What The Cowgirls Do    What The Cowgirls Do by Voyagerbabe

 Author's webpage: http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Starship/6102/home.html

 Author's disclaimer: There once was a company from Toronto, 
Who owned the worlds best TV show. 
Places, wolves, people, and plot, 
All the rights they have got, 
But here I can do what I want to.

 Author's notes: This story is rated G, but possibly also F for Fluff. It
was written as a coda to "Mountie Sings The Blues", and is
Frannie/Turnbull, which I happen to think is a match made in heaven. Or at
least in Chicago. The title is a Vince Gill song, which I thought rather
appropriate.

  

 The time was noon. High noon. 

 The dusty streets were strangely deserted, as though the people could
feel the confrontation that was about to begin. The cowboy's spurs jingled
slightly as he swaggered slowly forward one step at a time. His hat's
broad brim shaded his eyes, and he tugged at it slightly, centering it
just so. Sweat had begun to bead under the band, but he ignored it. It
didn't matter that the man he was 
 going to face was a legend. Did it? 

 'Legend' was not a term the cowboy used lightly, but the man in question
certainly qualified. In his long, hard career as a lawman, he had seen
uncountable desperadoes brought to justice. His skill and tenacity were
such that if he chose to, he could dog your every breath until the day you
died. Right now, he was just sitting there, cool and composed, but it was
still enough to raise goosebumps on the cowboy's skin. 

 Still, he knew he had to do this. Clearing his throat, he hooked his
thumbs into the beltloops of his jeans. *Well,* he thought *here goes
nothing. 

 

 "C-C-Constable Fraser?" At the sound of Turnbull's strangled, stuttering
hail, Fraser looked up curiously from the thick sheaf of papers he was
working on. His blue eyes widened as they wandered up from a pair of
snakeskin boots and rowel spurs, past tight, creased blue jeans, a fringed
shirt, and a bandanna, finally stopping at the frightened eyes below the
brim of the 20-Gallon hat. The overall effect was that of someone who had
been at ground zero when a Roy Rogers movie exploded. Was this really....?


 "Turnbull?" 

 The man nodded nervously. "Yes, sir." 

 Fraser's jaw dropped. He hadn't expected to see the younger Mountie show
up at the precinct, and certainly not like this. Setting the report he'd
been working on on Kowalski's desk, he stood. Maybe from another angle...?
No. Still the same. Maybe even a little worse. 

 Stepping out from behind the desk, he decided that with Turnbull, the
best place to start on something like this was the obvious. "That is not
the regulation uniform." 

 Turnbull shifted slightly. "No, sir." 

 Well, that hadn't gotten anywhere. Perhaps a more direct approach was in
order. "I assume there is a reason for this...change of attire." 

 "Yes, sir." 

 "I see." 

 Fraser began to contemplate a possibly more productive course of action,
but was soon rather forcibly interrupted. A long, high, piercing whistle
was sounded by a goggle-eyed Detective Dewey. He recognized it as
something known as a 'wolf whistle', though he didn't believe that Dief or
any other lupine was capable of that noise. The whistle was soon joined by
other expressions of appreciation from a number of the male detainees in
the vicinity. 

 Curious, Fraser turned to look. For him, the sight was the second shock
of the day. For Ray Kowalski, just entering from the lunch room, it was
the first. 

 The lanky blonde Detective stopped short, nearly dropping his coffee as
the door swung shut to hit him from behind. He cocked his head sharply, as
if to get a better view, then grinned. "Hey, Frannie, you mug the Dallas
Cowboy cheerleaders or what?" 

 The precinct was accustomed to seeing their civilian aide in various
unconventional attire, but as the saying went, this 'took the cake'. Her
small feet and slender calves were encased in white kidskin boots, and
Fraser noted that while he had seen such footwear with fringe before, the
three-inch silver-plated heels and the massive number of silver studs were
something new. The skirt was also fringed and well embellished with silver
studs, the same white kidskin barely skimming mid-thigh. A denim shirt had
been knotted just below her bust to leave her midriff bare, the silver
buttons remaining strategically open on top. Silver earrings took the form
of sheriff's badges, and a white cowboy hat perched at a cocky 
 angle on her short hair. 

 One of the results of two years of close partnership is a certain unity
of thought, and the squad room watched in amusement as that took effect.
Fraser's and Kowalski's eyes moved in unintentional unison from Frannie to
Turnbull and back again, dual expressions of dumbfounded amazement on
their faces. The cop was the first to speak. "Oh God, I've died and gone
to the Grand Ole Opry!" 

 "Can it, Kowalski." Frannie snapped. 

 Ray began to open his mouth for a sharp retort, but something in the dark
eyes made him think twice. He canned it. 

 Smiling in smug satisfaction, Frannie hopped up on her desk to watch
things unfold. Ray's eyes couldn't help but follow the long expanse of
lean thigh revealed as she crossed her legs. Seeing this, she grinned and
popped her gum. It was clear that Ray was thinking very unbrotherly
thoughts, and she enjoyed his discomfort. *Too bad Fraser still doesn't
notice*, she thought wistfully. 

