Author's Website: http://www.ravenswing.com/bas/

Disclaimer:

Author's Notes:

Story Notes: Pairing: Fraser/Turnbull.

Evenings at the Canadian Consulate were very boring. Very, very boring, even by Fraser's generous standards. Fortunately, he and Constable Turnbull had certain interests in common.

"Sir, would you care to play cards?"

"No thank you, Turnbull."

"Sir, would you care to watch curling?"

"No thank you, Turnbull."

"Sir, would you care to drop your drawers and fuck me like there's no tomorrow?"

"Certainly, Turnbull."

Fraser had one of Turnbull's long, elegant legs over his shoulder and the other folded around his waist when he heard his father's voice.

"For God's sake son, if you had to get involved with a Mountie, couldn't you have picked a woman?"

Fraser's rhythm faltered. Turnbull ruffled his hair and gasped something encouraging.

"I mean, that Thatcher woman is after you like a greyhound for a rabbit."

Fraser rested his forehead on Turnbull's chest and stopped entirely, still sunk in Turnbull's body. "This is not the time, Dad!" he whispered.

Turnbull groaned politely. "Daddy? I could be your daddy, sir, if you wish to switch diversions."

"You know, I've never seen you from this angle before, son." Bob Fraser laughed. "Don't be rude! Go for the prostate, give him a little fun."

"Oh, for God's sake--Turnbull, that isn't what--oh, I need a moment to myself, please." Fraser eased out of Turnbull's body and glared at his father. He could feel himself blushing as he wrapped the spare blanket around his naked body.

"All right, sir." Turnbull smiled and rubbed a hand over his torso.

Fraser stalked out of the room feeling absolutely ridiculous. "Dad! There is a right time and a wrong time for all things, and that was most certainly the wrongest of all wrong times!"

His father just smiled. "Don't be an old fuddy-duddy before your time. And you might want to take him up on that offer he made. It never hurts to broaden your horizons. I could tell you some stories--"

"Dad! I don't want to hear them!" Dreadful pictures swirled through his too-fertile imagination, many of them involving Buck Frobisher.

His father shrugged. "Have it your way. Mind you, I would have thought you'd take up with the Yank; but then, there's nothing preventing you from taking up with this fellow and the Yank in the modern world you live in."

"What on earth are you blithering on about?"

"Well, what are you blithering on about?" His father folded his arms and gave him an expectant look.

Fraser ran a hand through his hair, smoothing it down somewhat. "It is highly inappropriate of you to barge in while I'm--when I'm in--"

"While you're navigating Cape Horn?"

"Dad!" Fraser blushed deeper.

"Oh, all right, all right. It's time to check the trap lines anyway." His father turned and wandered off.

"You don't have any lines!" Fraser snapped, but his father just waved his hand in dismissal. Fraser sighed and ruffled his hair, wondering how to explain this to Turnbull.

Fraser went back in his office and found Turnbull sitting on the bed. Turnbull smiled. "Better, sir?"

"Much."

"Are you coming back to bed?"

"If you'll have me." Fraser smiled and dropped the blanket. He settled next to Turnbull on the bed and kissed him. Turnbull shoved him down and straddled his thighs eagerly, sucking at his tongue and chin.

They writhed together, regaining momentum. Fraser turned them over and began licking his way down Turnbull's stomach as an apology of sorts for his earlier departure.

"Trapping just isn't what it used to be, son."

Fraser waved frantically at his father.

"What? Oh, that. My goodness, they grow them big these days."

Fraser kissed Turnbull's belly. "Renfield? One last thing. I'll be right back." Fraser jumped off the bed and pulled on a shirt and jeans quickly. He ran for the kitchen before his father could catch up.

*

"Son? This isn't funny. This isn't at all funny. Let me in this instant."

Bob Fraser stood just outside the circle of salt around the Consulate, trying furiously to cross one foot over the line.

"Son! That is not polite at all! Where's your filial duty?" Fraser waited, arms crossed, but the door of the Consulate stayed firmly closed.

"Benton! It looks like rain! You know how I hate rain." One of his old sled dogs, dead before Benton was born, curled at his feet in solidarity. The dog grumbled a comment about the fickleness of pups.

Bob Fraser nodded firmly. "You birth them, you try to raise them up right, and where does it get you? Nowhere."

The dog yipped in agreement.

*

"Oh, sir, you're more stimulating than the Kentucky Derby!" Turnbull panted and thrust into Fraser's mouth.

"Mmm!" Fraser hummed around Turnbull's penis and Turnbull groaned in response; and this time, finally, Turnbull came without interference.

Fraser kissed Turnbull's belly. "You're quite right, Turnbull, that was a splendid way to employ the evening."

"I thought we had more in common than met the eye, sir. But why did you have to leave in the middle of our activities?"

"Ah...I'm afraid I can't tell you that."

"Understood." Turnbull laid his finger by the side of his nose. "Secrets!"

Fraser took Turnbull's ankles in each hand and pushed his legs back. "Secrets."

"If you gagged me, I would be quite unable to inquire about further classified matters, sir." Turnbull smiled broadly and his eyes sparkled. "Particularly if you gagged me with your deliciously sweaty undershirt."

"I see." Fraser catalogued the condom supply in the Consulate. "Perhaps we could continue this conversation into the night?"

"Oh, certainly, sir."

*

"Son!"

Bob Fraser kicked the grass and gave the constellations a baleful glare. "This isn't the slightest bit funny," he told his dog.

The dog woofed.

"And you're not funny either. See if I share my catch now."

The dog growled.