Due South - Again
Spoilers: Vague ones for the most of the series (particularly season three and four), but mostly All the Queen’s Horses
Characters: Fraser/Thatcher
Warnings: None
Disclaimers: Not mine, no profit being made
Authors Note 1: Thatcher might qualify as ever so slightly out of character for this one, but I figure there is a point where anyone would snap, even a calm, cool RCMP Inspector.
Authors Note 2: A holiday gift for icepixie, who asked for Fraser and Thatcher being awkward and adorable. I didn’t do so well with the awkward, but I think the adorable is there. :D Also, thanks to ashura_fan for the quick beta. All mistakes left are my own - point them out and I will happily fix them!
Again
~*~
The train rocked beneath her, and Margret Thatcher was forced to take a wide-stance, splayed-leg wobbling stagger to keep from falling over the side as they made their way to the engine. The fact that she could maintain that wobbling stagger and make it look like she actually knew what she was doing is yet another frustration currently causing her to be more irritable than usual. One who does not work on trains *should not* be familiar with how one traverse over the top of them!
Again, she thinks. I cannot believe this is happening *AGAIN*!
“Sir?” Fraser, behind her. Yet another frustrating bit of déjà-vu. It was so surreal she wanted to *scream*! Had been, actually, if the concerned look on the Constable’s face was anything to judge by. Next psych review, she’d be the one talking to closets and people who aren’t there because IT WAS FREAKING HAPPENING AGAIN.
The cool, competent, commanding officer be damned. She was *ticked*.
She turned, ready to rant her wrath down on the nearest target. “THIS KEEPS HAPPENING TO US!” she yelled, the wind from the forward momentum of the train whipping her hair into her face like an avenging angel. “What, Constable, did we do in a past life to deserve getting thrust into these *ridiculous* situations, over and over again?!”
Fraser opened his mouth like he might speak, but the gasket had blown now and she was damned well going to vent until sufficient pressure had been released. “Gun fights over stolen chickens and their golden eggs! Literal and metaphorical ‘egg on face’ humiliations! Runaway trains full of singing Mounties, rigged to explode because of some crazy terrorist with a bone to pick with the US government, then having that *same* crazy terrorist escape and take the entire courtroom hostage at his trial three weeks later! Retired CIA agents waiting for their final assignment and guns being smuggled in crates of *rubber ducks*! Fully functional eighteenth century frigates, complete with crazy RCMP trainees set out to hunt pirates on the Great Lakes, and that’s just to name a few! And now, ANOTHER RUNAWAY TRAIN RIGGED TO EXPLODE!”
She was well into her rant, there was no stopping her now. “*Three years*, Constable! I’ve only had this assignment for THREE YEARS! It’s like every wack-job in this entire freaking country has set forth to make themselves my very own little project in *INSANITY*!”
Her final exclamation echoes off into the trees, loud even in comparison to the rumble and clack of the train as it chugs on closer to its last - and potentially explosive - call for Chicago.
Pressure vented, she realizes just how much of a spectacle she has been making of herself, and her face heats at the outburst. Just a crazy woman ranting on a train, nothing to see here.
Fraser, of course, just stands there, looking earnest and gorgeous and completely comfortable, like standing on a runaway train rigged to explode is just another day. I suppose it is, for him. Nothing he hasn’t done before, either, and her face flushes again for an entirely different reason.
“If I may have permission to speak freely, sir?” She nods, habit more than anything else as she tries to force some of the blood from her face by sheer determination. He takes it as an invitation to continue, moving forward until he is standing in front of her.
“Being forced into unforeseen circumstances is a challenge of being human. How we react in those circumstances is what gives us a true measure of what kind of person we are. You, sir, have reacted admirably and bravely every time you have been thrust into an impossible situation. I know of no one else who could possibly handle them with the grace and competence you exhibit each and every time.”
She meets his eyes, earnest and so very very blue. Just look in a mirror, Constable.
It is that moment she realizes exactly how close he is standing, and suddenly the situation doesn’t seem so dire after all.
“Has it occurred to you, Constable, that we are once again standing on top of a runaway train rigged to explode?”
