but maybe that was just the excess lung capacity.
When the boy rejoined him outside, dry cleaning slung over his shoulder, Bob took easy step with him. Rambling away about nothing, something he didn't like to do in actual solitude. It felt more natural with someone there, even if they were effectively as deaf as a post. It passed the time. Turnbull walked steadily but didn't hurry, and Bob couldn't blame him.
He was somewhere in the middle of the story of a poacher he tracked down in the outhouse when the Yank pulled up alongside them both.
"Hey, Turnbull!"
"...hello, Detective Vecchio."
"Hello, Yank. Anyone ever tell you your hair makes you look like a man taken permanent fright? I find it hard to believe that's intentional. Surely you come off second best in a fight with a blow-drier every morning..."
"What the Hell are you doing all the way out here? You've gotta be freezing your pumpkin pants off. You wanna ride back to the consulate?"
"Ah-- you certainly don't-- that's a very-- "
"Spit it out, son. It's hardly going to run away from you."
"--my uniform is sufficiently warm, and I appreciate the offer, however--"
"The American might, though, if you make him wait any longer."
"--I do prefer to walk. Thank you kindly."
Detective 'Vecchio' chuckled and shook his head. "...o-kay, Turnbull. Whatever grates your cheese. Hey, listen, do you know if Fraser's gonna be stuck on the stoop today?"
Turnbull frowned; Bob thought he'd have gone yumpy if he'd ever been shoved behind a desk, forced to beck and call, and then kept frustration the size of Nunavut entirely to himself. "No. I will be performing that particular task."
"Oh. Sucks. Thanks, Turnbull. Last chance for a ride..." The last word was musical, drawn as the Detective pulled away, and Turnbull merely waved him off until he was gone.
"...thank you anyway," the boy sighed, briefly pinching the bridge of his nose.
--
"Has anyone ever told you that you're more boring than a burnt-out tree?"
Turnbull didn't answer. At least Bob could pretend he could hear, now; sentry duty necessitated the appearance of obliviousness.
"At least you can climb the tree. It's dangerous, the thing could disintegrate at any second, gives you a rush. It has mystery. Atmosphere. Smoke. Not you. Just standing there. Lord, son, how do you do this dreadful job without climbing out of your skin? They shoved Buck behind a desk and something up there snapped. Never been the same since." Bob slung open his serge, letting it hang from his chest, and sank to the stoop. "If this was my life every damn day I'd probably slap on a mask and fight crime by night. Or cuddle up to some cabbage leaves, but I'd better not talk too much about that in case old Tiberius is listening."
Bob sighed. Maybe Benton would be apologetic by now.
Maybe.
He frowned deeper. Not yet.
Cars passed. People tended to rubberneck at the streak of red on the stoop. Bob didn't blame them. It was quite a uniform.
"Caroline always said my pride would get me in trouble one day."
A young couple walked by, breath fogging in the air. The young blonde took a photo of Turnbull. Bob waved; it was a long shot, but might as well be presentable.
"...she never said it would get me into posthumous tedium."
Time passed. Bob thought Buck would mutter something about finally finding the miracle person who could outlast Bob's ability to flap his face 'til kingdom come.
He raised an eyebrow when the second police cruiser in a row slowly passed; he wondered who the Hell cracked a window in this weather, but he didn't wonder it for long.
"...two-four-two-oh, ten-four..."
The radio was pinched off when the passenger rolled up the window, and with it was pinched off Bob's boredom.
Because at that, the boy had looked over.
It was automatic; Bob could still remember his own, and he recognized the jerk a mile away. The kid had broken stance to do it, and hadn't melted the strange expression just after off his face quickly enough to hide it from a man he couldn't see. He seemed to shiver, a first since they'd been out in the cold.
Bob squinted at him.
"Hm."
--
He'd sat in silence with the boy for the rest of the shift. It had begun to snow, and maybe it was all the years spent where the falling snow was the frequent only companion that staved off his boredom.
Turnbull had a soft fringe of snow across his stetson. Bob's mirrored it, if only for fashion's sake.
When he started to speak, he knocked the snow off his own.
"My FTO was a bastard of a man." Bob sighed. He hadn't thought of old Byrne for a long time now, and with good reason. "In it for all the wrong reasons, though God only knows what some of them were. He did his job, I learned what I was supposed to, but I hated every minute of it. There's rarely been a man more deserving of a cattle prod to the delicates. Self-serving, shrivel-hearted, egocentric fool that wanted to foster his own personal army in the name of the red wall. I transferred out as soon as I could, once it was over. I heard years later that some poor bastard that man trained ended up killing himself. Tried to write it off as a weapons malfunction, but most of us knew. Heard it was something to do with guilt over abusing some of the natives. Terrible thing."
Turnbull still had no opinion. Bob pulled his hat off and shook the rest of the snow free.
"I got lucky. Sometimes I wonder what it is they set out to do with the young minds coming through Depot. What the Hell it's all for. Disposable men. Hell, disposable women."
Bob stood up, knocking the snow off his uniform. He stopped just to look at the boy. Counting down the seconds.
"What the Hell are you doing here, son?"
There was no answer.
Distantly, the clock down the streets chimed, and Turnbull breathed out.
"Have a good night, Constable."
When the Consulate door opened, Bob stepped through, ignoring the puzzled look on his son's face.