DS Holiday Party: For laughingacademy, by omphale
This snippet stuff is tougher than it looks.
For laughingacademy, who requested
Kowalski/Turnbull gen - “The problem with carols is you can’t dance to ’em.”
700 words, PG-13 for language; any helpful comments/suggestions for improvements would be welcome.
Ray stomped into the Consulate, narrowly avoiding Turnbull, who stood awkwardly on a ladder with six feet of garland and a pinecone wreath hanging around his neck. Fraser suspected that Ray lacked the festive state of mind the evening’s festivities were intended to celebrate.
His greeting confirmed it. “I hate Christmas. Wet snow, so everybody forgets how to drive, and the spirit of the season seems to be homicidal rage.” Turnbull peered nervously at Ray, whose gestures were less than restrained. “I swear to god, I was in the store this afternoon and some old woman growled at me.”
“Surely it’s not as bad as all that, Detective Vecchio.” Turnbull teetered, but caught himself before he toppled onto the floor. Again.
Ray kicked at the base of the ladder. “She growled. Like she was Dief and I was holding a frosted doughnut hostage. I was afraid she was going to beat me to death with her umbrella.”
Fraser took Ray’s coat. “I doubt it would have gotten that far.”
“I was holding the last carton of eggnog.”
“Ah.”
Ray rolled his eyes. “Yeah, ah. She’d have taken me out in a heartbeat. So here, have some pineapple juice.”
“Pineapple juice?”
“It was all they had. Shut up and drink it. Merry goddamn Christmas.”
***
Ray slumped into the desk chair and pointed at the tinsel above his head. “That right there is another example. Since when do we need shiny ropes to celebrate anything? Stupid holiday.”
Turnbull ventured a response. “It’s actually several winter holidays, Detective. So you could choose to enjoy Yule or perhaps Hannukah instead. And everyone enjoys the sounds of the season.”
“The problem with carols is you can’t dance to ’em. So shut up, Turnbull.” Ray felt a little guilty for taking his bad mood out on Turnbull, but then he figured screw it, it wouldn’t kill the guy to tone down the goddamn cheer.
Fraser was being annoyingly reasonable. But then, somebody who carved presents out of logs could afford to be charitable. “Last year you were very enthusiastic about the holiday season. You seemed to enjoy it a great deal.”
“Yeah, well, last year I wasn’t myself. I didn’t know any better. Last year I didn’t have to freaking work on Christmas morning.” Last man in got the crappy shifts, and nobody seemed to care that the real Ray Vecchio had plenty of seniority at the 27th.
“I believe you’ll still be able to visit your family in the evening. Francesca was quite insistent that, should I desire to spend some time with the Vecchios, I should consider myself invited to arrive at any time that day. She even invited the rest of the Consular staff.” Turnbull looked ready to pass out at the sheer joy of being invited over to hang out with the Vecchios.
Well, Ray had done that before. It took him three days to get all the Easter grass out of his hair. “I’m not going over there.”
“Then perhaps Stella?” Fraser was really grasping at straws.
“No way. Not this year. I think I’ll just sit home and eat leftover pizza. Maybe watch Jimmy Stewart or something.”
Fraser gave a “Ray, if you’re going to be an idiot, there’s nothing I can do” kind of sigh. “I’ll need to go check on dinner. If you’ll excuse me?”
“Yeah, whatever. I’ll just hang out here. Turnbull and I can talk about curling.”
Fraser shook his head. “I really wish you’d discuss something less contentious. The Middle East peace process, perhaps?”
Ray leaned back, just in time to watch Turnbull windmill his arms and fall backwards into the hall. He hit the floor with a thud, trailing pine needles. He quickly sat up. “I’m all right. Really, I’m fine. No harm done.”
Well, his brains didn’t seem any more rattled than usual. Ray pointed in triumph. “See? Christmas is bad for you. It’s unhealthy.”
Fraser came back into the room. He looked at Turnbull, on the floor and covered in garland, then walked over to Ray and stuck a gingerbread man in his mouth. “Shut up, Ray. Have a cookie.”
