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How Not To Run Into Doors
for mboyd
Author's Notes: R only for language. It's pretty much staight-up action. It was orignially for mboyd, but was reassigned for lateness. 1745 words.
It was a pretty normal office. There were gray cubicles and gray filing cabinets and gray blinds on the windows and crappy, thin gray carpet on the floor. There were telephones ringing and the murmur of people talking and that vague air of "I'm busy - don't bother me." It was a pretty normal office
That is, until people started shooting at us.
I dove on top of Fraser, pulling us both into the nearest cubicle, up against the wall. "I think we got the right place, then, yeah?"
Fraser nodded. "Yes. Um, Ray?"
I turned to peer around the side of the cubicle. "Yeah?" I ducked back when a fresh round of bullets shrieked towards me.
"Ray, I don't think these walls are bulletproof."
I looked at him sidelong. "Well, of course they're not bulletproof, Fraser. But these guys are too stupid to know that."
A dozen bullets chose that moment to punch through the wall just above our heads.
"That would appear to be the case," Fraser mused.
I glared at him. "Oh, so you pick now to grow a sense of humour?"
Looking around the room, Fraser didn't respond. I wondered what he saw. To me, it was a football game; it was Xs and Os. Our cubicle was the second in an aisle. If we were to walk (run) down the aisle and turn left, the door would be about twenty yards away. Go deep and hook while the other guy blocked. Touchdown.
Fraser turned back to look at me. "Cover me," he said, all seriousness.
"No!" I swore. "What the... No. Listen. You cover me." I reached into his jacket for my backup sidearm (a regular addition to my everyday items ever since I started working with Fraser) and slapped it into Fraser's surprised palm. Fraser dropped it.
"Pick it up," I said, already focused on gauging distances. I heard Fraser load the gun and take the safety off. "Okay," I said. "Here goes."
The gunfire had stopped for the moment, but as soon as I somersaulted out of the cubicle, it picked up again. I made it behind the far cubicle wall in time to see Fraser duck back sideways into our cubicle. I checked him over quickly. No blood. Good. Time for round two.
I crawled over to the end of the cubicle and watched as the twenty yards to the door grew before his eyes. I looked back but could no longer see Fraser, and somehow that scared me more than anything else. More than a bunch of guys with guns in their hands.
God, Kowalski, I thought, you're such a woman.
On that note, I added mentally, stood, and leapt towards the door. Heartbeat, gunshot, footstep. Heartbeat. Gunshot. Two more footsteps...
It would have to be a pull door.
It was also steel, solid, and very painful to run into. Somehow, I didn't get shot in the extra three seconds it took to get the damn thing open, but I thought it might be because the bad guys were too busy laughing.
Turned out that they were just reloading.
I ducked behind the door as a fresh round of bullets smacked into it. I thought it would buckle when I saw the metal dimple, but it held.
Okay. Now the tough part.
I poked my head out the door just a little bit and could see Fraser over the low cubicle walls. There was a row of desks next to the door, and I quickly nodded at Fraser, flipped one over and took cover behind it.
I tracked his progress with one eye and aimed with the other. Since I was being all distracting, he had an easy enough time crossing the aisle and getting to the corner of the cubicle wall. This was where it got tricky.
This was where I did something incredibly stupid.
See, I was behind a desk. If Fraser walked (or, hey, ran - there's an idea, Frase!) towards the door, he's be a way easier target than me.
And he was out of bullets.
I know this because he was staring at the gun in his hand and patting his pockets as if he might have ammunition for my back up gun hiding with his pemi-whatever. No one said has ever he's the smartest guy.
Well, okay, I have.
Several times.
Also, never say I'm not observant. See how I could tell he was out of ammo? Anyway, the point is, he threw away the gun in disgust. And here's where I got stupid, see. `Cause me? I needed to draw fire away from Fraser. I needed to make myself a better target.
Yeah, you got it. That was the stupid part.
You betcha. I stood up.
Immediately, a bunch of bullets shrieked towards me. Except bullets don't shriek. Or if they do, you can't hear it over the, you know, bang-flash-boom stuff when the gun goes off.
I found myself considering this from the floor, with a fair amount of blood dripping onto the carpet from a hole in my leg. And all I could think was, I hope they don't bill me for the stain.
