They work in concert, synchronized in escape, and as they get to the bottom of the stairs Fraser rushes past the door of Turnbull's office, then stops, leaning his shoulders back to peer in. On the whiteboard behind the now sleeping Mountie was an enormous table Turnbull had used to keep score: his assessment 'Fraser; 4, American 1' was not entirely inaccurate. Diefenbaker raised his head off the floor under his feet, then dropped his nose to the floor again, covering his eyes with his paws. Fraser kept is voice low in admonishment. ]
You're embarrassed to be seen in public with me? I suppose I'm not talking to the same wolf who just last week I found laid flat underneath Ray's desk with an entire box of jelly filled doughnuts?
I don't have time to argue. We're getting in the car.
[ Resistant as he was, Diefenbaker came along, pushing past their feet on his rush to get out to the car without them. Which meant that Ray's words - and the shock of cold Chicago morning air on burning skin - had a moment to reach him, so that he froze in the doorway, coming to a dead stop. Right, he'd forgotten about his back. Not forgotten forgotten, he still remembered the whole thing in intricate multifaceted detail, but the sting and thrum of pain was always something he simply dealt with. He'd taken his mind off it, as he had all the other bumps and bruises he'd built up over the last two weeks.
Now, frozen on the spot, he worked his mind to a truly desperate solution. ]
Hang your coat across my shoulders.
[ It was the only thing that came to mind, short of unpacking his neat, clean clothes right there in the consulate foyer, and as that would be too risky and take far too long, this was their only option. Of course, anything would have people asking questions, but with the way things were going, Ray's handcuffs, the excuse he'd called in to Welsh, his present state included, were the makings of a truly fantastic fabrication surely occurring to Ray right now, right?
no subject
They work in concert, synchronized in escape, and as they get to the bottom of the stairs Fraser rushes past the door of Turnbull's office, then stops, leaning his shoulders back to peer in. On the whiteboard behind the now sleeping Mountie was an enormous table Turnbull had used to keep score: his assessment 'Fraser; 4, American 1' was not entirely inaccurate. Diefenbaker raised his head off the floor under his feet, then dropped his nose to the floor again, covering his eyes with his paws. Fraser kept is voice low in admonishment. ]
You're embarrassed to be seen in public with me? I suppose I'm not talking to the same wolf who just last week I found laid flat underneath Ray's desk with an entire box of jelly filled doughnuts?
I don't have time to argue. We're getting in the car.
[ Resistant as he was, Diefenbaker came along, pushing past their feet on his rush to get out to the car without them. Which meant that Ray's words - and the shock of cold Chicago morning air on burning skin - had a moment to reach him, so that he froze in the doorway, coming to a dead stop. Right, he'd forgotten about his back. Not forgotten forgotten, he still remembered the whole thing in intricate multifaceted detail, but the sting and thrum of pain was always something he simply dealt with. He'd taken his mind off it, as he had all the other bumps and bruises he'd built up over the last two weeks.
Now, frozen on the spot, he worked his mind to a truly desperate solution. ]
Hang your coat across my shoulders.
[ It was the only thing that came to mind, short of unpacking his neat, clean clothes right there in the consulate foyer, and as that would be too risky and take far too long, this was their only option. Of course, anything would have people asking questions, but with the way things were going, Ray's handcuffs, the excuse he'd called in to Welsh, his present state included, were the makings of a truly fantastic fabrication surely occurring to Ray right now, right?
Yes? ]