Was his face ever so slightly pink, or was it merely the result of standing on top of a moving vehicle, facing into the wind for a prolonged period of time? “It has occurred to me, sir,” he says, throat working.
“Do you recall the last conversation we had about what activities might be pursued should we find ourselves in this particular situation again?”
“The… conversation was rather memorable, ma’am.” There was definitely some pink there now, and if the wind wasn’t whipping in her ears, she is pretty sure there would be a hitch in his voice, too. He leans closer, halving the distance between them. “I would point out, though, that we are missing a few requirements from the previously determined contract.”
She leans in as well, cutting the distance down further. “I am quite certain Constable Turnbull has not yet had time to recover from that unfortunate blow to the head he experienced earlier, and is therefore still unconscious in the dining car. That fulfills one of the missing variables, and I am willing to renegotiate on the other.”
“Understood,” he replies, and closes the rest of the distance between them.
This time, he didn’t even have to replace his hat.
*
Later, using Kowalski’s distraction, Fraser’s boot knife, and Meg’s shoe lace, they once again manage to stop the train, disarm the bomb, and save the day.
As Ray led the cussing and screaming offender none-too-gently to the waiting police cruiser, Fraser inquires in a low voice next to her ear, “Shall we maintain the terms of our pre-determined contract should this … unlikely situation occur a third time, ma’am?”
It sends a not at all unpleasant shiver down her spine, but she is far too professional to let it show. “I think not, Constable,” she replies shortly. It is not at all how she intended the words to sound.
He shifts away - Dammit! - and she doesn’t have to see his face to know the Dutiful RCMP Officer mask is firmly back in place.
No, she thinks, no more ‘agains’. We’ve already had enough of those for today.
“Constable Turnbull,” she shouts instead, striding toward where her slightly dazed subordinate sits being attended by the EMTs, Fraser following as silently as a shadow. “I require your presence.”
Turnbull immediately stands to attention, only to be yanked back down again by the irritated EMT still trying to wrap a bandage around his head. He settles for sitting as stiffly and straightly as possible. “Of course, sir!” he replies.
“Bare witness, please.” She straightens, thrusts her shoulders back, and brushes imaginary dust from the front of her outfit. Then she says in a clear, controlled voice, “I, Inspector Margret Thatcher, do hereby resign as the commanding officer of the Canadian Consulate in Chicago, Illinois, United States of America. Until a sufficient replacement can be reassigned, I leave Constable Benton Fraser in charge of the facility and the duties involved therein.”
With that, she turns, grabs Fraser by the collar of his jacket, and kisses him again. Surprised, he doesn’t react right away, but it’s only a few seconds before he is kissing her back, spine loosening, his hands going around her waist, and she melts against him. The term is completely undignified for a woman of her status, but that is exactly what she does. He really is an awful good kisser.
It takes awhile before they come up for air, and before things can get carried away any further, she steps away and turns back to her ex-subordinate, running a hand through her hair and self-consciously trying to straighten her blouse. As soon as she realizes what she’s doing, she stops immediately.
Turnbull looks like he just got hit over the head - again - and finally breaks into tearful, overly enthusiastic congratulations. “Oh, sirs, I am so happy for you! Group hug!” He then proceeds to do just that, squishing her and Fraser together in a surprisingly strong hold. It is, of course, the exact same moment Kowalski returns to retrieve his partner.
He takes one look at the Canadian trio - Fraser flushed, Thatcher mussed, and Turnbull crying rather jubilantly into their chests - and smirks knowingly.
Damn detectives, she thinks, and starts trying to detangle herself from Turnbull’s increasingly damp embrace.
~*~
End
~*~
Last AN - My beta complained about it being too short, but I really can't think of better place to stop. That said, if you want a bit more closure, my plan was to try and figure out a way to sneak in the re-assignment opportunity that Thatcher takes up at the end of the series, because you know she would *never* give up her job, not even for Fraser. I was also going to add in an off-hand comment about how it couldn't be nearly as exciting as working with Fraser. So, if you need a proper ending, reword and rewrite those two tidbits in whichever way you so choose, and vwala, instant ending!
