(no subject)
Title: In A Cold Climate
Fandom: due South
Pairing: Thatcher/Kowalski, one-sided Fraser/Thatcher, one-sided Fraser/Kowalski
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Meg Thatcher was angry, always running cold, and she used anger like a tool.
Author's notes: Written for
greatestfits. This would never have been written without
the_antichris, who rules beyond all belief, I can’t even explain, and who still loves me after a ridiculous number of typoes in the original draft. This is, actually, almost the fic I intended to write for this challenge. Here’s hoping I’m not the only one who wants to read about Thatcher.
Meg Thatcher was angry, always running cold, and she used anger like a tool. It was anger at her father that caused her to act out as a teenager in France (he hadn’t spoken to her for six months when she was seventeen after he caught her posing nude for her painting teacher) and caused her to excel as an adult: her anger got her into the RCMP Academy (“Margaret, darling, wouldn’t you rather stay with your art? It’s such a lovely hobby for you.”); that had her graduating at the top of her class (“It’s not really a challenge, dear, is it?”); that had her commissioned as an Inspector before she turned 35 (“Yes, but how are you going to earn the respect of your men? No man wants a pretty woman to tell him what to do. Well, except -“ Meg hung up the phone, at that point).
Although it made the best fuel for her ambition, Meg’s anger was not limited to her father. She was also angry at her mother (“You cut your hair?”), most of her instructors at the Depot (she always tuned out around “… sure this is the place for a pretty girl…” except for Sgt. Thorne; Meg owed Thorne her full attention, at least, after the Incident), and Benton Fraser (“Yes, sir,” always).
Sometimes Meg got angry with herself, which was unpleasant but also convenient in that she got the motivation without having to concern herself with anyone else’s feelings. She was angry with herself for minding that “Yes, sir”, for caring, for noticing, for catching herself discreetly staring at him. It was unprofessional and stupid; she had better things to do, even at this mind-numbingly dull “party,” little more than an excuse to spend the government’s money while mingling with other countries’ representatives in Chicago.
She was exceptionally good at small talk (another accomplishment she could attribute to her father, Ambassador David Thatcher, who had been so embarrassed and gentle with his socially awkward child, who had forced her into confidence and ease); could track several things at once; managed to charm the urbane Israeli Consul General while idly following Fraser. It was behavior unbecoming to a grown woman and a member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, and when she realized what she was doing, she was outraged with herself. She smiled pleasantly at the Dutch Deputy Consul and resolved to ignore Fraser’s ham-handed attempts to impress their guests.
Forty minutes later, Meg’s fury was such that she was leaning against her desk, the edge biting into her ass, her dress rucked up and down to circle her waist. Fraser’s friend, Detective Ray Whatever-His-Real-Name-Is had firm, callused hands that caught on the silk of her bra. They grabbed and bit and ignored each other. This wasn’t about them, really; Meg knew she wasn’t the only one watching Fraser, not the only one who sometimes hated him and sometimes wanted to hate him; and that just made her even angrier and more determined to do more, be better.
It was over quickly; Meg didn’t come, not that she’d expected to from a quick, furious, fully clothed fuck. Ray was pulling his pants up when she said, “Don’t tell anyone about this.”
Ray’s mouth went hard and tight for a moment, before he grinned (just a posture; Meg could tell). “Don’t worry, I’m not planning on it.”
“Good.” Meg smoothed down her dress. “Leave, now.”
“See ya,” Ray said as he walked out of the office, buckling his belt.
Meg tidied her hair and then went back to the party and charmed a few more diplomats. No one had noticed she was gone.
She was angry - with herself, with Ray, with Fraser - for days afterwards. Her anger was supposed to be icy and useful, productive, and she threw herself into her work, getting more accomplished and making more demands than ever before. Ray went to the Consulate really quite often (too often, Meg thought with narrowed eyes, for someone with a job, a home, a life), and always made a point of smirking at her. Meg might have suspected that was something he’d always done, but she made a point of not bothering to notice. Stalemate.
One day, Meg overheard Ray call her “the Ice Queen” and smiled.
One day, Meg pointedly ignored Fraser as he asked her if he might be excused from his post for the rest of the afternoon to work on an open case with Detective Vecchio. “Sorry, what was that?” Meg asked, bent over paperwork as if it were fascinating and urgent. Fraser asked again, begging her pardon, polite and attentive. Meg just couldn’t spare him. She apologized smugly to Ray.
One day, Fraser was out running errands (obtaining vital supplies for the maintenance of a Canadian presence in Chicago: glass cleaner, dishwasher soap, toilet paper) when Ray stopped by to collect him. He and Meg fucked again in her office, on the floor, and Meg came this time while Turnbull took all her calls. Ray left immediately (neither of them had said anything after the pleasantries) and Fraser spent the afternoon fretting that he couldn’t find Detective Vecchio. Meg set him to cleaning the kitchen, and spent the afternoon finishing off her agenda for the week. She was done by 2:30. It was Wednesday.
One day, when Meg was meant to be out of the Consulate, she stopped by to pick up some ever-present paperwork (with a slight surge of anger for the Inspector who’d told her, when she was a Staff Sergeant, that she was overly dependent on regulation and procedure) and overheard Fraser say, “No, Ray, I think she’s sad. Lonely.”
Meg was enraged with him, and with herself. Sadness and loneliness served no purpose. She would do better in the future.
