Chase, Guy, Turnbull; Arch To The Sky; G; 195 words

"...really?"

"Yes, sir."

"Laurent."

"Indeed."

Mike Chase leaned waaaaaaay back, glancing behind Turnbull to get a good, long, disbelieving look at Guy Laurent.

It took a moment for Guy to notice, and when he did, he tipped Chase a lazy salute as though he was expecting to be watched.

Chase's eyebrows climbed, and he leaned slowly forward again to look back at Turnbull.

"I assure you, I have asked myself many times if it was merely an elaborate hallucination on my part, but he was, indeed, a short-lived RCMP recruit."

He couldn't begin to fathom how the Hell that chronic miscreant could've cleared the requirements to make it to Depot, but Chase was suddenly picturing one or two uptight instructors he didn't care for having to deal with the man. Guy Laurent, drunken destruction incarnate, stuffed in a uniform and shoved into a troop, looking for all the world like any other recruit. Sheep in wolf's clothing. Chase had to think winding up that jack in the box resulted in a fantastic punch to the face for one of those old guard types before it was all over.

"How--"

The question unfinished, Chase was laughing before he knew what hit him.

The light was slowly fading, but Lily Evans was already asleep.

They shouldn't be in here, in this place that didn't belong to them, but it didn't seem belong to anyone at all. The floor was dusty and uncomfortable, but the sunset through the windows did things to red hair that made Severus want very much to reorder it. Only, it would wake her. And he found that he really didn't want to.

He itched to talk to her, to hear her voice, to know what was happening behind those closed eyes.

The evening passed. Her hair changed colors with the sunset until it was cast dark in the twilight.

It was Severus that woke to the touch of her hand, late in the night.

Guy, Turnbull; Arch To The Sky (Nipawin, probably '94); G; 331 words; 25. disguise.

I have always enjoyed Halloween.

It isn't that I'm usually one to dress up. It's that the women tend to come in the most fascinating flavors on this day, and one would be foolish not to open that particular box of chocolates. If I do say so myself, I'm well-suited to gold and white. Now and again I catch a glint from the gold that tints my cheeks. This toga makes aspects of my anatomy feel surprisingly free. These sandals are uncomfortable. And I wear makeup far better than a straight man should.

I've outdone myself this year. The only hint that I haven't fallen from the heavens, aside the wire that bears my halo, is my sunglasses. The bar is packed; even Renfield has come, to my surprise. I wasn't aware he was off. Perhaps he is humoring me. I like it when he humors me; attempting to figure out why is always a fascinating venture. He doesn't look as though he's been here long, and doesn't look at all like he is going to stay.

I catch his eye, and he does the Renfield equivalent of a double-take. Blinking rapidly at me, as though what he sees is the trick of a speck of dust.

Yes, Mountie. I am an angel for the evening. And I have yet to find my devil.

I weave my way through the room toward the door where Renfield lingers. I pull a set of devil's horns from my pocket and offer them out, notched between two fingers, along with a lazy grin.

"Opposite night?"

Renfield is blinking again, this time at my offering. It's a moment before he takes them, though he makes no move to put them on.

"Perhaps," he answers with the smallest huff of a laugh.

Over my sunglasses, I wink at him before I slip back into the crowd. He is gone, when next I look.

Turnbull/Vecchio; Wizard!Verse; NC-17 (serious pornography up in here); 890 words; 12. All or none. Or "Incendio". Or perhaps "Constable Walks Funny" in honor of elf_fu.

For and inspired by sl_walker. I blame her. Entirely. Yes.

Descendo - Partis Temporus - Avis - Obliviate - Wingardium - Incarcerous - Incendio - Imperius - Nox - Lumos

Some days this job ain't bad.

Ren suits every color, and I figure a little of every color's out here today. Mostly green. Blue sky. Whenever he talks about Canada I can't see anything in my head except a whole lotta snow, I guess it's just automatic, but Hell if summer doesn't suit him. Everything does.

