Fic: Three States Part II (Cowritten with slwatson, Due South, Turnbull/Vecchio, PG-13)

[kalijean]

Three States
Fandom: Due South
Characters: Turnbull/Vecchio (pre-slash)
Rating: PG-13
Words: 23322 Total (All parts)
Summary: Ray takes a hit to the vest. The result? Three states, three days, and two men in the best sort of trouble.
Notes: Arch to the Sky. Co-written with slwatson. Please allow me to assure you that all the good bits are hers.

Part I - Part II - Part III - Part IV - Part V

Francesca Vecchio was on the phone.

This should not have been unusual. There were still ongoing communication between the 27th precinct and the Consulate by virtue of the Muldoon mess alone, not to mention a mess of other cases with which Benton Fraser had been involved.

Now even Turnbull had something to say on one or two, considering his ride-along habit.

No, what was unusual was the sound -- by now a familiar almost monotone -- of Lieutenant Welsh in the background, and the immediate mid-sentence hush of Francesca.

Even Turnbull's exceptional hearing missed most of whatever soft information Welsh gave her. She must have covered the receiver. He caught a bit of a rustle, the first names of two of the Vecchio siblings, and what he thought was something about giving her a ride. When her voice came again down the line, it was cracked.

"--I've gotta go, Turnbull." She sighed down the receiver, something anxious and shuddering, and hung up.

"Of-- of course," Turnbull answered, fully aware there was no one to hear him.

Something inside him sank.

Face fallen, he blinked at the phone in his hand, threads of a thousand possibilities branching at frightening speed. None of them good. He couldn't pinpoint the moment he'd come to believe it his place to pry into what went on at the 2-7, but his gut was in knots now. Francesca was given to the occasional moments of something he would privately label as melodrama, but that particular tone of voice never boded well.

Inspector Thatcher wandered by carrying a file folder and gave Turnbull a short once-over. "You have to dial it for it to work, Constable." It was a casually thrown comment at his expense. Nothing unusual.

Turnbull snapped a look her way, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched.

Thatcher actually started, freezing for a moment to stare incredulously.

Schooled, his glare melted away with a blink. "Of course, sir. How silly of me."

She squinted at him for a long, suspicious moment before nodding apparent approval and going -- slowly -- about her business.

Turnbull's eyes fell again to the phone he was holding. He pressed the button to get another dialtone and redialed the precinct, this time asking for Ray Vecchio's desk.

It took four different people offering four different answers for Turnbull to get anything he could consider reliable, and it certainly didn't make him feel any better. In the meantime, he felt like his heart was going to beat its way out of his ribcage and make quite the untidy mess on his desk. It didn't help that the first thing he heard, said with a casualness that made him want to tear out of his skin, was that Ray had been shot.

"Yeah, I hear he got into a shootout with a bunch of drug dealers," Huey said into the phone, having been the first to answer. Then, apparently, he was unaware that he had a half-panicking Mountie on the other end and took his mouth away from the phone to talk to Dewey. "That's just what I heard."

"--give me that. Turnbull? That you?" Dewey now had the phone. "I heard that he just stumbled into some kind of situation with a single drug dealer, but word is, he's not dead."

Turnbull went to open his mouth, trying to ask a question -- he wasn't even sure what question -- but nothing came out. That statement should have been a relief. It wasn't, quite. He couldn't understand how they could treat this with such nonchalance. In the meantime, Thompson was ranting in the background and Dewey took the phone away from his ear to yell back, "I'm just telling him what I know! Get off my back already, unless you got the answer!"

Which, of course, led to person number three being passed Detective Vecchio's phone. And Thompson's slow voice came on. "Excuse me, Constable, but I believe that it was an ambush, and that they were laying in wait."

Finally, Welsh's voice broke into the sudden argument between the three detectives, and by then, Turnbull was wondering if he could crawl through the phone line and perhaps apply the receiver liberally to their heads. He didn't even realize how hard he was gripping his own, until he heard a little crack.

"All right, enough. You're all speculating." Welsh's voice came into clear definition on the other end. "Listen: Vecchio was serving a warrant on a small-time dealer. Word is that the guy wasn't in the room, but he came around the corner and fired. According to what I know -- which isn't everything, but it's damn good enough -- he took two shots to the vest, and it stopped them from punching holes in him. Got it?"

There was the handsome thud of his forehead bouncing off the desk down the line before Turnbull answered in a strained affirmative.

And they all called him flighty.

At the very least, they seemed to agree on which hospital to find. Which was convenient, because the first thing Turnbull did upon hanging up the phone was scramble to go find Inspector Thatcher.

He found a wall instead.

It was comedic, really. Turnbull knew that it should be, sitting crumpled to the floor with his eyes crossed at his aching nose.

Somehow, he guessed that wasn't the last self-battering he was in for before the day was out.

Renfield was far more terse with the taxi agency than he'd meant to be, and he all but forgot to ask permission to leave. One part panicked, one part dangerous, Turnbull's state coupled with the nice red mark on his face had been enough to convince Inspector Thatcher to grant that sick leave.

Which was to say, it got a 'fine, get out, dismissed' that functioned just as well.

No holes. No holes. Turnbull reminded himself to breathe on the taxi ride over. Normally he'd rely on his own two feet. Not today.

Francesca Vecchio was still on the phone.

The hospital corridor was a chaos of Vecchios. Turnbull thought that was the perfect collective noun for them; a 'mess' seemed disrespectful. A 'pack' was entirely too organized. A chaos. He felt it did their collective presence honor.

This was precisely no time to play word games in his own head.

Francesca was chattering, half-choked up, to someone over what appeared to be Ray's cell phone. It was fortunate, if frightening; details were rattled off rapid-fire within his earshot. Turnbull wondered idly who she was updating.

Then he remembered it wasn't his business.

Neither, in fact, did he believe anyone would think it was his business to be here. Turnbull shyly removed his stetson, pressing it to his chest. He offered Francesca the smallest wave, something sympathetic to go with the look of sick worry on his face.

She completely failed to notice, pacing across the floor as she kept chattering.

The other Vecchios didn't pay him much mind, either; huddled together, there was quite a mix of worries, frustrations, irritations and proclamations that Ray should consider retiring. Turnbull didn't particularly mean to eavesdrop -- in fact, he would have preferred to stay far away from that conversation, but since they would be the first given information, he had little choice but to stay close-- but they spoke so loudly that it was impossible to not-hear the discussion. That didn't mean he didn't try; in fact, he found one of those diamond-shaped floor tiles and stared at it, trying to focus so much on it that the words just floated around his head without landing.

That almost worked, until Francesca gave his arm a tug, pulling the phone away from her ear to ask, "What are you doing here?"

