not_that_ray | (no subject)

He'd really like that cup of coffee now.

"As long as it doesn't look like used motor oil that's been sittin' out in the snow, I'm ready for it."

Fraser makes something like a grimace, holding the cup away from him. "Ray, I really don't recommend that you-- "

"Give me the coffee before I hurt you, Fraser."

Fraser seems to be having a moral dilemma, but then thinks better of adding to his protests. "As you wish." He hands the styrofoam cup to him.

And takes an innocuous step back.

He takes a slug without first inspecting. It travels halfway down his gullet. And stops.

The reaction on his face is somewhere between revulsion and surprise. There are no mad dashes to the restroom or spitting back into the cup so...

He swallows. Hard.

Fraser watches with a faint wince. "As I was about to say, before I was somewhat rudely interrupted ... I believe someone failed to fully rinse the carafe last night before leaving the station, as there was some considerable soap residue floating on the surface of the coffee-- and in turn, someone else apparently neglected to add a filter to the machine before adding the grounds this morning, presumably due to fatigue. Entirely understandable at this time of year."

He seems oblivious to the two sniggering coworkers of Ray's passing behind him.

Nothing like having your mouth washed out with soap and scraped simultaneously.

His voice rises up over the office clatter. "Who do I have to kill?!"

The Mountie steps forward again, ostensibly to delay a lunge for the nearest suspect. His friend's been operating on a short fuse all week. "I'm sure it was accidental, Ray."

"I hate the holidays," he mutters under his breath.

He dumps the coffee, cup and all, into the trash can.

Diefenbaker lifts his head, and whines softly. Fraser looks around at the crowded station floor, and raises his voice just slightly. "It had to have been an accident, Ray. I seriously doubt that anyone in their right mind would wait to correct their mistake until Lieutenant Welsh gets back and helps himself to the same pot, as he does every morning at around eleven."

He turns his attention back to his friend, his Stetson held under his arm. His sharp hearing will note a small amount of scuffling shoes from down the corridor. On that note, he can't really argue. "They're not for everyone," he finally concurs.

Despite his foul mood, Ray reaches down to scratch Dief behind the ears.

"Yeah," he comments, feeling somewhat dejected. "I'll be back. I've gotta find the real deal before my brain leaks out my ears."

He grabs his jacket from the back of the chair.

"Rrrrf," replies the wolf, getting to his feet to follow.

"Wolves don't need caffeine," Fraser reminds him. "Perhaps if you stopped eating so much junk food, you wouldn't find it so difficult to get up in the morning."

"Mmrrruf." Diefenbaker retorts, turning his back on the Mountie to follow Ray out the door. Fraser sighs, then follows suit. "You let a wolf save your life, and you pay, and you pay, and you pay ... "

Ray keeps walking. "The reason I find it difficult to get up in the morning has nothing to do with my diet, Fraser."

He easily matches strides with the other man, Diefenbaker trotting alongside the Chicago detective as they head out onto the street. "I was talking to Diefenbaker, though I have to say your dietary choices are hardly sterling, either." His breath clouds in the chill air.

He turns the collar up on his jacket and shoves his hands into his pockets. Where the hell did he leave his gloves anyway? Welcome to winter in Chicago.

"Beats not eating at all."