Fandom: due South
Pairing: Thatcher/Kowalski, one-sided Fraser/Thatcher, one-sided Fraser/Kowalski
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Meg Thatcher was angry, always running cold, and she used anger like a tool.
Author's notes: Written for
greatestfits. This would never have been written without
the_antichris, who rules beyond all belief, I can’t even explain, and who still loves me after a ridiculous number of typoes in the original draft. This is, actually, almost the fic I intended to write for this challenge. Here’s hoping I’m not the only one who wants to read about Thatcher.
Meg Thatcher was angry, always running cold, and she used anger like a tool. It was anger at her father that caused her to act out as a teenager in France (he hadn’t spoken to her for six months when she was seventeen after he caught her posing nude for her painting teacher) and caused her to excel as an adult: her anger got her into the RCMP Academy (“Margaret, darling, wouldn’t you rather stay with your art? It’s such a lovely hobby for you.”); that had her graduating at the top of her class (“It’s not really a challenge, dear, is it?”); that had her commissioned as an Inspector before she turned 35 (“Yes, but how are you going to earn the respect of your men? No man wants a pretty woman to tell him what to do. Well, except -“ Meg hung up the phone, at that point).
Although it made the best fuel for her ambition, Meg’s anger was not limited to her father. She was also angry at her mother (“You cut your hair?”), most of her instructors at the Depot (she always tuned out around “… sure this is the place for a pretty girl…” except for Sgt. Thorne; Meg owed Thorne her full attention, at least, after the Incident), and Benton Fraser (“Yes, sir,” always).
Sometimes Meg got angry with herself, which was unpleasant but also convenient in that she got the motivation without having to concern herself with anyone else’s feelings. She was angry with herself for minding that “Yes, sir”, for caring, for noticing, for catching herself discreetly staring at him. It was unprofessional and stupid; she had better things to do, even at this mind-numbingly dull “party,” little more than an excuse to spend the government’s money while mingling with other countries’ representatives in Chicago.
She was exceptionally good at small talk (another accomplishment she could attribute to her father, Ambassador David Thatcher, who had been so embarrassed and gentle with his socially awkward child, who had forced her into confidence and ease); could track several things at once; managed to charm the urbane Israeli Consul General while idly following Fraser. It was behavior unbecoming to a grown woman and a member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, and when she realized what she was doing, she was outraged with herself. She smiled pleasantly at the Dutch Deputy Consul and resolved to ignore Fraser’s ham-handed attempts to impress their guests.
Forty minutes later, Meg’s fury was such that she was leaning against her desk, the edge biting into her ass, her dress rucked up and down to circle her waist. Fraser’s friend, Detective Ray Whatever-His-Real-Name-Is had firm, callused hands that caught on the silk of her bra. They grabbed and bit and ignored each other. This wasn’t about them, really; Meg knew she wasn’t the only one watching Fraser, not the only one who sometimes hated him and sometimes wanted to hate him; and that just made her even angrier and more determined to do more, be better.
It was over quickly; Meg didn’t come, not that she’d expected to from a quick, furious, fully clothed fuck. Ray was pulling his pants up when she said, “Don’t tell anyone about this.”
Ray’s mouth went hard and tight for a moment, before he grinned (just a posture; Meg could tell). “Don’t worry, I’m not planning on it.”
“Good.” Meg smoothed down her dress. “Leave, now.”
“See ya,” Ray said as he walked out of the office, buckling his belt.
Meg tidied her hair and then went back to the party and charmed a few more diplomats. No one had noticed she was gone.
She was angry - with herself, with Ray, with Fraser - for days afterwards. Her anger was supposed to be icy and useful, productive, and she threw herself into her work, getting more accomplished and making more demands than ever before. Ray went to the Consulate really quite often (too often, Meg thought with narrowed eyes, for someone with a job, a home, a life), and always made a point of smirking at her. Meg might have suspected that was something he’d always done, but she made a point of not bothering to notice. Stalemate.
One day, Meg overheard Ray call her “the Ice Queen” and smiled.
One day, Meg pointedly ignored Fraser as he asked her if he might be excused from his post for the rest of the afternoon to work on an open case with Detective Vecchio. “Sorry, what was that?” Meg asked, bent over paperwork as if it were fascinating and urgent. Fraser asked again, begging her pardon, polite and attentive. Meg just couldn’t spare him. She apologized smugly to Ray.
One day, Fraser was out running errands (obtaining vital supplies for the maintenance of a Canadian presence in Chicago: glass cleaner, dishwasher soap, toilet paper) when Ray stopped by to collect him. He and Meg fucked again in her office, on the floor, and Meg came this time while Turnbull took all her calls. Ray left immediately (neither of them had said anything after the pleasantries) and Fraser spent the afternoon fretting that he couldn’t find Detective Vecchio. Meg set him to cleaning the kitchen, and spent the afternoon finishing off her agenda for the week. She was done by 2:30. It was Wednesday.
One day, when Meg was meant to be out of the Consulate, she stopped by to pick up some ever-present paperwork (with a slight surge of anger for the Inspector who’d told her, when she was a Staff Sergeant, that she was overly dependent on regulation and procedure) and overheard Fraser say, “No, Ray, I think she’s sad. Lonely.”
Meg was enraged with him, and with herself. Sadness and loneliness served no purpose. She would do better in the future.