It was almost a hiss and it made Turnbull want to melt into the floor. Or the wall. Or, for that matter, just about anything solid that would put some sort of barrier between him and Francesca. Not gifted with any supernatural abilities, however, he stared back, opening his mouth to answer.

"Look, I have my family with me. It's really sweet of you to come all the way here to check on me and make sure I'm okay, but I'm fine."

It took him a scrambling moment to realize she was talking to him and not the phone. He still couldn't seem to force a reply. He was too busy staring, mouth hanging open.

Francesca kept claim on that arm and looped her own through it, which didn't help with that urge to melt into something. She went back to the phone for a moment, saying, "Yeah, I'll let you know when I know. Ma's fine, she's just shaken up. Marie's got her. ... Okay, I love you too. Bye." She closed the phone and then looked up at Turnbull again, seriously. "It really is very sweet of you, but just because I hung up the phone on you doesn't mean--"

"I'm here for Ray."

It was Francesca's turn to blink, agape. Mouth working. Just staring up at him, dumbfounded.

Now was not the time to turn red, but Turnbull did. He clutched his stetson a little tighter, trying to follow that statement up with something else, but finding nothing whatsoever. Which just left both of them staring blankly at each other.

Finally, Francesca managed to find words. "You're... here for my brother?"

"Yes." There, that wasn't so hard. He was a little shocked that she thought otherwise, given how much time of late he'd been spending with Ray Vecchio. "Though, I would be glad to offer whatever support-- I mean, should your family need anything--"

"You're here for Ray?"

If he could have shrunk down to the size of a Lilliputian, it would have been an accurate representation to how he felt. Turnbull just managed a nod. He was being stared at by Francesca Vecchio -- she still had very pretty eyes -- and by now, the rest of the chaos of Vecchios had fallen quiet to watch, and he thought running away was rapidly becoming an option. He wasn't even sure why he wanted to run away, but under the scrutiny, he was given to think that perhaps he had done something wrong that he had yet to become aware of, and--

"Oh," Francesca said, slowly letting go of his arm. She looked disoriented. "I thought you... I guess I thought you were hanging around so much to be near me."

Turnbull glanced down at his own arm, immensely relieved that the contact had ceased; he wasn't comfortable being touched. Even so, he would've traded more of it to have the sea of eyes off him.

He was scrambling again for something to say, and a few stutters later, provided precisely the wrong thing. "No." That was it. He was gaping at her, she was gaping at him, and he could provide nothing else.

Francesca seemed to shrink back, hugging herself with the phone tucked under one arm. "Oh," she repeated, pressing her lips together and turning around.

It wasn't helping that melt-into-something urge. "Perhaps I should wait outside." Turnbull was backing up by short steps, gesturing with his stetson, intensely aware of his avenue of exit. The debate between worrying for Ray and knowing his place in being here were quite at war with one another. "Of course it isn't-- my business, perhaps I should not have come--"

At some point in the proceedings, the matriarch of the Vecchio family had stood slowly up. "Don't be silly, dear."

That was a fine way to get Turnbull to stop in his backward tracks. Hat abuse of that type should really be against the uniform code.

Even Francesca turned a surprised look to her mother, though it appeared to be more for the shock of the interrupted conversation than any surprise at the sentiment. "Ma--"

"Of course the Mountie's welcome, Francesca."

Ah. Yes. Of course. The Mountie. Turnbull wondered briefly if Mrs. Vecchio had even seen enough of Benton Fraser to notice that there had been a change. Considering that most people thought of Turnbull as a cheap replacement, Turnbull would be reasonably grateful if she hadn't.

The woman looked exhausted, ragged, but still projected a kind of firm but mothering presence that not even Turnbull could quite resist. She took her arm off one of the children to gesture widely at Turnbull. "Come here. What is your name, sweetheart?"

Turnbull was taking a few tentative steps forward, trying to shake off enough of his mental lockup to answer her, when a doctor stepped into the hallway flipping through a chart.

Conversation died. All eyes fell to the man.

Quite apparently, nonchalance was not the sole purview of the 2-7; his voice was half-absent. Not quite dismissive, but something along the lines of having his mind somewhere else and not particularly feeling it important to drag it back. The doctor gestured with the chart. "Vecchio family?" When he got a nod or five, he continued, "Chest x-rays are fine. He has substantial bruising and it's caused the nerve damage from prior injury to flare, but there's no permanent damage from this particular injury. We'll keep him for observation overnight; I'll send a nurse down to tell you which room he's in as soon as he's in there."

It was clipped, it was detached and it was somehow very irritating. An entire family was standing here, hearts in their throats, and it rather galled Turnbull that more compassion couldn't be displayed.

Even more galling, the doctor didn't bother to wait around to answer any questions the Vecchios might have had. Silence fell again, as everyone stared after the white coat that had disappeared down the hallway, and then finally, Maria spoke up. "Prick."

Red-faced though he was, Turnbull's first thought was 'indeed'. Which was why Ma Vecchio reaching out to swat Maria confused him greatly.

"There is no excuse for swearing. And in front of a guest." The exchange had broken the spell left in the doctor's wake, and Ma Vecchio looked immediately back to Turnbull, gesturing him over again. "What's your name, dear?"

She must have known the difference. That fact hadn't quite registered the first time she asked.

"Constable Turnbull, ma'am. I'm terribly sorry to have intruded, it was not at all my intention to--"

"Stop that now." She waved it off with one hand. "What's your name, dear?"

"...Renfield, ma'am."

Tony snorted, earning a glare from just about everyone but Francesca, who still looked dazed.

"Hello, Renfield," Mrs. Vecchio offered with a soft, if exhausted, little smile. It seemed as though an opportunity for mothering was better than more worried chatter, and for that matter, the definitive news that Ray would be all right had deflated quite a bit of tension. "Lovely to meet you. Stop fidgeting, dear, it makes me nervous. Find a seat. Calm down. You look like you're about to run away."

Dumbstruck stare permanently fixed to his face, Turnbull did as he was told, settling back in a seat. "--likewise, ma'am. That is-- it being a pleasure to meet you, not the, ah-- hm. Running away..."

"Good boy. Knowing this hospital, we'll be here a while, you might as well be comfortable. Are you friends with my son? You were worried about him? That's very sweet, dear. Why hasn't he ever brought you over for dinner?"

That was a fairly good question, but the answer was one that Turnbull wasn't particularly willing to guess about at this juncture. There was actually quite a bit that he didn't know about Ray Vecchio, and he had made it something of a point not to question that. He figured -- rightly, to his own mind -- that the man's personal life was his own business. "I-- I'm not particularly-- that is to say, I don't know. I hadn't thought to ask."