Thing is: we came here for a reason. There's a guy from out East that's got information for us, the kind of info that you give in person once you've warded everything and pointed wands at each other's necks and made sure you're both who you look like you are. But this place is real pretty. And we got here way early with some food and a blanket and time to kill. With us, that usually means one thing. ( You are protected, in short, by your ability to love. )

Mark; ds_zombies 'verse; R; 340 words; 15. Slumber.

Mark's gut twisted as his self-preservation tried desperately to cast for another way out.

His apartment building was swamped. Several pieces of furniture sat piled by his front door, and they did nothing to drown out the sound of what scratched from behind it. All his curtains were drawn, like somehow the damn things could make it up the fire escape.

It'd been forever since he'd slept.

Sick desperation kept him awake, kept him pacing, kept him watching from stories up as the world around him died. It was almost all he did. A few hours back, he'd taken it in his head to start throwing shit out the window. Cookware. Knick-knacks. Empty beer bottles. Furniture that wasn't barricading his door. A souvenir curling stone had disintegrated on the pavement below. It was a strange little game that gave him no satisfaction when he did manage to hit one of the infected on the street below. He hadn't run out of things to throw. Just ran out of will to throw them.

He was thirsty.

The disgusting things never stopped ravening. They could smell him. He knew it. They could smell everything.

The pills had been sitting out for a long time now. He lost track of the hours, maybe it was days, they'd been sitting there beside his last shot of Jack. How many times he stopped just to stare at them.

It was a big bottle. He'd go to sleep. Just... go to sleep.

He was so tired.

Something bashed at his door. Rattled it. That happened sometimes. Sounded like a body slamming up against it.

He couldn't... couldn't sleep...

There was another impact. This one was more stubborn than usual.

A chair fell off the pile. Mark didn't look up to see it fall. Just looked at his pills.

He was... so tired...

When the pills were gone and his mouth tasted like liquid fire, he shattered the bottle off his front door.

The shards glittered and fell like rain.

Turnbull/Vecchio; G; 140 words; 27. Falsely accused. A gift for sl_walker; may it make you smile.

"I did no such thing."

"You did!"

"My answer is emphatically negative and will not change."

"You were claiming your territory!"

"Now, Ray, simply because that woman complimented your choice of attire--"

"Complimented? That's what we're calling it?"

"--complimented-- does not mean I feel the need to 'claim' my 'territory'--"

"Oh? So a thirty-second ruthlessly polite lecture about the stitching of my collar where it just so happens there's a big red mark on my neck right under where you're pointing ain't claiming, huh?"

"No, Ray."

...

"It is a very fine suit with a very fine collar."

...

"Ray."

"Admit it."

"I was only making polite conversation."

"Rrgh, you dog!"

"I still fail to see how comparisons to canines help the matter, Ray."

...

"I may perhaps have felt a certain possessiveness in that moment."

"Uh-huh."

"She might've at least made an effort to appear less obvious."

"Pot. Kettle. Mountie."

"I'm your cookware, in any case."

Frannie Vecchio (Zuko), Frank Zuko; Wizard!Verse; R; 1137 words; 07. Defining moment.

Been working on this one for weeks, probably for obvious reasons, but it fit the prompt and I finally finished it. Thanks and ♥ once again to l0stmyrel1g10n for the beta, canon-check, and patient hammering out of canon points with me.

Descendo - Partis Temporus - Avis - Obliviate - Wingardium - Incarcerous - Incendio - Imperius - Nox - Lumos

He always looks so damn peaceful like this.

Not a thought in his pretty little head, my Frankie. All those angry lines on his face are gone when he's this way. Sometimes I come up here and transfigure his face back the way it's supposed to be. Spattergroit's pretty ugly. Lasts a while. Robs your voice. It's a nice excuse to give the outside world for a silent husband.

I've never cast an Unforgivable before. ( More )

Turnbull, Myra; Arch To The Sky (age 6); G; 450 words; 09. Milk and cookies.

