It's called the Windy City - fic, dS, complete
It’s called the Windy City
Disclaimer: I don’t own due South
Ratings/Warnings/Spoilers: G, none, and if you don’t know where Fraser lives in seasons three and four, then I suspect you’ve been living under a rock.
Notes: I keep hearing that Chicago’s pretty windy. And yes, if anybody’s wondering, that is what an Entertainment Allowance is typically used for while on a diplomatic posting.
My groovy Chicagoan friend,
yamiy, corrected me on the reasoning for calling it the 'windy city' (politicians and bragging and all manner of hot air in general), but assures me that there is still plenty of high-speed wind there. Spiffy.
-
One of the first things that Meg noticed was the wind.
In cityscape, it wasn’t so far removed from Toronto. The snow got dirty before it really had a chance to be snow, the leaves would change colour in their small, cordoned off spots of green, and the skyscrapers did their best to touch the best spot of blue. But the wind was strange to Meg. It hurtled past, bringing smells that she associated with cities, and then one day it changed, and as she stepped out of the consulate she could smell green and growing and all the things in-between, like her graduation day in Regina, even as it buffeted at her hair.
She had a haircut shortly after that. Long hair was too impractical for a city like this, it became too messy, and the wind would always muss it up and heaven only knew what sort of dust it was picking up just from the sheer city-ness of the air around her.
Meg walked across a street, from a bank to a small eclectic store that sold one-of-a-kind pieces, because her entertainment allowance was there for a reason and a gift was expected for the host and hostess of a party, particularly if it were held in a private home, and there was a single parking lot across the road from her. The ever-present wind brushed past her, and she was shocked to feel warmth hit her face, almost choke her in cloying heat. It took a good five minutes inside the store to get over the oddity, and the store owner looked almost worried at his most-frequent customer.
The store went out of business shortly after that.
In the cold of winter, the wind still raced, then slowed, only to pick up a chill that she termed ferocious. Turnball picked out warmer clothes for her and discreetly turned the heat up when Fraser wasn’t in the building, and Meg found herself almost grateful to the man. Fraser would turn the heat almost-entirely off at nights, only enough that the pipes couldn’t possibly have a chance to freeze, but that was fine because he slept there, she knew that he liked the cold, though she couldn’t for the life of her understand why.
Turnbull had looked at her once, and had said, with no preamble, that Constable Fraser might need the cold because otherwise Fraser’s own warmth could burn him up from the inside. Then he’d turned back to his dusting, and Meg had filed that under T for Turnbull and tried to dismiss it.
She wondered how he could stand to sleep in that little room, and while she was sure he was unaware of it, she could hear the wind rattling the building as it scurried past. A slight noise here, a slight tremor there, and he wondered why she always had a strange expression when she was in his office.
Sometimes it seemed as though she would go mad in her own office. Her apartment was as close to the ground floor as she could find, and even then really strong gusts might occasionally rattle at the window panes. She had slept on the couch for a week before she had felt enough at ease to sleep in her own bed.
Going back to Toronto had been bliss. She’d curled up and slept in a silent room, and…
And the next day, she sorely missed the wind.
--
Fin
Disclaimer: I don’t own due South
Ratings/Warnings/Spoilers: G, none, and if you don’t know where Fraser lives in seasons three and four, then I suspect you’ve been living under a rock.
Notes: I keep hearing that Chicago’s pretty windy. And yes, if anybody’s wondering, that is what an Entertainment Allowance is typically used for while on a diplomatic posting.
My groovy Chicagoan friend,
yamiy, corrected me on the reasoning for calling it the 'windy city' (politicians and bragging and all manner of hot air in general), but assures me that there is still plenty of high-speed wind there. Spiffy.
-
One of the first things that Meg noticed was the wind.
In cityscape, it wasn’t so far removed from Toronto. The snow got dirty before it really had a chance to be snow, the leaves would change colour in their small, cordoned off spots of green, and the skyscrapers did their best to touch the best spot of blue. But the wind was strange to Meg. It hurtled past, bringing smells that she associated with cities, and then one day it changed, and as she stepped out of the consulate she could smell green and growing and all the things in-between, like her graduation day in Regina, even as it buffeted at her hair.
She had a haircut shortly after that. Long hair was too impractical for a city like this, it became too messy, and the wind would always muss it up and heaven only knew what sort of dust it was picking up just from the sheer city-ness of the air around her.
Meg walked across a street, from a bank to a small eclectic store that sold one-of-a-kind pieces, because her entertainment allowance was there for a reason and a gift was expected for the host and hostess of a party, particularly if it were held in a private home, and there was a single parking lot across the road from her. The ever-present wind brushed past her, and she was shocked to feel warmth hit her face, almost choke her in cloying heat. It took a good five minutes inside the store to get over the oddity, and the store owner looked almost worried at his most-frequent customer.
The store went out of business shortly after that.
In the cold of winter, the wind still raced, then slowed, only to pick up a chill that she termed ferocious. Turnball picked out warmer clothes for her and discreetly turned the heat up when Fraser wasn’t in the building, and Meg found herself almost grateful to the man. Fraser would turn the heat almost-entirely off at nights, only enough that the pipes couldn’t possibly have a chance to freeze, but that was fine because he slept there, she knew that he liked the cold, though she couldn’t for the life of her understand why.
Turnbull had looked at her once, and had said, with no preamble, that Constable Fraser might need the cold because otherwise Fraser’s own warmth could burn him up from the inside. Then he’d turned back to his dusting, and Meg had filed that under T for Turnbull and tried to dismiss it.
She wondered how he could stand to sleep in that little room, and while she was sure he was unaware of it, she could hear the wind rattling the building as it scurried past. A slight noise here, a slight tremor there, and he wondered why she always had a strange expression when she was in his office.
Sometimes it seemed as though she would go mad in her own office. Her apartment was as close to the ground floor as she could find, and even then really strong gusts might occasionally rattle at the window panes. She had slept on the couch for a week before she had felt enough at ease to sleep in her own bed.
Going back to Toronto had been bliss. She’d curled up and slept in a silent room, and…
And the next day, she sorely missed the wind.
--
Fin