"Well, we should change that. I can't understand what's gotten into him." She sank into her own seat, settling with an expression that suggested she had a great deal of weight on her shoulders and was relieved to share it with the chair. "He has not been the same since he came back from that horrible job. I wasn't even invited to his wedding; imagine that."

"He wasn't even invited to his own wedding, Ma," Frannie grumbled, apparently breaking from her daze. "He wasn't even invited to his own divorce."

There was quite a long moment where Turnbull was absolutely sure that he was in the single most awkward place in the universe. Not for the first time, but now, it felt like it was magnified ten-fold.

Mercifully enough, it seemed to temporarily distract the Vecchios. "There's something weird up with him," Tony said, leaning against the wall. "I think he's got a honey or three on the side. He spends way too many nights out late."

...oh. Dear.

Turnbull thought better of it only two seconds after it was out of his mouth, speaking up in innocent defense of Ray, who he could not imagine having any... 'honeys' on the side. "I assure you, he isn't... that is, most evenings of late, we've worked together on his cases and occasionally shared dinner."

Of course, after that two seconds and the entire chaos of Vecchios turning their gazes back on him, Turnbull had a sudden, definite urge to hide behind a chair.

It was Tony who narrowed his eyes, giving Turnbull long look up and down. After a moment, he snorted again.

Hat abuse. Turnbull was sure now he was committing hat abuse for how tightly he was holding it, and he was absolutely, painfully, abidingly, hilariously sure that he knew exactly what the entire chaos of them were thinking. Something along the lines of 'empty red suit'.

"What, do you Mountie guys come issued with the badge, or something?" Tony was on the receiving end of quite the arm slap from his wife for that one, and they glared at one another for an excruciatingly awkward moment before Tony apologized without looking away from her. "Sorry."

"No apology is necessary." It was quiet. Too quiet. He wanted to laugh for it, really.

Tony was looking off, muttering more quietly. "What? I thought it was funny..."

Maria groaned and put a hand to her own forehead.

Turnbull was exceptionally grateful for Mrs. Vecchio about then; she interjected again, pointedly resuming the conversation. "That's nice, dear. It's sweet of you to keep him busy."

Francesca muttered something along the lines of it making no sense and it wasn't hard to gather what she was talking about. Namely, her firm belief that the only reason Turnbull was hanging around was because of her. While he could, perhaps, follow the... disturbing, illogical tracks she took to that particular thought, he couldn't quite fathom why she would be so offended when it turned out to be her brother whose company he was seeking.

He wasn't entirely ready to get into that right now, and so, he focused on Mrs. Vecchio. "It's been a rewarding experience for a number of reasons, not least of which is that your son is a fine detective, and it's admittedly been quite some time since I've been allowed to engage in police work versus more secretarial and ceremonial duties--"

"You did police work?" Francesca asked, disbelief in every note.

It was one of those moments where Turnbull could have gone either way -- shrank back and politely stammered it off, or held his ground. He wasn't certain of how he could have been so desperate to change the subject that he would resort to that one. It took a moment of wrestling with himself, but he fell on the side of the latter.

He wasn't even sure why. But after Thatcher's off-handed remark earlier, after listening to the 2-7 speculating on Ray's life or the potential ending of it, after all of it, even the spike of anxiety he felt wasn't enough to stop him from answering in a voice he only rarely used these days, "Yes, Francesca; before the consulate, I was stationed in Nipawin, Saskatchewan, and while the community was small and often quiet, I did act and function as a police officer."

If the knowledge wasn't enough to throw her off, the tone likely was. And it was then the most disturbing look dawned in her eyes. It was a look that he had seen many a time, and it was always -- invariably -- aimed at Benton Fraser.

It wasn't as though the entire Vecchio chaos couldn't smell that attitude on Francesca from ten paces.

A kind of sickly-sweet smile appeared on her face, and Turnbull found himself very slowly getting up.

Tony snorted a third time. At least he had the good grace to try and cover it, though it still earned him an elbow in the side from his wife.

"Really?" Francesca asked, as though it was suddenly the most fascinating subject under the sun.

"Yes," Turnbull replied quickly, taking a step back. There was a bitter little thought of Why couldn't you have asked about that when I still might've been interested? That seemed like a long time ago, now. "I would be-- ah-- happy to tell you more about it, except I'm afraid I find myself quite-- quite hungry at the moment and-- ah... I will... hm." He gestured with his hat, that sweet duty smile back on his face for fear that anything else would only draw more of her attention. "I will be over here."

Turnbull couldn't kid himself that the word for what he did next was anything but 'flee'.

Francesca Vecchio was on the phone.

Raymond Vecchio wished he had the brain power to coordinate throwing the call button at her, but the damn thing was attached to a cord, and it wouldn't reach even if he could throw it. She was apparently gushing to one of her girlfriends about...

Turnbull?

Ray thought about telling her to leave the Mountie alone, but then he had his mother stroking his forehead and he had to keep down any biting comments towards Frannie while reassuring his mother that he really was okay, and yeah, this sucked, but he was doped up pretty good against the pain and his vest had protected him from the worst of it.

"Ma, Ma... I'm fine. Just kinda sleepy," he said, for what felt like the hundredth time. It was true. He was sleepy. Whatever they gave him made him want to close his eyes. He felt a little chilled, but that was a fair trade against the crushing, knife-like pain he'd been in before. "Doc says I'll be out tomorrow."

"Oh, Raimundo, this job of yours. It will make me an old woman before my time." She leaned in to kiss his forehead, and Ray felt a spike of ache that had nothing to do with the physical.

"I promise, Ma, I'm okay. It's nothin'. Just some bruises." He closed his eyes, and then when she drew away, he barked at Frannie, "Will you knock that off?"

"What?!" she demanded back, eying him in pure indignation, holding the phone away from her mouth.

"Don't get any ideas about him, Frannie." It was a warning, and Ray meant it. He wasn't ready to go through this dance again.

She narrowed her eyes back at him, pointing with the still-connected phone. "Who I choose to see is none of your business, brother-mine, so just back off."

"My friend, my business. Leave him alone."

"Enough, already," Marie said, stealing in to give Ray a kiss on the forehead as well. She looked tired, thoroughly irritated and more than a little ready to go home. She dropped her voice, "I'll take them home, we just wanted to make sure you were okay."

Ray couldn't quite help but smile for that. "Promise?"

"Yeah," Marie answered, resting her forehead against his for a moment. Then she straightened up and gestured to the door. "C'mon, let's go. Let's let him rest."

Frannie eyed him some more, and somehow managed both a sweet kiss to his cheek while still hanging onto that glare. Ray understood both gestures, instinctively. 'I love you, and you're a pain in my ass.' The smile he gave back to her just made her glare even more. Tony waved, awkwardly. And Marie walked with Ma to the door. Frannie was already back on the phone, already back doing exactly what he told her not to do, which was get ideas off of her girlfriend on how to seduce hapless Mounties.