Myra's younger brother was seated primly at the table and was in the process of making a crumbly mess of a cookie in a glass of milk.

It wouldn't do any good to clean up the mess until he was done, and besides that, the phone conversation she was carrying on was becoming very distressing very quickly.

She paced the kitchen, phone to her ear and the cord stretched across the room, those big blue eyes of Renfield's following her even as he fished a large chunk from the glass.

"It's just not normal, Myra."

"Define normal, Gordon," she replied, as close to a snap as she generally ever got.

The soggy chunk of cookie was dredged from the deep only to be dropped on the floor. Myra pinched the bridge of her nose and chose to ignore it. The hiss of the pot on the stove had her scrambling to take the lid off and keep it from boiling over, tucking the phone between her face and her shoulder.

"Normal. You're twenty years old. You shouldn't be over there every day playing Mum to your little brother. I never get to see you. Half the time when I do, he's there. Where the Hell is your mother?"

"You know what?" Myra slammed the pot lid down on the stovetop. Behind her, she heard Renfield jump; there was a tell-tale tinkle of glass and rush of spilled liquid. She sighed down the phone, practically hearing Gordon's eye-roll. "My mother is none of your business. I don't know who you think you are, Gordon, but just because we go out sometimes doesn't mean you get to--"

There was a heavy exasperated sigh down the line. "Never mind. Forget I said anything."

"Fine. Hang on a second, Renfield's spilled his milk." Absently she righted the empty glass before petting the boy's blonde hair by way of apology for the scare. His lap was soaked. He looked more distressed by the loss of his cookie relics than the wardrobe issue, however.

"Yeah. Listen... I don't think this is going to work."

Myra was dipping a rag in dishwater when he said it, and she nearly dropped the phone. "...sorry?"

"I don't think it's going to work out. Maybe look me up when you have more free time, all right?"

She took the phone from her ear and stared at it. She glanced over at Renfield, who was currently picking smaller soggy cookie pieces off the table and eating them.

She looked at the phone again. "Fine. Suit yourself."

After she hung it up, she pressed the dishrag to her own forehead, breathing out.

Thatcher, Turnbull/RayV; Wizard!Verse (sometime before the second War); G; 648 words; 23. Canadian Wildlife.

Descendo - Partis Temporus - Avis - Obliviate - Wingardium - Incarcerous - Imperius - Incendio - Nox - Lumos

"What is this, the Canadian wildlife reserve? What is that rodent doing in my consulate, Turnbull?"

Ah. Yes. Well.

That is a difficult question to answer, isn't it?

The answer is that he wants to be and that I had not intended to be caught, but this is not an answer I can offer, for obvious reasons. It is late in my shift. Why she has chosen to bother me now is beyond me. The Inspector's nose is positively wrinkled, and I breathe away the adrenaline spike of her whip-crack of a tone and equally as abrupt appearance. There are days I could swear the woman can apparate, and wonder if perhaps her school letter missed her when she was a child.

"--he is not a rodent, sir. He is a mink; they fall under the Mustelidae family, more commonly known as weasels--"

"Answer my question, Constable."

I tip my chin up, giving no ground to the fantasy of a well-aimed wingardium to leave her hanging from the chandelier. The warmth wrapped about my neck shifts, and I feel him tighten around me, watching her as well.

"He is mine."

"He's yours."

"Yes, sir."

( More )

Fraser, RayK, Dewey; Arch To The Sky (takes place during canon, stands alone); G; 627 words; 24. Classic.

"I'm telling you, Frase, the look on his face is gonna be classic."

"I'm certain it will be." Whatever that means. "What I don't understand is why you feel the need to..." Fraser gestured, hand open and flat, as he tried to phrase it delicately.

"Time-bomb his desk?"

