m/m warning.
Rated ... hold on, let me check -- this is DSX, isn't it? Okay, automatic R rating.
(Standard, all-purpose disclaimer) All pre-existing characters are the property of the creators and producers of "Due South." No copyright infringement is intended. All new characters and situations are the sole property and responsibility of the author.
**MEMO FROM BUFFY**
There's been a debate going on about one particular scene in "Flashback" (Spoiler! Spoiler! Spoiler! Spoiler!) when Ray tells Ben that Thatcher hates him. Well. I know *I've* got my private little theory about *that* ...
Dedicated to Gloria, for being a general bad influence and with whom I've been developing this, ahem, theory; and for James, who has a cold, and who seems to have a God-given talent for getting me to write these things. :) Oh, and James -- *without* the cape, silly.
by Buffy
Inspector Thatcher knocked on Fraser's door and walked in without waiting for an answer. "Constable, have you seen the inventory forms Turnbull was working on?"
Fraser stood to attention promptly but a little more carefully than usual, as if he was stiff and sore. "No, sir."
"Well, have you seen Turnbull?" she said impatiently. She should have asked Fraser to take care of it in the first place, she knew it.
"Not for several hours, I'm afraid."
"All right, I'll keep looking." She started to walk out again, but turned to examine Fraser more closely. His eyes were swollen and red-rimmed, as if he'd been awake all night. Furthermore, while his expression was the same noncommittal, polite, professional mask he usually wore at work, Thatcher was sure she could make out traces of what, on anyone else's face, could only be described as a goofy smile. "Constable, are you feeling all right?"
"Yes, sir, of course ... why do you ask?" Fraser seemed suddenly cautious.
"You look ..." Thatcher searched for a noncommittal, polite, professional way to avoid saying he looked like hell. "... tired. Did you get enough sleep last night?" Most likely he'd been running around the seamier bits of Chicago with that cop all night; she simply couldn't understand why they seemed to spend so much time together. She didn't entirely trust Americans to begin with, and this one in particular always set her teeth on edge.
"Sleep?" Fraser blinked slowly and gave the question more thought than Thatcher would have thought necessary. Finally he said, "Actually, I was in bed fairly early."
"I see. Carry on -- and let me know if Turnbull turns up." She walked out of Fraser's office, heading back to her own office. Turnbull would turn up sooner or later, unfortunately. And when she found out where he went off to hide ...
"Yes, sir." Ben lowered himself back into his chair as the Inspector left. It wasn't exactly a lie, he reflected ... after all, he *had* been in bed early. True, he hadn't stayed there long, but that was a question that hadn't been asked.
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Thatcher sighed impatiently. "For the last time, Fraser, will you take off your shirt?"
Fraser backed away. "I really don't think that's not necessary, sir. I'm sure the coffee wasn't hot enough to actually burn me -- well, at least not severely ..." Turnbull edged into the office and tried to act invisible while he mopped up coffee from Ben's desk with a wad of paper towels. When he'd gotten most of it, he pushed some papers into a sodden pile and picked up Fraser's uniform jacket, stammered something about the dry cleaners and edged his way back out. Both Thatcher and Fraser resolutely ignored him.
"Constable ... strip. That's an order." Fraser removed his necktie and reluctantly began unbuttoning his shirt while Thatcher wondered a little wistfully why the only time he'd take off his clothes for her was when he was following orders. She spent several moments wondering if that was something she should try more often, perhaps in other circumstances ... she came back to herself with a start at Fraser's diffident cough. She looked at his chest closely -- purely as a superior officer making sure one of her subordinates was in a fit state to continue his duties, of course. "No, you're not burned." Fraser reached eagerly for the clean shirt he had taken out of the closet in his office, but stopped when Thatcher frowned and leaned closer. "Wait a minute, Fraser. Did you know you have a rash on your chest? Have you seen a doctor about this?"
"Oh, no, it's not -- I mean, technically you could call it a rash --" Fraser was blushing furiously. "It's ... well, it's a sort of contact allergy, I suppose."
"I see. And is it likely to recur?"
Fraser hesitated. "It's hard to say, sir." He turned away and put his shirt on. Thatcher started to mention something else she'd noticed, but instead she excused herself and left. It was perfectly reasonable for her to inquire about the constable's general state of health, but she couldn't think of a tactful way to ask Fraser ... no. She must have been mistaken. Benton Fraser, RCMP, was the last man in the world to come to work with a hickey on his back ... although, if she was perfectly honest, that rash had looked more like carpet burn than anything else. But she couldn't figure out why he would have been laying on his stomach without a shirt ... Thatcher found this train of thought disturbing for several reasons, and, dismissing it from her mind, she went to see if there was a pot of coffee somewhere in the consulate that Turnbull hadn't managed to spill yet today.
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Thatcher took the pile of papers from Turnbull gratefully. "Thank you, Constable." She leaved through them; at least to the casual observer they appeared acceptable, and after today that was probably the best she could hope for. She looked at the clock; it was three minutes past six, so Fraser would be off-duty. "Is Constable Fraser still in the building?"
Turnbull shook his head seriously. "He's off-duty, sir."
"I know that, Turnbull," Thatcher said with what little patience hadn't already been leached out of her since eight that morning. "But has he left the building yet?"
"Oh ... no, sir, he's still here. He must be, because I saw Detective Vecchio go into his office a few minutes ago," he said helpfully.
"Of course," she muttered. "All right, Turnbull, you can go now." As the door closed behind him, she put the files down and reached for the intercom. Turning it on to call Fraser into her office, she froze at the disembodied voices she heard.
"You want it, Benny? Come and get it."
"What are you doing?"
"What's it look like?"
"Ray, I really don't think --"
"Fraser, your problem is you think *too* much --" The detective's voice was cut off in mid-sentence by a crashing sound Thatcher couldn't identify, and the intercom went dead.
"Damn!" Angrily, Thatcher rushed from her office and past a surprised Turnbull. She *knew* that cop was trouble waiting to happen, and her worst fears had just been confirmed; he'd finally gone over the edge and attacked the one person in the consulate who always got his work done on time.
The door to Fraser's office was slightly ajar, and Meg pushed it open. In her most authoritative voice, she said, "All right, that's ...?" She trailed off, too amazed to be shocked.
"Geez, would you mind knocking?" Vecchio made it sound as if she'd committed a grievous social error, which was quite an accomplishment considering his position. He was seated on Fraser's desk, legs entwined with the Mountie's, his hands twisted in Fraser's jacket.
Fraser managed to turn around to face her without dislodging Vecchio. Thatcher tried not to think about the degree of practice that implied. "Ahh, sir. We were just ..."
Thatcher nodded. "I see," she managed.
He glanced at his watch. "I *have* been off-duty for five minutes now, sir, so I *am* on my own time ...."
"Of course. Well. Carry on," she said faintly. She walked out in a daze, absently snagging Turnbull by the arm when he made as if to go into Fraser's office. "Drive me home, Constable." There was no way Turnbull was ready to see that; God knew she hadn't been.
"Of course, sir. Straight home?" She didn't answer him, and he repeated himself.
"What? Oh yes. Home. Right." She shook her head to clear it and looked at Turnbull appraisingly. What the hell. "Take me home, Turnbull."