Speaking of...

Ray eyed the phone, and then tried to get his rather battered, very drugged body to move. He had no clue what time it was, but he should at least call Ren and let him know that he wasn't gonna be there to pick him up from work...

There was a Mountie floating around outside the door.

That was to say; pacing. Flittering. Wandering. Fidgeting. Bouncing. Hovering. Loitering.

Turnbull really had to stifle the urge to be a walking thesaurus when he was nervous. It wasn't as if he could usually get the words out of his mouth once he'd thought of them.

Honestly, he had obscured his face with his hat when Francesca exited. Like he might be able to camouflage himself with it. He felt utterly silly when he lowered it to discover she'd been far too engrossed in her phone conversation - and he thought he caught his name, for pity's sake - to have seen him.

He wandered, flittered, hovered for a little while after. Gathering will.

A passing nurse eyed him warily, and Turnbull offered him an earnest smile. It didn't seem to help. The nurse eyed him critically..

Turnbull figured he'd better pick something and go with it.

In the end, he clutched that poor, abused hat to his chest even tighter, and he slipped into Ray's room, utterly lost for something to say.

Well, maybe there was one thing he could do. Ray was clearly trying to get to the phone, and also clearly having a hard time of it, so Turnbull stepped over to pick it up and offer it.

"Oh, hey, thanks..." Ray said, taking it and then staring for a long moment up, kind of dumbfounded. Turnbull had a brief thought about whether this was going to be the theme of the day -- speechless Vecchios, in singles or a chaos.

Then Ray's face broke into a kind of wondering smile. His expression was dazed, but clearly pleased and surprised and touched. "Wow, you came all the way over here to see me? I was just about to call and tell you I couldn't pick you up, 'cause I'm here at the hospital and that."

"It's-- well, it's 7:00PM," Turnbull answered, not entirely sure what to do with that look he was getting. It was... startling? Startling. He wasn't often one to get a look like that. He wasn't even sure what feeling he could ascribe to it. "I thought to-- I mean, I was concerned when I heard you'd been wounded." Understatement.

"Ahh, I'm okay," Ray said, then tried to put the phone back. Rather like trying to throw the receiver at the cradle. "Sorry I wasn't there to pick you up. Wrong guy in the wrong place, and the next thing I know, things go crazy."

Turnbull took the receiver as deftly as he'd handed it over, placing it back on the cradle. "Detective, that's hardly something for which you should apologize. You were fulfilling your duty. It does not compare in the least to having me walk home." He sighed quietly before letting his hand slip from the phone. "However... you really should be far more careful..." The extent of his worry bled through a little at that, and he cleared his throat before turning his duty grin back on Ray.

"Hey." The word was drawn, soft. Ray put his hand to the edge of the hospital bed, clearly a bit surprised to go with the touched. Turnbull still had no clue what to do with that look. Run away from it, perhaps. It was a very contradictory urge to the reason he was there. "Hey, I'm okay, you know?"

"Of course you are," Turnbull replied, holding onto his polite little duty smile.

"Nah, don't do that." That hand was pointing at him, now. "You didn't come all the way down here just to give me that. Look at me. I'm fine. Okay?"

"Yes, Ray."

They both stopped at that one; it took Turnbull several beats to realize just what was out of place there.

Oh.

"...Detective."

"No, no. Heck no." Ray grinned brighter this time. "No way do you get to go back to 'Detective' now. 'Cause if I gotta go get myself shot a few more times just to get you to call me 'Ray', it's gonna be a really long summer."

This speechlessness really was very annoying on several levels, and following an awkward moment of disbelief before he realized he was being teased, Turnbull cleared his throat and dropped his head. "Yes, Ray."

"Good." Ray settled back again and dragged his blanket up, closing his eyes, still wearing that grin. "Oh, watch out for my sister. I think she's got it in her head to seduce you, and that won't go down well at all. I don't know where she gets these ideas. Maybe it's the uniform."

"I... perhaps. But I am already aware of her-- I suppose it must be fascination? Her fascination." It left a sour sort of taste in his mouth to think about, for any number of reasons. At least a few of which he didn't feel as though he should even be entertaining, especially right now. "Is there anything you need? I'm not aware of whether you're allowed to have food or water, but I would be glad to go and see what might be found."

"Nah." Ray tried to shift, winced, and apparently decided better of it. "If you don't got anywhere to be, you can sit and tell me about your day, but if you gotta go, I get it. You got a ride home, Ren?"

"I'm able to make use of taxi services, though now that it isn't so-- ah, urgent, I'm happy to walk. In any case, I would--" It shouldn't have been quite so awkward to say. "--hm. Prefer to stay, if you-- that is, if it would be no imposition."

"What did I just say, Ren? Did I just say you could sit and talk at me, or are they gettin' creative with the IV?" It was the kind bluster of Ray's, tempered some by the drugs and the pain, but still something Turnbull had come to understand over the past few weeks.

"...Det-- Ray, I highly doubt anyone on staff is so reckless as to-- ah. You did, yes."

"'s what I thought."

Turnbull fidgeted some more with his hat, bouncing on his feet. A moment's further awkward and he finally did settle into a chair nearby.

"Wasn't so hard, was it?"

"No, Ray." A beat passed. "Well. Yes."

Ray chuckled quietly, shaking his head in a careful motion clearly designed not to jostle anything that hurt. "So, what'd you do today? Didn't have to stand on the stoop, right? 'Cause it was pretty hot out."

"No, I didn't. I filed several requisition forms for basic office supplies, as well as organized a number of immigration forms. There were also several visa applications for those seeking work on Canadian soil, and before I had heard of your condition, we received another request for information from Ottawa about the Muldoon case; I was coordinating with the 2-7 in order to consolidate it." As long as he gave it like a report, he didn't have to go into the whole near-panic part that came next.

"Funny coincidence. Thought I'd just got shot by him all over again today." Ray tried to shift again, and again came up short. In the end, he settled with drawing his blanket up close under his chin, complaining absently, "Do they keep it arctic in here for a reason? Geez." And then he continued on, "Wish you woulda been there. You hear that kinda crap coming. I shoulda cleared the hallway before I peeked in the door, but the guy we were after was a small fish. Maybe Ma has a point, maybe I should retire. Rookie mistake."

Turnbull was instantly on his feet again, searching cabinets for spare blankets. "You're a fine police officer--" There was that 'Detective' urge again. "I wish I had been there, also."

"Yeah?"

