Fic: Langlock [Due South, G]
Title: Langlock
Fandom: Due South; Wizard!Verse
Rating: G
Characters: Renfield Turnbull, Russ Severn, Mike Chase
Words: 533
Summary: Turnbull discovers his new detachment.
I am not so arrogant as to call these muggles quaint, but I must admit they seem far less severe than Depot would suggest.
Staff Sergeant Severn, for the brief time I have been in his presence, reminds me of grand childhood notions of a what a father should be like. He is not the first superior to brush across that particular mental wiring; one or two of my instructors fit that bill, too, and I wondered then as I do now what that means for my psyche. He seems dignified, not necessarily accessible, but seemingly firm in his footsteps on the Earth. This gives me confidence.
It is strange looking at this detachment building and thinking that soon it will be something of mine, where I will find a home base between patrols. It is a novelty. It must be the same as many others across Canada, but this one will be mine. I will live a mostly muggle life, filled with mostly muggle people, including this one. I find I regret, on some level, that Severn cannot know quite what has wandered into his ranks.
He gestures toward the man I have heard walk by the office door twice now, when he walks by the third time. Severn looks ever so slightly exasperated, but the edge of good humor is endearing.
"All right, Mike. You can come in."
Well, then. I stand, turning to greet a new colleague, and the man who steps in seems entirely enthusiastic to be working with a new Mountie. The smile below a rather well-kept mustache is somewhat infectious, and mine grows from duty to genuine as I shake his hand.
I meet his eye. Something must be quite infectious about his enthusiasm, because his eyes are quite... quite... Well.
"Hello. I'm... I'm--" --blushing, apparently. My blush mechanism has always been notoriously easy to trip, but even I do not quite understand why, this time. His handshake is firm. Brief, precisely as such things should be. His eyes are strange; dark, something different. I am scattering to figure out what it is I feel I've seen in them; I'm a fair reader of people. They elude me on very many levels, but I can feel it when something isn't quite right.
This does not feel quite the same. But my smile aches for how far it has grown, in some strange hope that his will remain long enough for me to find the answer.
"--my new rook. Turnbull, right?"
What?
I'm honestly trying to figure that statement out in terms of chess, which makes for a fine if still baffling distraction from trying to figure out why my demeanor has hit a pothole and been rattled through its frame.
"--Turnbull, yes."
"Meet your FTO, Constable," the Sergeant offers, sighing as though this has somehow inconvenienced him. "Corporal Chase; Constable Turnbull."
Rook.
Rookie?
Ah.
I fold my hands behind my back, grit my teeth for the barest moment, and shove aside notions of reading a pair of eyes that should be reading mine, not the other way around. He is my teacher. This is... That is... Hm. I carefully find my way to English again.
"Sir."
Fandom: Due South; Wizard!Verse
Rating: G
Characters: Renfield Turnbull, Russ Severn, Mike Chase
Words: 533
Summary: Turnbull discovers his new detachment.
I am not so arrogant as to call these muggles quaint, but I must admit they seem far less severe than Depot would suggest.
Staff Sergeant Severn, for the brief time I have been in his presence, reminds me of grand childhood notions of a what a father should be like. He is not the first superior to brush across that particular mental wiring; one or two of my instructors fit that bill, too, and I wondered then as I do now what that means for my psyche. He seems dignified, not necessarily accessible, but seemingly firm in his footsteps on the Earth. This gives me confidence.
It is strange looking at this detachment building and thinking that soon it will be something of mine, where I will find a home base between patrols. It is a novelty. It must be the same as many others across Canada, but this one will be mine. I will live a mostly muggle life, filled with mostly muggle people, including this one. I find I regret, on some level, that Severn cannot know quite what has wandered into his ranks.
He gestures toward the man I have heard walk by the office door twice now, when he walks by the third time. Severn looks ever so slightly exasperated, but the edge of good humor is endearing.
"All right, Mike. You can come in."
Well, then. I stand, turning to greet a new colleague, and the man who steps in seems entirely enthusiastic to be working with a new Mountie. The smile below a rather well-kept mustache is somewhat infectious, and mine grows from duty to genuine as I shake his hand.
I meet his eye. Something must be quite infectious about his enthusiasm, because his eyes are quite... quite... Well.
"Hello. I'm... I'm--" --blushing, apparently. My blush mechanism has always been notoriously easy to trip, but even I do not quite understand why, this time. His handshake is firm. Brief, precisely as such things should be. His eyes are strange; dark, something different. I am scattering to figure out what it is I feel I've seen in them; I'm a fair reader of people. They elude me on very many levels, but I can feel it when something isn't quite right.
This does not feel quite the same. But my smile aches for how far it has grown, in some strange hope that his will remain long enough for me to find the answer.
"--my new rook. Turnbull, right?"
What?
I'm honestly trying to figure that statement out in terms of chess, which makes for a fine if still baffling distraction from trying to figure out why my demeanor has hit a pothole and been rattled through its frame.
"--Turnbull, yes."
"Meet your FTO, Constable," the Sergeant offers, sighing as though this has somehow inconvenienced him. "Corporal Chase; Constable Turnbull."
Rook.
Rookie?
Ah.
I fold my hands behind my back, grit my teeth for the barest moment, and shove aside notions of reading a pair of eyes that should be reading mine, not the other way around. He is my teacher. This is... That is... Hm. I carefully find my way to English again.
"Sir."