"...well, yes, Ray. Though I fail to see how exactly it's a time-bomb, as it would be very clearly offensive in the immediate--"

"Look, look, look, Frase." Ray Kowalski gestured off toward Huey's desk, giving Fraser a toothy grin. "Sandor says Tony's got some kinda really funky foot problem, right? I dunno what it's called, I don't wanna ask too many questions in case knowing means I can't eat his pizza anymore, but the point is that his socks are choice. Choice, Fraser, for a primo stench to curl your nose hairs from like ten paces. It matures the longer it sits out there."

Fraser's eyes widened a fraction, and he merely stared.

"So here's the trick. You stash it in his desk somewhere he's not gonna think to look, maybe someplace underneath in one of the little gaps, you know? Shove it up there good. Then, you sit back, and you wait."

"You wait."

"You wait. First day, maybe he doesn't notice so much, except he sniffs his armpits and thinks he needed to shower better this morning." Ray leaned back in his chair, resting his feet on his desk top. One hand wound through the air in a rolling gesture as he explained. "Next day, maybe he's thinking it's the guy next to him that's got the hygiene problem. Annoying, but no big deal, right? But the third day, that smell's getting worse and the guy's thinking maybe he left his lunch in the desk last week or something and it's starting to fester. So he starts looking. But he doesn't find anything, 'cause I'm that good."

( More )

Like the beautiful sl_walker, I shall try this ds_aprilfools dealie out <3

( Now with improved lj-cutting skills! )

Fic: Nothing
Fandom: Due South
Characters: Dewey, Frannie, Gardino (sort of)
Rating: G
Words: 764
Summary: Dewey doesn't know why he kept the thing.
Notes: Getting back on the fic-horse, and it's a curve ball! Yay mixed metaphors. Written in this fic-verse. Earlyish 1998.


He found it in the desk when he moved in.

Dewey figured it probably said something about his hinges - and being kinda off 'em - that he kept the damn thing. Some kind of exercise in inferiority, maybe. He thought he should've thrown it out; every time somebody slipped and called him by the wrong name, he thought about it. A couple of times he'd balled the thing up and tossed it in the garbage just to take it back out a few minutes later.

Once he even had the damn thing dry-cleaned after Thompson tossed a half cup of coffee in after it.

It had been stashed in the desk behind a bunch of old pencils and a pad. Dewey had seen the flash of bright and knew instantly from the pictures what it was. He'd yanked it before anyone else saw and stuffed it in a pocket. ( All my life I've fought against imperialism. Now, suddenly I *am* the expanding Russian frontier. )

Fic: Obliviate
Fandoms: Due South, Harry Potter
Pairing: Turnbull/RayV (Fraser/Kowalski, UST)
Words: 2818
Rating: PG-13 (Language)
Summary: Something about Ray Vecchio doesn't sit right with Ray Kowalski.
Notes: Yep, I made another. Takes place before Nox and Lumos, Harry Potter-verse AU. Thanks once again to slwatson for the wonderful encouragement and to l0stmyrel1g10n for the same and once again checking my canon. ♥ for you both.

Descendo - Partis Temporus - Avis - Obliviate - Wingardium - Incarcerous - Incendio - Imperius - Nox - Lumos

Vecchio's weird.

Never been able to figure out what it is. I mean, Fraser's weird, too. And Turnbull? Shit. But that's just Canada weird. Comes with the pemmican and caribou and snowmen for imaginary friends when they were kids. Vecchio's Chicago-normal and still weird. And I'm not just saying that 'cause we share a name and he likes to throw out "Stanley" when he wants to be condescending.

He dresses just a little off. Kinda... flowy, for a guy. ( Curiosity is not a sin.... But we should exercise caution with our curiosity... yes, indeed. )

Fic: Fifteen
Characters: Renfield Turnbull, Myra, Mr. & Mrs. Turnbull
Words: 3428
Rating: G
Summary: Renfield missed Myra more as each day passed, but he couldn't make himself apologize.
Notes: Age 15. Another for the childhood files.

Renfield spun on the ice, watching the blur of the world go by.

