not_that_ray | (no subject)

Fraser is currently nursing a cup of said beverage with a dubious expression on his face as he stares into it. "I don't think you want to drink this coffee, Ray."

Oh, that's so not what he wanted to hear.

"Is it black?"

He's still staring at it as though it's evidence of some kind of crime. "Black coffee is something of a fallacy, Ray. All coffee is brown, it's simply a matter of density that it appears--"

"Is it strong?"

Cut off in mid-flow, the Mountie looks up at his erstwhile partner, that uncertain look back in place. "That would be one way of describing it, yes."

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."

"Yes, it does," he concedes. The two walk in silence for a while. "My grandmother was a woman of many talents. Cooking was not among them. I can still smell the burning bannock in the oven, even now." He offers his partner a reserved smile, and hopes he can catch his friend's gaze. "Tasted like a hockey puck."

A cop's attention should never drop to the pavement. It does for a split second though as he smiles in response. "You haven't tried Frankie's interpretation of a hamburger."

The smile widens just a little. "An experience I'll do my utmost to avoid, in that case." His gaze then shifts back to the street ahead of them, taking in the ostentatious Christmas displays lingering in the street and in the shop windows as they pass. "I didn't have Christmas lights, or a tree, growing up in the Territories. We made do with signal flares, and hanging pine cones covered with peanut butter on the trees outside." His brow creases slightly at the recollection. "Though we had to stop using the flares after an ice plane landed almost on top of the cabin."

"Wait. Let me guess. Runway lights."

Fraser pauses at the door to the small diner. "Well, not strictly, no. Traditionally the flares are used to signal for help, and they were attempting a flyby to determine if that was the case. Unfortunately, at that moment, the pilot suffered a mild stroke and lost control of the plane. Nobody was ultimately hurt, unless you count several Norwegian spruces and an old barn as casualties." He pushes open the door for his friend, gesturing for him to step inside.