Oh yeah, and This really fucking hurts. That too.
So, I was on the ground, there were guys guarding the door, and Fraser was stuck behind a cubicle wall. I had the sudden urge to laugh.
Except, apparently, Fraser wasn't so stuck. `Cause all of a sudden, I heard this ping-ping-ping noise and looked up to see Fraser at a weird angle carrying an entire fucking filing cabinet, drawers hanging out and everything. Or maybe he was just at a weird angle because I was lying down.
Swear to God, thing must've weighed three hundred pounds.
There were files pouring everywhere, papers all over the place, but Fraser was beside me by then, dumping the filing cabinet and hanging out behind the tipped-over desk with me. I gave him my gun.
"Hey," I said.
"Hello, Ray," he said, and I swear the guy wasn't even breathing hard. "Just a moment."
It was only after he stood up that I realized he had dropped my gun.
But he didn't need it, I guess. He picked up a chair that belonged to our desk and tossed it at the guys shooting at us. He knocked three of them over like bowling pins.
And then I was being lifted up and shoved at the door. And colliding with it.
I grunted. "It's a pull."
"Oh," said Fraser, and had the grace to sound embarrassed. His neck was all red. I thought it was hilarious that his neck blushed, for some reason, and was still laughing as he carried me down the stairs.
- - - - -
The hole in my leg turned out to be less of a hole and more of an, um... graze. Okay, scrape. Not that I let Fraser know. It was all bandaged up by the time they let him into the room. I could tell he'd been pacing, because his hat was in his hands, and I could tell he had been scratching at that damn eyebrow again because it was all red around it.
See? Observant.
Anyway, I kind of let him think I was dying a little bit, which I feel sorta bad about, but not really, because it had been his idea to go to the goddamn office in the first place. I think he could tell I was lying, though. The fact that they sent me home was probably a good first indication.
Well, whatever.
So, we were sitting outside my apartment (he drove, and lemme tell you, never let a Mountie drive - took us forty minutes to go fifteen blocks), and I was being all macho and telling him I could get upstairs by myself, thank you very much, when he said, "Um."
And, being pissed and in pain and very upset about getting shot at and running into a door (twice), I said, "What?"
"Thank you. For... um, today."
"I didn't do nuthin', " I said. "You were the one with the filing cabinet carrying and the desk throwing."
Fraser shook his head like he had ticks or something. "You got us out of there, Ray. And you took a bullet for me. That means a lot."
And all of a sudden it was like I couldn't talk, you know? Because that takes balls to say. And Fraser has a helluva lot of trouble talking about this stuff for a guy half the 2-7 thinks is gay.
I cleared my throat. "Uh, no problem, Frase." And because he did it - you know, talked about his... feelings - I figured I could do it too. "Anytime. Uh, seriously." That's about as far as I could go, but he seemed to get it, `cause his face lit up with this smile like it was fucking Christmas or something, like it was his birthday. And I felt bad, all of a sudden, `cause I realized I never say stuff like that to him. And maybe I should.
"Seriously, Frase." I cleared my throat for like the third time in a minute, because the car was feeling really small. Grabbing the door handle, I scrambled out of there, stopping only to look back for a moment.
Or what I thought was going to be a moment. Because his face was still lit up, from the inside or something girly like that, and it ended up being longer than a moment, longer than two straight guys (repeat: Iamnotgay Iamnotgay...) should be staring at each other. I dragged myself away with a quick, "See ya tomorrow," except for that Fraser was talking again and it was like he rediscovered words.
"Ray, you're an incredible detective, and I don't think I tell you that enough." Swear, this guy's a freaking mind reader. He went on. "You're smart, you're street-smart, you go with your instincts, and they're nearly always correct. You're capable and creative; you know what to do and when to do it. You know how to treat suspects and which ones need what kind of treatment. I'm constantly learning from you, not just because you're my partner and a wonderful policeman, but because you're my friend."
He finished and nodded, like I said something worth approving of. "Just wanted to let you know," he said. "See you tomorrow."
I watched the car pull away, and shivered in the cold breeze. "See you tomorrow," I whispered, and turned inside.
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