He was graceful there, though he didn't know it. There were many things he didn't know. A great many, according to his sister, and while he felt decidedly errant being out here and not with her, attempting to patch the matter up, attempting to placate her or prove himself to her or at least...

At least get that awful hurt look off her face.( Yes, yes, Zathras is used to being beast of burden to other people's needs. Very sad life. Probably have very sad death, but at least there is symmetry. Go, go, Zathras take care. )

Fic: Sink
Fandom: Due South
Characters: Turnbull
Rating: G
Words: 453
Summary: In the absence of information, Turnbull thinks.
Notes: Early 1993, Nipawin, SK. Written in this fic-verse.

Turnbull brushed back and forth in the snow.

Something was wrong. He sensed it on a level he couldn't name, some deep sense of wrongness for which he had no true evidence. It niggled at him. Ate away.

Every time he asked, Mark's answer was even more emphatically 'no'. More annoyed, too. Turnbull dreaded the annoyance. Nothing made him feel quite so useless as that tone.

The sound of it ached. Something sharp and dull at the same time, like using hands overworked from repetitive motion. Itchy. Sore. Oversensitive, and yet he still had to use them. He still had to ask, and work the surface more raw with every answer.

He felt it bodily, too. Turnbull never knew why it was like that for him; emotional wrings felt so much on the surface, like he'd fallen on the ice and tumbled onto his back. Bruised. Aching muscles. So much so that he didn't feel like curling. He'd rather be anywhere else. Someone would probably figure out he was missing soon. Come to get him.

Or maybe someone would just want the broom he was using.

He'd made a perfect square in the snow, ground underneath about as battered and frozen out as Turnbull felt.

He had to have done something. Or failed to do something. Perhaps his perceptions were failing him; perhaps there was something Mark needed that Turnbull couldn't see. Perhaps Mark didn't even know he needed it. Turnbull had never been good with words when it came to feelings; maybe Mark needed to hear more from him? Maybe he'd heard too much. Perhaps Turnbull was so bad at talking that Mark had grown tired of it.

That would explain the impatience. The distance. Perhaps. Perhaps Mark was just tired of listening to him scramble for words.

Mark was inside. His mind on the game, of course. Turnbull's wouldn't be until he could figure out what it was he was doing wrong.

What kind of awful power had he handed this man that just the ghost of a feeling could knock out Turnbull's ability to curl?

Part of him wished there was some way to take it all back. Steal back that piece of him he'd handed this man and save himself from ever having ruined things in the first place. It was done. He couldn't. Wouldn't, either; he wasn't a coward, and for that matter, he didn't want to think of what he would be if he'd never known the man. He didn't want to lose what it was they had, damaged though it appeared to be.

Turnbull couldn't understand why Mark just wouldn't acknowledge it.

He picked up the brush and slung it, sinking it into a snowbank. The handle stuck out.

It didn't help.

He glanced back toward the building, making sure he wouldn't be seen, and then got up to walk away.

Fic: Spin
Fandom: Due South
Characters: Guy, Longfellow, Turnbull, Mark
Rating: R (Language, drug use, naked!Guy, naked!Drew...)
Words: 1,774
Summary: A day in the life of Guy Laurent.
Notes: Written in this fic-verse. Takes place in the winter of 1992.

What the Hell time is it anyway?

Ngh. That was some screech, last night. I think I may only remember just how bad it was simply because I can smell it on the carpet.

Not the best place to wake up, no, but there is a reason I chose a place with carpet this thick.

I roll over, blinking off the spin of the room, and right the glasses on my face. Shit. Fuck. They don't fit right. I am groaning as I pull them off to bend them back into shape, an act that negates much of their very purpose; light from the gaps in the curtains is fucking eye-ball searing, and I decide to let them be a little wonky for today.

( You seriously expect me to become involved in your sexual olympics? )

Fic: Dominoes
Characters: Renfield Turnbull, Myra
Words: 1667
Rating: G
Summary: One for the childhood files.
Notes: An older Renfield tells a story for someone.

