dS short story for podfic_lover: "Playing a Role for Fun and Profit," (PG-13)

[hsavinien]

Title: Playing a Role for Fun and Profit
Author: H. Savinien
Rating: PG-13 (language)
Disclaimer: due South and its characters belong to Alliance/Atlantis, the Pauls, and their respective actors, apart from Ramona and Winston, who are my own invention.
Wordcount: 1584
Author's Note: This is a long time coming, I'm afraid. It's a charity fic for podfic_lover's very generous donation to the Queensland Flood Relief auction. Whiiich was over a year ago. >_> I'm so sorry. Kindly beta-read by yuri_shoujo, slayer of adverbs.
Summary: Who are the real heroes of due South? Well, everyone has their own opinion.

***

“I think they're the clowns, you know,” Jack said.

“What? What're you talking about?”

“The Mountie and 'Vecchio'. If we lived in a comedy, they'd be the clowns.”

Tom chewed on his pastrami-and-swiss, contemplative. “You mean they've got a secret stash of fart jokes and are a little queer? I'd believe it. No guy could really be as innocent as Fraser pretends.”

“Naaah, not that.” Jack leaned back in his seat. “I've been watching a lot of old Masterpiece Theatre Shakespeare Noel Coward-type stuff recently and-” he glared at his partner as Dewey coughed “whipped” around a bite of sandwich. “And I noticed something. The clown, the funny guy. He's there for a reason besides the fart jokes and the spilling food down his clothes and whatever. Whenever he shows up, he does the wrong thing at the right time or the right thing at the wrong one. That's his schtick.”

“You're talking crap, man. That doesn't make sense. That's what clowns do – they walk around in funny clothes and make a lot of noise and throw pies at each other.” Dewey checked the building they were watching in the rear-view. “Still nothing.”

“And who do we know who walks around in funny clothes getting people to notice him and getting in people's faces?” Jack countered. “The Mountie and sometimes 'Vecchio' for the second part. Besides, that's not what I was getting at.”

“So explain it.” Tom said. “And pass your lighter here; mine's dead.”

Jack rolled his eyes, but pulled his lighter out of his breast pocket and tossed it over anyway. “The clown makes the story work, right? There's a bad guy, but he's not like a mugger, rapist, violent asshole type bad guy usually. More a sideline-schmooze-your-girlfriend-away kind of guy. So you gotta have conflict, but the bad guy's not upfront and just taking literal potshots at you. How do you make that conflict happen then? With the funny guy.”

Dewey sucked on his cigarette and tested his coffee with a finger. “Shit, cold. So how do you figure that?”

“Well, if you've got the story going, guy meets girl, whatever, they hit it off, great. But then it's got to keep going. There's got to be some kind of problem to make things interesting. That's where the clown comes in. Usually he's some kind of idiot servant or something. He does the wrong thing at the right time. He forgets to deliver a letter or gives a message to the wrong person or gets lost or mixes up rooms or something. Wrong thing, right time, so there's a problem for the main characters. Then people have to work things out, make that happy ending earned. Eventually, though, the funny man's got to put things right. He delivers his message too late or whatever, sometimes the late message saves somebody's life or proves that somebody's some lord's long-lost son and fixes everything, everybody has a laugh, the story's wrapped up. Right thing, wrong time. Happily-ever-after, the end.” Jack ate the last of his meatball sandwich and popped a breath mint before offering one to his partner. Dewey waved it off. Jack sighed.

“Yeah, okay, I guess. So how do you figure K-'Vecchio' and the Mountie for it?”

“Well, think about it.” Jack ticked off points on his fingers. “Funny clothes slash looks: Mountie suit and wolf for Fraser, blond spiky hair and nerd glasses for 'Vecchio.' Check. Habit of standing out, making themselves noticed: weirdest chases on record, multiple counts, too many to count, actually, helping little old ladies across the street and basically acting like a boyscout in an Archie comic from the 50's. Check. Habit of getting themselves into really embarrassing situations: let's see...”

“Bra incident,” Tom supplied.

“Fetish club.”

“Cross-dressing.”

“Funeral parlor.”

“Garbage chute.”

“Noodle incident.”

“Hotel with that crazy guy's fiancee.”

“So yeah, big check mark there.”

Tom swirled the cold coffee around. “Think Fraser does have a secret stash of good fart jokes?”