Turnbull wasn't at all sure of Ray's tone, though it wasn't bad. He busied himself searching through another cabinet, determined not to elucidate on the previous sentence. "Yes, Ray. However, there is only so much you may be reasonably expected to predict. Though... obviously... I worry, I would not... that is to say, I believe you still have quite a lot to offer to law enforcement. It would be a loss to them if you chose to retire."

"Yeah. Just wonder how many more times bullets fly before I end up dead, though." Ray pried his eyes open, clearly with effort. "What're you doing, Renny?"

"Searching for a blanket." The first part of that statement was... worrisome. Particularly given the latest happenings. Turnbull wasn't sure what to say to that, either.

"Oh. It's okay, I think it's just the stuff they gave me. Makes me feel kinda loopy, too." Ray's eyes slid closed again. "I dunno. It was a really rookie mistake. I mean, it seems like the only time I'm on my game is when you're there. And God, you oughta hear Welsh." Ray imitated the man's tones, though not entirely accurately, "'Vecchio, about this habit you have for picking Mounties as defacto partners...' It's like he thinks that I hang out with you just 'cause you wear a red uniform. Can you believe that?"

That was some... very candid conversation. Surprisingly so. Turnbull wondered if the cold and the loopiness was complimented by a frankness that he was rather unaccustomed to. Ray was often willing to speak, but rarely on such a personal level. And yet again, he had to fight with the urge to be anywhere else. He wasn't even able to summon up a reply, and threw himself with renewed vigor into the search for a blanket.

Apparently, Ray didn't need a reply to continue. Or, for that matter, all that much consciousness. "I mean, sure, I guess if I was standin' on the outside I might think that, too, but it's not true and you'd think they'd get that. Huey does it, too. That concerned thing, like I can't tell the difference between Benton Fraser and Renfield Turnbull. Geez. What do they take me for?"

Hurt, perhaps, was the immediate thought Turnbull didn't voice. He knew well his own tendency to quietly analyze people. He'd always resolved never to turn that tendency on Ray. "Perhaps it's more a reflection of me than you that they believe that, Ray." It was half-absent, spoken without much thought. What kind of hospital didn't stock its rooms with extra blankets? He pulled open a higher one, slipping a hand past a few stacks of urine sample cups to see if there were any in the back.

There weren't. That didn't stop an avalanche of sample cups coming down around his head.

He sighed quietly, eyes shut for a moment before scrambling to pick them up as they scattered across the floor.

He guessed Ray was too out of it to realize. "Dunno why. You're a good cop. I'm the one who didn't clear a stupid hallway before I went lookin' for trouble. Not your state of mind they're spreading rumors about, you know?"

Turnbull clenched his teeth, stacking the cups again. He was once again possessed of an urge to apply various office equipment to the heads of a few select detectives.

Cups stacked on the counter, he opened the last cabinet. Excellent. With a little sound of 'a-ha' more enthusiastic than he felt, he pulled out a blanket and unfolded it, moving to drape it neatly across Ray and tuck it in as best he could.

"Oh, hey, thanks." Ray didn't manage to get his eyes open this time; likely the excitement, mixed with narcotics, had finally settled on him. "Can you do somethin' for me?"

"Of course, Ray." There was no hesitation there; Turnbull really would have gladly jumped to whatever task.

"My keys oughta be in the baggie thingy they stick your stuff in when you get carted off. Can you get the Riv out of impound? I don't trust those creeps the city contracts with to take good care of her."

"I--" Well. Turnbull was not expecting that particular task. "I wouldn't know-- I mean, I do have a license, but I don't believe they would allow me to... to pick up your private vehicle."

"Sure they would. See, I'll call down there and tell 'em to release it to you, and since it ain't part of a case, they will, and then I won't have to worry about their grimy hands all over my paint job." Ray again managed to fight his eyes open, trying for pleading and only looking distinctly half-conscious. "Just take her home with you, okay? 'Cause they ain't gonna let me drive tomorrow anyway."

Turnbull gaped, putting as much concentration as he could muster into making the blanket as straight and smooth as possible.

The task needed done, and while he didn't want to think too long on what he felt about being trusted with it, he wasn't about to refuse. In the end he took in a deep breath, reconsidering his intention to pat Ray on the shoulder for fear of jostling him. He patted the bed beside instead.

"Yes, Ray."

Turnbull was getting very used to the middle finger by now.

It had been a while. He kept his hands to the wheel and a smile on his face even so; he would not break any traffic laws in this car. He would not break any rules of etiquette in this car. He would not break anything on this car.

Which meant even the skeletal old lady behind him was honking irritatedly at his speed.

He smiled into the rear-view mirror, offering her a jaunty wave.

He got the finger in return.

"Oh, dear." Yes. Getting very used to it.

No amount of rude gesturing would get him to treat the Riviera with anything less than reverence.

Ray -- and he was Ray, now, there would apparently be no more of this 'Detective' business -- had looked entirely human in that hospital bed. Not weak. Just... very much mortal, something of which Turnbull was at once more than aware and newly terrified. There were few more stark ways to bring that home to a man than seeing his friend drugged up and battered and one garment away from death.

There was precisely nothing Turnbull could do about that. He couldn't keep Ray from being battered; he could damn well protect his car, though.

Skeleton-woman finally gave up on traffic laws and passed Renfield, blasting her horn. It distorted and changed pitch as she sped ahead of him.

"Yes, well," he replied with a sweet smile, fully aware that only he could hear. "You can afford to be a sour, impatient old biddy with no regard for the law when you're driving a pile of bolts held together by rust and prayer, ma'am."

There the brief temptation to add that the vehicle he was driving was a far superior one, but then he considered that it might be claiming too much ownership over the Riviera. While Ray had quite kindly (and shockingly) thanked him for the information which had led him to it, Turnbull still didn't feel it his place to declare any sort of proprietary rights to it.

Still, the urge was there.

However Ray may have come by it, letting Turnbull drive it was an exceptional act of trust, he knew. And at this speed, he couldn't help but find time to think on things he would generally prefer to shove away. Such as how it was Turnbull ever found himself in such a position of trust. Like how he was so worried about Ray that he was willing to non-verbally snap at Thatcher without thinking. Like how he knew, now, if given a chance he would've taken that bullet without thinking and probably without realizing Ray was in a vest. Like how he was even driving at all right now, to go along with his recent activities, many of which he had been certain he had successfully forgotten, only to find out that he really hadn't.

And maybe a bit about how Francesca seemed to have fixed on him the instant she discovered he hadn't always been a hopeless goof.

He should have never said that. He should have never even thought it.

None of those thoughts were helping, so he did his best to just shove them back out of his head.