I was asked, very recently, to tell a story. I have mulled for some time since which story to tell. I suppose this one is, in the grand scheme of things, relatively unimportant. However, it is told with love of the memory and love for the one who asks.

To that person: know that you are cared for deeply. Know that when you open this again in the days ahead to recall what I have told you, that I am with you always. And please know that whatever comes, no matter how dark, we may always turn on a light for each other. As is the apparent mantra for those of us in here: faith manages.

When I was roughly six years old, I was gifted with a silly trifle of an object. ( Wasssaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaap-- )

I hope that this story brought a smile to your face. I hope that when you need to smile, you will re-read it. And I hope that you will remember in your darkest hours that you have been a light in mine. I love you.

Fic: Avis
Pairing: Turnbull/RayV
Words: 911
Rating: G
Summary: A scene from Ray and Renfield's lives before the second War.
Notes: OhGod I'm still writing in this verse I don't even. Prequel to Nox and Lumos, Harry Potter-verse AU.

Descendo - Partis Temporus - Avis - Obliviate - Wingardium - Incarcerous - Incendio - Imperius - Nox - Lumos

"I splinched."

"...really?"

"What? You think because I'm the slick wizard you see today I couldn't mess up way back when?"

"You splinched. What did you lose, Ray?"

Ray smiles at me, that silly-sweet look. "My nose."

"...your nose."

"Yeah!" He motions at his own face before flicking the tip of his own nose with his wand. "Went back on pretty as you please. They added in some extra while they were there, though. I tell you, my face was never the same." That smile widens and those green eyes twinkle and I cannot help but poke him in the belly. ( Snape's patronus was a doe. The same as my mother's, because he loved her for nearly all of his life, from the time when they were children. )

Fic: Lumos
Pairing: Turnbull/RayV
Words: 910
Rating: PG
Summary: Ray and Renfield flee Chicago in the aftermath of the battle at the Consulate. Separated from Fraser and the muggle-borns they were protecting, they lay low.
Notes: Yep. Followup to Nox, Harry Potter-verse AU. Blame slwatson for the encouragement and chatter and theorizing and l0stmyrel1g10n for being sweet and checking it over for canon problems and such.

Descendo - Partis Temporus - Avis - Obliviate - Wingardium - Incarcerous - Incendio - Imperius - Nox - Lumos

"Lumos."

I've warded the place up as best I can. I know a guy, and that means I can use the guy's place while he's taking care of a few things up north, but knowing a guy's as much an asset these days as a liability. We're on an island somewhere on Lake Michigan, I know that much. No idea how safe this place actually is, but we never do anymore. I don't wanna go lighting the place up and advertise it's occupied, so we keep to wand-light.

There's a bitch of a painting in the hall, and she glares at me when I light my wand, crossing her arms with a nasty 'hmph!'( All's fair in love and war, and this is a bit of both. )

Fic: Touch
Characters: Turnbull, RayV
Rating: G
Words: 447
Notes: Companion piece to Brush, takes place concurrently.

--you're touching me.

I am somewhat used to your ranting by now. I have yet to understand its purpose; for what reason would a man so often continue doing something he clearly dislikes? It is perhaps an uncharitable thought, but I have to wonder why you don't simply get on with it. Your voice is not unpleasant. I just cannot fathom how one would go about appeasing you. Perhaps the ranting serves a purpose I have yet to divine.

I have nothing but time, standing sentry, and it does not appear as though matters will change any time soon, so I imagine I will figure it out eventually.

I can't say I disagree with your assessment of my current job. I don't suppose you can imagine what I've come from, what came before this. It is all right. Neither, often, can I. I'm rather puzzled you would take the time to rant on my behalf, in any case. Clearly you are feeling harassed enough by your occupation with Constable Fraser. If I could speak, I would assure you that you needn't expend any more on me. You gesticulate wildly and I have a strange sort of interest in your manner of motion at the same time as I have a minor urge to reach out and still your hands simply to see what it is you would do if I did.