“Hell, maybe. I don't know. I know he's almost a guy when he unbends for a minute or two, but since that happens about as often as they get a heat wave in January up in Santa's backyard, I haven't ever had a chance to ask.” Jack checked the rear-view again. Still nothing. “Anyway. Secret stash of fart jokes. Possible check. Uncanny ability to ruin the game of every other guy in spitting distance while still getting none himself, check. Really inconvenient timing, check. Strange tendency to arrive in the nick of time anyway, check. Weird way with words: Fraser talking like a dictionary published before his parents were born, 'Vecchio' forgetting words. Two checks.”

“Huh,” Dewey mulled it over for a while. “Yeah, I guess so.” He gulped the cold coffee down and made a face. “Just...what does that make us, the heroes?” Dewey quick-drew his gun and sighted along it to the window they were watching. Still dark. He shrugged, checked the safety, and re-holstered it.

“No way.” Jack shrugged. “I figure I'm the good guy. You're the sidekick.”

“Hey!”

“Don't blame me, man. I've got a lady and a kid. You want to be the hero, you gotta get yourself a girl.”

Dewey threw a potato chip at him. “How do you figure? The cop hero isn't black. The black guy is the sidekick.”

“It depends on what network we're on.” Jack folded his arms and leaned back. “I'm putting my money on HBO. They would totally buy black cop, white sidekick, with a side order of wacky Canadian/Italian American/half wolf team-up.”

“Well, then I'm the dark horse popular character and get to do the cool driving.”

“Whatever, you're just-” There was a crash of glass breaking and a panicked shriek. Jack whipped around to stare at the nearest alley, fumbling with the lock on his door. “Shit, cover me.”

He threw his door open and sprinted for the corner, gun out and fishing for his badge. Behind him, Dewey was barking into the radio, then slamming his own door.

Jack skidded to a stop to look before he leaped and goddamnit, that was a huge...that was a huge lady right there, pinning a skinny squirming guy halfway up the wall by the neck. No time. “Freeze, lady, hands in the air, drop him right now!” he barked, spinning around the corner. She spun, and pitched the guy at him; Jack couldn't dodge in time and almost went down under the guy's weight. By the time he shrugged the guy off, Dewey was there, jumping at their perp, just in time to catch a wicked haymaker. Dewey went over so fast he was nearly horizontal six inches before he hit the ground and the woman went after him again. Huey threw himself forward, ignoring his gun, not enough room, might tag Tom. He tackled her, taking her around the waist just as her boot was about to come down – shit, aimed to flatten Tom's knee – got his knees on her shoulders and caught her wrists long enough to snap the cuffs on.

He rolled off, looking for his partner. Dewey was only just sitting up, but had the guy on the ground, sniveling, a definitely non-police-issue gun on the ground a few feet away.

“Well,” Jack climbed to his feet and trotted over to give Tom a hand up, “that stakeout got a whole lot more interesting all of a sudden.”

Dewey nodded, slapping cuffs on his guy. “Shit. She was going for my fucking knee, man. That shit never heals up right. Thanks, man. I guess maybe you're the hero after all.”

“Damn straight.” Jack peered at Dewey's collar. “Hey, it's Beck! You got our guy. Not bad, sidekick!” He levered Winston Beck upright and dusted him off. “Picked the wrong alley to sneak out of hiding for a drink, huh?”

“That...that lady!” Beck wheezed. “K-keep her away from me!”

“Not so nice when it's you getting jumped in a dark alley for your cash, huh?” Tom asked. “Backup's on its way, Jack. Who's she?” he nodded toward the woman on the ground.

Jack stopped a few feet away from the woman, ran through the Miranda on autopilot. When she rolled over to spit at him, he whistled. “Is that...Rose McCuddy, the lady wrestler?”

“My name's fucking Ramona Magee, shithead!”

Tom rubbernecked. “It is! You're her. That wrestler chick who got dropped by the network for getting caught 'roiding up a couple years ago!”

“I was fucking framed, y'damn pig,” she snarled.

“Yeah? You weren't framed for tonight's work, lady, so save your breath,” Jack warned her. “Dewey, when's that backup coming? These two are not going in the same car.”

“Any time now.” Dewey retrieved his gun from where the impact with Magee had sent it flying from his hand and looked Beck's dropped weapon over carefully. “Damn. How come the crooks are the ones who get Glocks? I've wanted to try one of these puppies since I was old enough to know how to hold one.”

Luckily, two black-and-whites showed up before Jack could do more than roll his eyes. They stuffed their perps in with a minimum of swearing and bodily threats (Magee) and whimpering (Beck) let the uniforms secure the scene, and called it a night.

“Not a bad night after all, huh, sidekick?” Jack asked, starting the car.

“Not bad, hero cop,” Tom replied, lighting up again. “Drink? There's this great new comedy club opened up on Merriam.”