Turnbull concentrated on singing 'O Canada' on a loop the rest of the way to his apartment. He must've reparked ten times before he was satisfied that it was most in line with the space and least likely to be clipped or otherwise damaged by passing cars.

Despite what Constable Fraser had to say about it (though Turnbull never heard the joke), he liked his apartment. It was a bedsit; he didn't need much. Enough of a kitchen. A place to sleep, a place to paint. A little bathroom with an old, dingy tub. A home with room enough for what little he required and cheap enough to keep saving money. What for, he didn't know and never had. Much of what he had saved had been eaten up in his ill-fated attempt to run for office and the expense of getting home, moving his entire life twice within the space of a disastrous month.

The uniform was a relief to strip out of on a day that had been as hot as this one. He was meticulous despite his churning thoughts. He worried about Ray and he worried about Ray's Riviera. He thought about sleeping in the car just to protect it, but figured that was likely illegal and even more probably ridiculous.

He ran a lukewarm bath and sank into it. Apparently, thought wasn't going to leave him alone.

Scrunching his legs to himself, he held his breath, submerging his head and looking up through the water to the distorted ceiling. Inadvisable, considering the water quality. He'd never cared. Sandy hair waved in the brief current generated by his motion.

He held his breath for so long that he could hear nothing more than his own heart beating and until the world looked dark. An edge of cold that had nothing to do with the actual temperature of the water made him shove up above the surface, bursting that breath out and swiping his hands down his face.

Turnbull didn't waste any more time in the bath; just scrubbed himself clean, got out and resolved to spend some time in the kitchen. It was incredibly late, and it was only going to get later.

At least there, though, he could do something that made him feel just a little less helpless.

"I promise, Ma, I can walk."

One of the most uncomfortable things in the world was the prospect of riding all the way home from Mercy. A full half-hour, maybe more if traffic was bad, stuck in a station wagon with his family? Ray thought maybe he wasn't drugged enough for this ride.

He'd left behind the obligatory wheelchair at the door of the hospital, and now he was picking his way across the parking lot. Maria had run ahead to pull the car around, but Ray wasn't in any particular mood to wait. It was nine in the morning, he felt awful, most of the painkillers had worn off, and he had to endure a ride back with Frannie, Ma and Maria. The only salvation so far was that Tony had stayed home with the kids.

"It's just like you. Wait? Oh, no, you decide to go all Macho Man--"

"Francesca," their mother warned.

"Shut up, Frannie, and gimme my phone."

"What d'you need your phone for?" she asked, brandishing said phone like a weapon, waving it around.

Ray tried to snatch for it, and the resulting spike of pain nearly landed him on his rear. Unwilling to end up there, he just glared his best glare at her. "None of your business. Gimme my phone!"

"Francesca, give your brother his phone," their mother said, and it was a tone that she had used with them since before their living memory.

Frannie held the phone out, and she gave him the hairy eyeball even as she did. "You're gonna call him, aren't you?"

Ray snatched again for the phone, "That's still none of your business!"

Frannie pulled it back out of his reach. "I'll hand it over if you give me his number."

"Enough!" A swat landed on Frannie's arm, and then Ray's, making both of them fall abashedly quiet. Then Ma took the phone and handed it over to Ray. "There. Call your friend."

"Thanks, Ma," Ray said, spreading his feet to keep his balance easier, and breathing short breaths to keep the pain to a level he could stand. He hated to do it, but he didn't foresee himself surviving the next week or however long it took him to recuperate. Not twenty-four hours a day under that roof. No way, no how. He dialed, prayed under his breath that he wasn't gonna be imposing too badly on Ren, and hit 'send'.

The urge to go in to work just to have something else to think about was powerful. It was Turnbull's day off. He didn't really need the money. Nor did he need the general unpleasantness of being in the presence of Inspector Thatcher, but that seemed an improvement over his thousand-mile-an-hour mind.

He felt duty-bound to protect the Riviera, in any case, and that meant either driving it to work or staying home to be nearby. In the interest of driving it as little as possible, the latter had won out, though his beleaguered brain was objecting strongly.

Cooking. There was lots of cooking. There were thoughts about Ray. There was the realization that he had several things he wanted to use up but he lacked a few others to complete the recipes, and there was walking to the corner shop to bring back ingredients. There were thoughts about partnership, police work, and what it meant for someone to become important to him. There were thoughts about getting thoughts to stop. There was mixing. There was baking. There were unidentifiable emotions regarding that entirely touched look Ray had given him for showing up at the hospital. Turnbull didn't even know for whom he was cooking. Much of the spread he didn't even like.

He'd find someone to gift with it. Other tenants of the apartment building seemed to like when he cooked things. He had a couple of art group friends. Perhaps a homeless shelter. Maybe he could take them to the Vecchio house.

...no. No, he didn't think he should try competing with an Italian-American matriarch's cooking.

The cheesecake came out beautifully. Pity he didn't care for sweets.

He was so on edge when the phone rang that the cheesecake hit the floor. A yellow smear across yellow linoleum, spaced out with shards of white plate. Brilliant.

Still, he found his best duty voice for answering the phone.

"Hello. Turnbull residence, this is he?"

"--yeah, hey, Ren." Ray. Oh, Lord. He sounded like he was trying to keep the conversation private. Probably made no easier by the chaos of Vecchios chattering in the background, but even Renfield knew Francesca had a frightening ability to hear precisely what she wanted to, so Renfield didn't blame Ray in the least. "Listen, I love my family and all but these people are completely nuts and that's just not gonna promote an atmosphere of healing or whatever. I'm sorry to bug you, pal, but, uh. Save me?"

There was quite a long moment where Renfield was scrambling around in his skull again, and in the end, he had to chalk it up to yet another thing he wasn't certain how he felt about. It seemed, of late, that Ray was quite good at provoking those feelings that were undefinable. Even though a few of them were definable. He blinked a few times and went to answer when Ray's voice came down the phone again.

"I know, I know, this is really last minute, but I promise I'll make it up to you."

At least that was enough to unfreeze his brain somewhat. "No, no. That's not necessary, I assure you." A pause. "Where do you want me to pick you up?"

"Uh... hang on, one sec, okay? Okay." Ray took his mouth away from the phone and was addressing the rest of his apparently completely nuts family, "Hey, Ma, you and Marie and Frannie go ahead, okay? I'm just gonna--"

"Don't be silly, Ray, you just got out of the hospital." That was Maria's voice.

"Hey, I don't need two mothers," Ray answered, though there wasn't much bite in the tone. If anything, he sounded rather... imploring. "Marie, I promise, I'll be fine."

"Raimundo--"

"Ma, I'm almost forty! I just wanna go out, maybe have breakfast with my partner and then I'll let you know what the plan is. I'm just bruised up. Go home, okay? I promise, I'm okay, I just wanna have some time to... uh... talk about this case and... you know, like a debriefing thing."