 Then she looked at the other Mountie, and a wicked smile lit her eyes.
*On the other hand, sometimes the consolation prize is just as much fun* 

 By now, Turnbull's face was bright red as he looked sheepishly at his
superior officer. "That's what I wanted to talk to you about, sir." 

 Fraser recalled the last comment Ray had made. "Dying?" 

 "No!' The younger Mountie paused a moment, then began again, speaking so
fast that the words tripped over each other in a desperate babble. "Though
of course, mortality is a constant aspect of our lives. Of anyone's life,
really. Although, as officers of the law..." "Constable?" 

 "Yes, sir." 

 "*Why* are you and Miss Vecchio dressed this way, and why, may I ask, are
you not at the consulate?" 

 "I took the day off." 

 Of all of the shocks of the last few minutes, this was by far the worst.
In the two years he had known Turnbull, his fellow Constable had only
taken one day off. Even that was not of his own accord. Inspector Thatcher
had simply protested to the stomach flu that had Turnbull running to throw
up every five minutes. Now, however, he was in prime physical - if not
mental - condition. 

 But he was taking a day off. 

 What was next, Fraser wondered. The repeal of the law of gravity? 

 Licking his suddenly-dry lips, Fraser tried not to let his surprise show.
"You've spoken to the Inspector about this?" 

 "Yes, sir." Turnbull nodded so furiously his hat nearly flew off. "She
gave me permission. Just for today, of course, and I promised to really do
a swell job on the cleaning tomorrow. But...um...well, sir..." 

 "Constable?" 

 "It's the Queen! I just can't bear to leave her alone in a foreign
country like this! What if someone breaks in? Thieves, or vandals, or
worse!" The young Mountie's face was truly anguished as he thought of the
potential of harm coming to his beloved monarch. Even if she was just a
portrait. "I just can't leave her, sir. I can't." 

 Turnbull looked miserable. Frannie looked dumbfounded. Ray...well, Ray
looked to either be poorly supressing laughter or suffering a severe
seizure of the facial muscles. 

 Fraser sighed in understanding and picked up his Stetson. "I'm sorry,
Ray, but..." 

 Ray waved a hand at his partner. "Yeah, yeah, I heard. Queensitting." 

 From her vantage on the desk, Frannie had become increasingly impatient
with the proceedings. Based on the look on Turnbull's face, she was in
serious competition with a painting of a middle- aged woman who had the
fashion sense of a nun's grandmother. This was not acceptable. 

 Hopping down, she sashayed her way over to stand next to the two
Mounties. Placing one hand petulently on her hip, she looked up at her
Canadian cowboy. "Renfield Prescott Cornelius Turnbull," she pouted, "Are
you abandoning me for a painting?" 

 Fraser watched in concern as Ray's facial seizure reappeared, this time
rapidly spreading over his whole body until the Detective fell helplessly
into his chair. His rolling chair. Which promptly rolled. The red-clad
Mountie winced sympathetically as he heard the distinct *thunk* of
Detective vs Linoleum. Based on Ray's vocabulary, the linoleum won. 

 Meanwhile, Turnbull's chivalry had won out over his patriotism. A few
quiet words to his Italian cowgirl, and she was all smiles again. She
slipped her arm through his, urging him none too gently towards the door. 

 The inhabitants of the squad room - cops and criminals alike - watched
with increasing amusement as Turnbull made his quick goodbyes. His
attention was obviously and bashfully divided between courtesy and the
movement of the fringe on a very short leather skirt. Suddenly, Frannie
stopped her systematic hauling of the Mountie towards the door and turned
back. "Fraser?" 

 "Yes?" 

 She smiled seductively. "You snooze, you lose." 

 Ignoring Fraser's perplexed expression, she turned back, flipping her
skirt teasingly. She was practically glowing, feeding hungrily off the
puppy-like devotion radiating from the smitten Turnbull. Her arm tightened
around his and she looked up at him with equal adoration. "So, we're going
circle dancing." 

 "Square, actually." 

 "Circle, square, triangle, pentagram. Whatever! I'm hungry." 

 "I anticipated that. We have reservations at eleven different
establishments." 

 "Eleven!" 

 "I wasn't sure what you'd be in the mood for." 

 "That is so sweet." 

 The door closed behind the couple, cutting off a reply from Turnbull that
sounded suspiciously like 'thank you kindly.' All eyes turned towards
Fraser. 

 He was standing there with a vaguely shell-shocked expression on his
face. Slowly, however, understanding dawned in the blue eyes as things
began to come together. 

 Frannie was no longer tracking him. 

 She had found new prey. 

 He was a free man. 

 The reaction to that realization was primal, instinctive, unstoppable.
Fraser simply couldn't help himself. Thankfully, the moment passed
quickly, and he simply donned his Stetson and left through the lines of
stunned cops. 

 Almost before the doors had closed behind the Mountie, Welsh came out of
his office, his weathered face creased in confusion. "What the hell was
that noise?" 

 Still grinning wide enough to nearly split his face in two, Ray pulled
himself up from behind the desk. "That was the sound of a grown man
squealing in a manner unbecoming a member of the Royal Canadian Mounted
Police." 

 The End