Characters: Fraser/Thatcher
Warnings: None
Disclaimers: Not mine, no profit being made
Authors Note 1: Thatcher might qualify as ever so slightly out of character for this one, but I figure there is a point where anyone would snap, even a calm, cool RCMP Inspector.
Authors Note 2: A holiday gift for icepixie, who asked for Fraser and Thatcher being awkward and adorable. I didn’t do so well with the awkward, but I think the adorable is there. :D Also, thanks to ashura_fan for the quick beta. All mistakes left are my own - point them out and I will happily fix them!
Again
~*~
The train rocked beneath her, and Margret Thatcher was forced to take a wide-stance, splayed-leg wobbling stagger to keep from falling over the side as they made their way to the engine. The fact that she could maintain that wobbling stagger and make it look like she actually knew what she was doing is yet another frustration currently causing her to be more irritable than usual. One who does not work on trains *should not* be familiar with how one traverse over the top of them!
Again, she thinks. I cannot believe this is happening *AGAIN*!
“Sir?” Fraser, behind her. Yet another frustrating bit of déjà-vu. It was so surreal she wanted to *scream*! Had been, actually, if the concerned look on the Constable’s face was anything to judge by. Next psych review, she’d be the one talking to closets and people who aren’t there because IT WAS FREAKING HAPPENING AGAIN.
The cool, competent, commanding officer be damned. She was *ticked*.
She turned, ready to rant her wrath down on the nearest target. “THIS KEEPS HAPPENING TO US!” she yelled, the wind from the forward momentum of the train whipping her hair into her face like an avenging angel. “What, Constable, did we do in a past life to deserve getting thrust into these *ridiculous* situations, over and over again?!”
Fraser opened his mouth like he might speak, but the gasket had blown now and she was damned well going to vent until sufficient pressure had been released. “Gun fights over stolen chickens and their golden eggs! Literal and metaphorical ‘egg on face’ humiliations! Runaway trains full of singing Mounties, rigged to explode because of some crazy terrorist with a bone to pick with the US government, then having that *same* crazy terrorist escape and take the entire courtroom hostage at his trial three weeks later! Retired CIA agents waiting for their final assignment and guns being smuggled in crates of *rubber ducks*! Fully functional eighteenth century frigates, complete with crazy RCMP trainees set out to hunt pirates on the Great Lakes, and that’s just to name a few! And now, ANOTHER RUNAWAY TRAIN RIGGED TO EXPLODE!”
She was well into her rant, there was no stopping her now. “*Three years*, Constable! I’ve only had this assignment for THREE YEARS! It’s like every wack-job in this entire freaking country has set forth to make themselves my very own little project in *INSANITY*!”
Her final exclamation echoes off into the trees, loud even in comparison to the rumble and clack of the train as it chugs on closer to its last - and potentially explosive - call for Chicago.
Pressure vented, she realizes just how much of a spectacle she has been making of herself, and her face heats at the outburst. Just a crazy woman ranting on a train, nothing to see here.
Fraser, of course, just stands there, looking earnest and gorgeous and completely comfortable, like standing on a runaway train rigged to explode is just another day. I suppose it is, for him. Nothing he hasn’t done before, either, and her face flushes again for an entirely different reason.
“If I may have permission to speak freely, sir?” She nods, habit more than anything else as she tries to force some of the blood from her face by sheer determination. He takes it as an invitation to continue, moving forward until he is standing in front of her.
“Being forced into unforeseen circumstances is a challenge of being human. How we react in those circumstances is what gives us a true measure of what kind of person we are. You, sir, have reacted admirably and bravely every time you have been thrust into an impossible situation. I know of no one else who could possibly handle them with the grace and competence you exhibit each and every time.”
She meets his eyes, earnest and so very very blue. Just look in a mirror, Constable.
It is that moment she realizes exactly how close he is standing, and suddenly the situation doesn’t seem so dire after all.
“Has it occurred to you, Constable, that we are once again standing on top of a runaway train rigged to explode?”