Turnbull's grin was irrepressible, but forgivable, considering his ruined cheesecake was the only witness.

Oh. Oh dear, he'd have to-- there would be no time to clean up if Ray was waiting at the hospital in that condition. Perhaps he could just-- damnable phone cord, there's no way it would reach--

There was bickering down the line, and Turnbull found himself exceedingly grateful that Tony didn't appear to be there.

"Oh, that's all right, Ma. I'll wait with Ray, make sure he's safe and comfortable--" That was Francesca.

"--no, Frannie, I'm fine. I'm pretty sure you'll be worse for my health, anyway. As soon as their backs are turned you'll just suffocate me with your purse to get to my partner."

Yes. It was very fortunate Turnbull's cheesecake was the only witness.

"At the very least, Ray, I can cover the breakfast." Turnbull had been cooking since before dawn as well as the night before. "I've quite a spread here."

"See?" Ray directed at his family, as though they could actually hear what Turnbull had said. The sound wavered like Ray was gesturing with the phone. "The man made breakfast! I'll be fine, go home!"

There was resigned muttering in the background, and Turnbull heard the call become clearer as Ray put the receiver back to his mouth, speaking quietly and quickly. "God, I owe you one, two and three now. Okay. I'll wait in the lobby, maybe get myself a cup of coffee. Take your time."

How exactly Turnbull could find it in him to chuckle after the past not-quite-day was beyond him. But he did, dropping his head and completely unable to wipe that grin off of his face. "Yes, Ray."

Sliding into the Riv was like cutting all of the strings on a puppet. Ray went from carefully composed 'together' to half-sprawled in the space that single motion, dropping his head back against the passenger side head-rest with a long sigh. Well, a mostly long sigh. His side was still murdering him. It was half-familiar pain, though, and it hadn't taken him long to fall into a stage of ignoring it as much as humanly possible.

"Thank God for guardian Mounties." He rolled his head to the side with a grin. "Thanks."

Ren glanced over quick, with that abashed kinda smile, like he still couldn't quite get being thanked for something. Ray never really got it, but he had at least gotten Ren to accept it on occasion without rattling off fifty reasons why it wasn't necessary. "It's-- you're welcome, Ray. Are you all right?"

"Yeah." Ray sighed out, though it wasn't the bad kind of sigh. "All the good stuff wore off, but since I ain't stuck riding in a station wagon with Ma, Frannie and Marie, I'm happy. Hey, you said you made breakfast? That sounds great. I'm starvin', and I didn't feel like hangin' around eating hospital food. It's like they process all possible good taste out of it."

"That's not entirely inaccurate, given the demands of making meals for an entire hospital, and taking into consideration all necessary infection and sanitation protocols." Ren peered for a long moment at the dash, then put the Riv in drive and pulled away from the curb, after checking the mirrors carefully.

Ray had been long-used to hearing explanations for everything under the sun. But there was a difference when Renfield did it, versus when Benny used to -- the former tended to offer it out, and the latter had used it, occasionally, as a battering ram. It was one of the many differences between the two Mounties.

Ray tended to easily notice those differences. As a rule, he liked them. He wasn't always so sure what that said about him. Maybe he didn't really want to know.

"Yeah, that doesn't surprise me." Ray just turned his head back straight, smiling a little, eyes closed. "So, what'd you make for breakfast?"

Ren sounded oddly uncomfortable with the answer to that question. "...hm. You may have your choice of spinach pizza, rosemary chicken, yeast rolls, chocolate cake, or cheesecake." There was a pause. "Pardon me, the cheesecake was ruined."

Ray opened one eye to look at Ren for a long moment. "Stockin' up for the apocalypse, Ren? You made all that before normal people even wake up? You had to have been awake before God. It's not even breakfast food!"

"No, Ray. I suppose I did, yes, Ray."

"...can I ask why? Do I even wanna know?"

"You may ask, but probably not."

Ray blinked widely, eyebrows going up before he settled back to his eyes closed. "Okay. I'm still askin'."

"I enjoy being useful, Ray."

"You enjoy being useful."

"Yes."

"That's why you made enough food for a football team at an hour when some people are still out drinking."

"Well, yes, Ray."

"You expectin' company?" Ray asked before he even thought better of it. "Like a girlfriend? Or a guy friend?" Of course, the second he said it, he winced. Shit. "You know, ignore that. That's a real ignorant question; it's none of my business. It all sounds pretty good to me right now, so I'll just chalk this one up to 'Ren's a really nice guy and made good food and rescued me from my family, so be grateful.'"

The poor guy looked like a really awkward moose in headlights for a moment before it settled to something more blank. "--neither. No company. No-- no girlfriend--" Ren cleared his throat, turning red, voice a little tighter at the next part. "No guy friend. Hm. I simply... create to occupy my mind. Perhaps I should have... should have painted instead, however, cooking seems more useful and appears to have been fortuitous."

Ray blinked once or twice, then picked his head up properly to look out the windshield. Just thinking for a long moment. It was a half-swirl of chaotic thought, before he settled on one thing in the mess and went with it. "Yesterday spooked you pretty bad, huh?" He didn't look over to ask that question, and kept his voice level and on the soft side. Really, Ray was dead touched that Ren would have bothered to come all the way to Mercy to visit, let alone take care of the Riv. He supposed they oughta at least talk about it some. "Y'know, I think I'll have a note put into my file for them to call you. I mean, in case something happens. That way you don't gotta play phone tag or whatever to find stuff out."

Ren didn't answer the first part directly. Not a huge surprise. "I would be... honored if you did, Ray. There is a certain disconcerting glee to the rumor mill at the precinct. Thank you. I would offer you the same, however, the possibility of a freak papercut is hardly something for which they would need to call you." There was a bit of dark humor in the tone.

"Up to you, pal." Ray looked out the window. They were practically crawling, speed wise, but he didn't feel any particular need to urge Ren to speed up. He just cast about for another way to address the topic without pushing to the point where he got the stiff-necked Mountie facade in return. "If somethin' happened outside of the consulate, though, I'd wanna know. In case I had heads to kick in, or..."

Or what? Ray wasn't quite sure. He didn't particularly want to consider anything happening to Ren anywhere, inside or outside of the consulate. Even considering that they worked cases together lately, and the man was clearly better in the field than he was, usually, playing doorman or secretary.

Ren looked briefly surprised; something a little spooked, a little touched. "I... I suppose I will. In that case. I cannot-- cannot imagine a situation that might call for the, ah-- kicking of heads, however, I'm... quite... that is to say... Hm." Ren repositioned himself in the seat like he could sit even more straight-backed and proper. "Thank you." It was quieter. Falling more toward the side of touched than spooked.

