FIC: Federal Bureau of Illumination (Ray Levoi/Walter Crow Horse, PG-13) for myhappyface
Federal Bureau of Illumination, PG-13 for myhappyface
Thunderheart, Ray/Walter, deciding whether or not you really need to change the light bulb
Slow days at the Bear Creek police department were a lot different from slow days at the FBI. At the FBI, a slow day meant you didn’t get shot at; when it was slow at the tribal PD, it was like time stopped.
Ray sat in Crow Horse’s office, reclined in Crow Horse’s chair, watching one of the fluorescents above the desk flicker. On a normal day, he might have given the thing a casual glance, but they hadn’t had a call all morning, and he’d been watching the light die for half an hour.
“Get your feet off my desk,” Crow Horse said again, not looking up from his dusting.
Ray ignored him.
“Mm-hmm,” he said.
Crow Horse rolled his eyes. “Why don’t you just change the damn thing out, Special Agent Raymond Levoi, Federal Bureau of Illumination?”
Ray watched the long tube darken, and then fill once more with a weak glow. “Then what will I have to do?”
“You could help me clean.”
Ray made a face. Crow Horse sighed.
“You’re a real pain in the ass when you’re bored, know that?”
“Yeah,” Ray said absently. “You tell me that all the time.”
“Why don’t you change the damn light bulb, then take the afternoon off, go out to Grampa’s and work on your Lakota?”
Ray shrugged, mulishly. The light darkened again; Ray counted the seconds until it came back on.
“Do another one,” he said.
Crow Horse looked up from polishing the glass of his diploma frame. “Another one what?”
“Another government acronym.” Crow Horse just looked at him, so he added, “Like the Federal Bureau of Illumination, or the Federal Bureau of Intimidation. Or like how you call BIA the Bureau of Indian Aggravation.”
Crow Horse grinned. “You like those, huh?”
“Yeah. Do . . . do IHS.”
“Indian Harassment Service.”
Ray laughed. “CIA?”
“Too easy: Central Idiocy Agency.”
“NSA?”
“National Stalking Agency.”
Ray laughed again. Then the space around him went dark; he looked up to the light bulb.
“I think it’s finally dead.”
“Whatever will you do with yourself now, Raymond?”
Ray sighed. He swung his feet off Crow Horse’s desk, started up.
“Guess I’ll change the damn thing. What’ll you give me if I do?”
Crow Horse’s brow rose. “Give you? How about my ever-lasting respect?”
Ray snorted. “We both know that’s a lie.”
“I’m not sure what you’re getting after.”
Ray checked his watch. “It’s about time for a nooner. What’ya think?”
Crow Horse stopped his cleaning, came over beside Ray to study the dead fluorescent.
“I dunno. Not sure changing a light bulb’s worth a piece of my fine ass.”
Ray rolled his eyes. Crow Horse laughed, and rested his hand on Ray’s shoulder, the pad of his thumb massaging the bumps of Ray’s spine.
“Well,” he drawled. “I am your boss, and I guess part of my job is keeping up morale. I don’t want handprints or nothing on the ceiling, though; you better do a helluva job, gettin’ it up.”
Ray stopped on his way out the door, and grinned. “Yeah, boss. You too.”