Was his face ever so slightly pink, or was it merely the result of standing on top of a moving vehicle, facing into the wind for a prolonged period of time? “It has occurred to me, sir,” he says, throat working.
“Do you recall the last conversation we had about what activities might be pursued should we find ourselves in this particular situation again?”
“The… conversation was rather memorable, ma’am.” There was definitely some pink there now, and if the wind wasn’t whipping in her ears, she is pretty sure there would be a hitch in his voice, too. He leans closer, halving the distance between them. “I would point out, though, that we are missing a few requirements from the previously determined contract.”
She leans in as well, cutting the distance down further. “I am quite certain Constable Turnbull has not yet had time to recover from that unfortunate blow to the head he experienced earlier, and is therefore still unconscious in the dining car. That fulfills one of the missing variables, and I am willing to renegotiate on the other.”
“Understood,” he replies, and closes the rest of the distance between them.
This time, he didn’t even have to replace his hat.
*
Later, using Kowalski’s distraction, Fraser’s boot knife, and Meg’s shoe lace, they once again manage to stop the train, disarm the bomb, and save the day.
As Ray led the cussing and screaming offender none-too-gently to the waiting police cruiser, Fraser inquires in a low voice next to her ear, “Shall we maintain the terms of our pre-determined contract should this … unlikely situation occur a third time, ma’am?”
It sends a not at all unpleasant shiver down her spine, but she is far too professional to let it show. “I think not, Constable,” she replies shortly. It is not at all how she intended the words to sound.
He shifts away - Dammit! - and she doesn’t have to see his face to know the Dutiful RCMP Officer mask is firmly back in place.
No, she thinks, no more ‘agains’. We’ve already had enough of those for today.
“Constable Turnbull,” she shouts instead, striding toward where her slightly dazed subordinate sits being attended by the EMTs, Fraser following as silently as a shadow. “I require your presence.”
Turnbull immediately stands to attention, only to be yanked back down again by the irritated EMT still trying to wrap a bandage around his head. He settles for sitting as stiffly and straightly as possible. “Of course, sir!” he replies.
“Bare witness, please.” She straightens, thrusts her shoulders back, and brushes imaginary dust from the front of her outfit. Then she says in a clear, controlled voice, “I, Inspector Margret Thatcher, do hereby resign as the commanding officer of the Canadian Consulate in Chicago, Illinois, United States of America. Until a sufficient replacement can be reassigned, I leave Constable Benton Fraser in charge of the facility and the duties involved therein.”
With that, she turns, grabs Fraser by the collar of his jacket, and kisses him again. Surprised, he doesn’t react right away, but it’s only a few seconds before he is kissing her back, spine loosening, his hands going around her waist, and she melts against him. The term is completely undignified for a woman of her status, but that is exactly what she does. He really is an awful good kisser.
It takes awhile before they come up for air, and before things can get carried away any further, she steps away and turns back to her ex-subordinate, running a hand through her hair and self-consciously trying to straighten her blouse. As soon as she realizes what she’s doing, she stops immediately.
Turnbull looks like he just got hit over the head - again - and finally breaks into tearful, overly enthusiastic congratulations. “Oh, sirs, I am so happy for you! Group hug!” He then proceeds to do just that, squishing her and Fraser together in a surprisingly strong hold. It is, of course, the exact same moment Kowalski returns to retrieve his partner.
He takes one look at the Canadian trio - Fraser flushed, Thatcher mussed, and Turnbull crying rather jubilantly into their chests - and smirks knowingly.
Damn detectives, she thinks, and starts trying to detangle herself from Turnbull’s increasingly damp embrace.
~*~
End
~*~
Last AN - My beta complained about it being too short, but I really can't think of better place to stop. That said, if you want a bit more closure, my plan was to try and figure out a way to sneak in the re-assignment opportunity that Thatcher takes up at the end of the series, because you know she would *never* give up her job, not even for Fraser. I was also going to add in an off-hand comment about how it couldn't be nearly as exciting as working with Fraser. So, if you need a proper ending, reword and rewrite those two tidbits in whichever way you so choose, and vwala, instant ending!