Ray took it as a victory and went to cross his arms, though he quickly rethought that action. "You're welcome." A beat. "So, you got chocolate cake, huh? I could go for some of that."

The cheesecake was still on the kitchen floor, but after four floors of stairs with a wounded detective, Turnbull didn't think it was the highest priority. No, that would be getting Ray comfortable again, which meant sitting him on the bed, after having helped him up the last two flights.

It must have taken some amount of pride-swallowing for Ray to ask for the help, but by the time he had made it so far as the second floor, he was pale and having a hard time getting enough air to continue without constant breaks. It was worrisome; Turnbull knew that bruised ribs weren't particularly dangerous, but it still bothered him quite a bit to see Ray struggling like that.

Once Ray was sitting, though, his color slowly improved. It still took him a tense minute or so, trying to draw in enough air, but finally he joked, tightly, "Well, that was easy. Now I'm ready for the Boston Marathon."

"Ray." It was as much a statement as it was a gentle sigh, worry still apparent, though Turnbull was relieved Ray could at least joke about it. "I'm terribly sorry that I didn't consider the stairs before agreeing to let you stay. I would have been happy to carry you. Please excuse the state of the apartment."

Ray flicked a look up, and then a grin crossed his face, both eyebrows up. It was a decidedly mirthful look. "You woulda carried me? Up four flights of stairs? Careful, Renny; you keep up this chivalry thing and I might have to swoon."

The number of times that man had succeeded in making Turnbull feel as though there were a large, very high-wattage spotlight shining on him might've been enough to make it into a record book. He opened his mouth, and yet again couldn't find a single thing to say. "I--" He closed his mouth and then just shook his head, turning around to head back into the kitchen to clean up the cheesecake. Perhaps he could put on some tea-- wait, Ray preferred coffee, but since he didn't keep any...

"Need a hand?" Ray asked after. "Dunno if I can do any bending or anything, but I can wash dishes or somethin'."

Turnbull was still boggling over the 'swoon' when that drifted back. He took up a plastic dustpan and a handheld broom and tried his best not to cut himself on the plate. His best was not helped by said boggling.

Finally, the offer registered. He was a little horrified with the suggestion. "Please, Ray, don't exert yourself," he called back as he caked his broom with yellow muck. "I'm afraid I lack a number of normal amenities for entertainment, but you mustn't concern yourself with anything other than healing."

"You sound like my mother. Only politer. And she'd probably stick me on dishes anyway, so I guess this is a step up. You sure?"

"Yes, Ray." Turnbull was picking up tiny pieces of plate. He did manage to nick himself a couple of times, but it was surface. Merely annoying. He trashed the mess and wiped the floor with a wet rag. Not thinking about swooning. Definitely not.

"How do you live in this thing, anyway? I mean, I knew it was small but I guess you don't really know small 'til you're sitting in it."

"I don't want for much, Ray."

"'Cept a television or something." Ray didn't sound like he was particularly put out by the lack of said television, however. His voice was moving. Apparently, sitting still in a state of recovery wasn't on his agenda today. The next time he spoke, Turnbull knew it was from next to the window. "Maybe we can go for a drive."

The idea of handling those stairs again anytime soon was enough to make Turnbull want to break out into a cold sweat. On the other hand, it as rapidly sinking into his head that there were very few things with which he could entertain Ray with here. He sincerely doubted the man wanted to sit and watch him cook, paint or clean. He didn't even have any games, as he so rarely entertained company.

"I mean, yeah, I'm sore. But since you won't let me do dishes or something, maybe we can go out." Now he was in the kitchen, moving gingerly, but seeming quite determined not to simply stay still. Ray glanced around, taking note and all of a sudden, Turnbull felt like scrubbing the walls. "My treat? Anywhere you want."

"Please be careful of the damp floor, Ray." Turnbull would probably scrub himself if Ray fell after all of this.

He suddenly understood what it was Mrs. Vecchio meant when she said the fidgeting made her nervous. Ray flicked a glance back to him briefly, eyebrows up.

"I... that is to say... I don't want--" Turnbull sighed, rinsing his hands. He could... he could refrigerate what he'd made. It would keep. He shut off the water and steeled all his bloody-mindedness for the next part, shoving his embarrassment behind it, too. "If you would consent to me carrying you down the stairs, yes, Ray." He felt immediately, utterly foolish for saying it, but worry trumped foolishness.

Ray stared back for quite a long moment; in fact, Turnbull didn't even need to turn around to know this. He felt it. The weight in that long silence. It was nearly unbearable.

"Carry... me. Down the stairs."

"...yes, Ray."

"Carry me. Down the stairs."

Was there a way for the human face to spontaneously combust? He thought it must be impossible, but given this particular moment, he was willing to reconsider the possibility.

"Uh... okay. If you think you can do it without me screamin'." Ray's voice contained his half-shrug just as certainly as his shoulders must have. Casual and easy. "Or fainting. I mean, sure, I threatened to swoon, but I don't think you actually want me to do that."

Ah. Yes, well, he really should have taken into account that Ray might accept that particular offer. Turnbull's own stupidity. Hm.

As to whether he could do it without making Ray--

He wasn't going to finish that internal sentence. He just wasn't. Turnbull was not usually given to self-censoring; in general it wasn't necessary. In fact, he wasn't usually given to internal innuendo, even accidental.

That internally said, if he must, he would absolutely haul Ray damsel-style down the stairs riding the wave of his own bloody-mindedness. If only he could figure out how to do so without making Ray--

Indeed.

He still didn't turn from the sink. "I will make a concerted effort, in any case. Alternatively, perhaps I could prepare some kind of winch and harness to be lowered from the fire escape..." It was a joke, regardless of the serious tone. Anything to call attention away from the particular fuchsia shade of his own face.

"Whatever's easier," Ray said. Now, he was leaning against the counter on his hands slightly, and Turnbull saw his grin in his peripheral vision. "Geez, Ren. You get any more red, I'll hang you on a wire. Make you a stoplight. How 'bout this: I'll walk down the stairs, and if you think I'm gonna fall down, you can sweep me up like the red-faced knight you are. Okay?"

The bright urge to facepalm was channeled into holding on to the kitchen counter. He breathed it out slowly. Breathed out that image, too. Lord, the silliness of it. "That... so long as you're careful, that would be an acceptable compromise, yes, Ray."

"Thought so. No good if both of us faint. Nobody should be able to have blood move that fast and stay standing, pal."

Turnbull cleared his throat, failing to will that blush away. He carefully set aside the food he'd made -- the risk of broken cookware exceedingly high in that moment -- before turning to gesture doorman-style at the door.

Part III