For laughingacademy, who requested
Kowalski/Turnbull gen - “The problem with carols is you can’t dance to ’em.”
700 words, PG-13 for language; any helpful comments/suggestions for improvements would be welcome.
Ray stomped into the Consulate, narrowly avoiding Turnbull, who stood awkwardly on a ladder with six feet of garland and a pinecone wreath hanging around his neck. Fraser suspected that Ray lacked the festive state of mind the evening’s festivities were intended to celebrate.
His greeting confirmed it. “I hate Christmas. Wet snow, so everybody forgets how to drive, and the spirit of the season seems to be homicidal rage.” Turnbull peered nervously at Ray, whose gestures were less than restrained. “I swear to god, I was in the store this afternoon and some old woman growled at me.”
“Surely it’s not as bad as all that, Detective Vecchio.” Turnbull teetered, but caught himself before he toppled onto the floor. Again.
Ray kicked at the base of the ladder. “She growled. Like she was Dief and I was holding a frosted doughnut hostage. I was afraid she was going to beat me to death with her umbrella.”
Fraser took Ray’s coat. “I doubt it would have gotten that far.”
“I was holding the last carton of eggnog.”
“Ah.”
Ray rolled his eyes. “Yeah, ah. She’d have taken me out in a heartbeat. So here, have some pineapple juice.”
“Pineapple juice?”
“It was all they had. Shut up and drink it. Merry goddamn Christmas.”
***
Ray slumped into the desk chair and pointed at the tinsel above his head. “That right there is another example. Since when do we need shiny ropes to celebrate anything? Stupid holiday.”
Turnbull ventured a response. “It’s actually several winter holidays, Detective. So you could choose to enjoy Yule or perhaps Hannukah instead. And everyone enjoys the sounds of the season.”
“The problem with carols is you can’t dance to ’em. So shut up, Turnbull.” Ray felt a little guilty for taking his bad mood out on Turnbull, but then he figured screw it, it wouldn’t kill the guy to tone down the goddamn cheer.
Fraser was being annoyingly reasonable. But then, somebody who carved presents out of logs could afford to be charitable. “Last year you were very enthusiastic about the holiday season. You seemed to enjoy it a great deal.”
“Yeah, well, last year I wasn’t myself. I didn’t know any better. Last year I didn’t have to freaking work on Christmas morning.” Last man in got the crappy shifts, and nobody seemed to care that the real Ray Vecchio had plenty of seniority at the 27th.
“I believe you’ll still be able to visit your family in the evening. Francesca was quite insistent that, should I desire to spend some time with the Vecchios, I should consider myself invited to arrive at any time that day. She even invited the rest of the Consular staff.” Turnbull looked ready to pass out at the sheer joy of being invited over to hang out with the Vecchios.
Well, Ray had done that before. It took him three days to get all the Easter grass out of his hair. “I’m not going over there.”
“Then perhaps Stella?” Fraser was really grasping at straws.
“No way. Not this year. I think I’ll just sit home and eat leftover pizza. Maybe watch Jimmy Stewart or something.”
Fraser gave a “Ray, if you’re going to be an idiot, there’s nothing I can do” kind of sigh. “I’ll need to go check on dinner. If you’ll excuse me?”
“Yeah, whatever. I’ll just hang out here. Turnbull and I can talk about curling.”
Fraser shook his head. “I really wish you’d discuss something less contentious. The Middle East peace process, perhaps?”
Ray leaned back, just in time to watch Turnbull windmill his arms and fall backwards into the hall. He hit the floor with a thud, trailing pine needles. He quickly sat up. “I’m all right. Really, I’m fine. No harm done.”
Well, his brains didn’t seem any more rattled than usual. Ray pointed in triumph. “See? Christmas is bad for you. It’s unhealthy.”
Fraser came back into the room. He looked at Turnbull, on the floor and covered in garland, then walked over to Ray and stuck a gingerbread man in his mouth. “Shut up, Ray. Have a cookie.”