I need not, in the end. You are touching me.

My cheeks are numb, but I most certainly feel your touch, and I am taken aback that you would step into my personal space in this fashion. The urge to grab your hands is brighter, now; I want to bat you away, but I do not. Your purpose is clear, and I feel guilt for that urge. I had not forgotten the spitballs, but I could no longer feel them, and as you brush them away the slight sting of dried paper tearing away from skin is given more contrast by the warmth of your fingers.

You rant even now, abrasive words on my behalf that are at odds with the care with which you remove the spitballs. The image of Inspector Thatcher literally punching me in the testicles flits through my mind before everything is halted by your compliment, and the warmth it leaves in my gut is followed quickly by a strange sadness I cannot identify.

I don't quite hear the last thing you say. Later, I will translate the sounds I remember into words and understand, but for now, you have gone.

The wind blows. I am cold, but I remember your compliment.

Fic: Nox
Rating: G
Words: 774
Characters: Turnbull, Fraser, Bob Fraser, Thatcher (and a surprise)
Summary: It's been a long time since Turnbull's felt worthy of the word 'Auror'.
Notes: Okay, so this is Due South meets the Harry Potter Wizarding world. I'm... not sure how this happened. Not canon to our normal 'verse, obvs. Pardon (or point out so I can fix!) any canon discrepancies, I really need to re-read the books. I'll, uh. Just leave this here.


Descendo - Partis Temporus - Avis - Obliviate - Wingardium - Incarcerous - Incendio - Imperius - Nox - Lumos


"Cruc--"

"--Expelliarmus--"

It is 1998, and the Wizarding World can barely breathe.

The epicentre is Britain, but no part of the world goes untouched by Lord Voldemort.

"Stop this." My opponent's wand flung away before his Unforgivable was complete, but one of his compatriots casts a summon and passes it back. My back is to the doors. I am fast with my wand. I can stall. But I am outnumbered, and I cannot stop them.

I am dead; I know this.( Faith manages. )

Fic: Something Impressive
Fandom: Due South
Characters: Renfield Turnbull, Myra Turnbull
Rating: G
Words: 1253
Summary: Renfield Jacob Turnbull's first Christmas, and his sister would much rather have kept him upstairs.
Notes: Written in this fic-verse. A Christmas gift for slwatson, with all my love.

The baby had been there all of a month and a half and Myra was still trying to figure out how he'd ended up stuck to her side instead of their mother's.

Mrs. Turnbull hadn't exactly handed Renfield to Myra. It had just sort of fallen naturally to this arrangement. Babies found the human face fascinating. This, Myra understood intellectually, was a fact of infants the world over. However, the way in which those big blue eyes took in her face as though it were captivating had owned her instantly, and she hadn't really wanted to let him go since.

Her mother seemed content with the arrangement. Myra had been, for several days; giving her brother back for feedings and for the reasonable amount of time a mother should probably spend with her newborn, but whenever there was a spare moment, Myra had the boy in her arms. Often, he slept on her chest.( The universe is driven by the complex interaction between three ingredients: matter, energy, and enlightened self-interest. )

Fic: Mark
Fandom: Due South
Characters: Turnbull, Guy, Longfellow, Mark
Rating: PG-13 (Some very hard language in here, and partial nudity at one point)
Words: 3,910
Summary: Turnbull's curling rink comes together. The results are unexpected, to say the least.
Notes: Written in this fic-verse. Takes place over a couple of months in the fall of 1992.


Ugh.

"Guy, I am trusting that is tobacco."

"I'm sure you are."

Renfield Turnbull was in full uniform, standing outside his detachment's building, staring at his defacto best friend and trying not to blow the hat off his own head from frustration.

Guy Laurent took a long drag from his... cigarette... as he lazed against the wall. ( Thin air? Why is it always thin air? Never fat air, chubby air, mostly-fit-could-stand-lose-a-few-pounds air? )