I did not think up, Benny or Meg or anyone else mentioned in it, (Would
that I were that clever) I did however 

wright this little delve into there minds, aka it all mine and you can't
have it. Oh, and if you feel like throwing 

money at me because of the shear geniuses of this story, I'm going to have
to generously decline, because then 

Alliance would get mad. 

On a happier note, This is immediately following All the Queen's Horses
and is nothing but a spoiler for said 

episode. 

If you would like to get in touch with me for any reason, My e-mail
address is Ffand@Hotmail.com 

Enjoy.	

Abandoned, 

 Three times, abandoned. How could he do that to her? Leave her, three
times to their 

mercies. 

 As Fraser stared at the ceiling of his apartment, after the single worst
day of his life, he 

couldn't help but wonder about what he had done, or failed to do. 

 The first time was a stupid mistake, a mistake that anyone could have
made. But still, 

Benton Fraser wasn't anyone, he should have known.  

 He knew that whoever had taken control of the train had deviant intents,
and he should 

have deduced how truly dangerous the terrorist were. He shouldn't have
left her to do what?  

Have a useless conversation with Buck Frobisher. It had seemed so
important at the time, but 

compared to the look in her eyes when she heard Bolt's voice . . . he
should never have let that 

man anywhere near her.	

 It was an odd sensation, being afraid. He could see it in her eyes, and
somehow that 

triggered the long dormant emotion in him. What was odder was that he
wasn't afraid of the guns 

or the bombs, he was afraid for her. He couldn't let them hurt her, he
couldn't lose her, and even 

at that moment he couldn't have said why. 

 Even after those emotions were awoken, after her had seen her flinch at
the sound of Bolts 

voice and felt her tremble when they were hand cuffed together, he had
abandoned her again. 

 He had followed some relatively unimportant criminal out on the roof of
the train, leaving 

her and Frobisher cold. He should have known she was going to follow him,
what had he been 

thinking? Obviously he hadn't. If one wanted to nit-pick they could say
that It was her fault that 

he had fallen off the train. But he couldn't blame her, she was trying
very hard to fight something 

that frightened her, if she was to distracted to follow the effects of her
actions he couldn't blame 

her. She had grieved for him. More amazing yet, she had admitted it. And
the kiss. 

 Fraser closed his eyes, a gentle breeze that lofted in from his slightly
open window, and it 

gave him the chills. The memory was so sweet, so vivid, so warm. He took a
deep breath and let 

it slip from his mind. She had ordered him to forget the memory, and he
would try to follow that 

order, out of respect and duty. But by no means could he follow that order
with any amount of 

dedication. 

 But by letting his mind slip it naturally went to the third time he
abandoned her. She had 

insisted in going in first, which was natural. She was in command, all the
unconscious Mounties, 

himself, and even Buck Frobisher were her responsibility. On top of which,
she was afraid of 

them. She was going to fight her fears. It was remarkably brave. And she
might have succeeded 

if he and Frobisher hadn't been side tracked by his father. He had been so
amazed, so relived, that 

he wasn't the only person to see this particular appertain. But that was
no excuse. As his father 

had said, it was no time to "Ponder on one of deaths mysteries." 

 That third time was the worse. He had been afraid for her before, when
guns were waved 

around and he could protect her to an extent. But seeing her get smaller
and smaller as the train 

retreated, looking in her eyes and knowing that she was not as composed as
she appeared, and not 

being able to follow, then hearing Bolt Murder his to accomplices, and the
way she held on to him 

when he finally managed to rescue her: he knew that no matter what good he
did, he would never 

be able to make it up to her.  

 Thrice he had abandoned her. Saving her in the end couldn't erase that.
Nothing he 

imagined could erase that. He closed his eyes and thought once again about
the kiss. With a sigh 

of resignation he pushed it out of his mind. He needed to honor her
wishes, to respect her 

feelings, and most of all follow her orders. He had betrayed her three
times already that day, he 

wasn't going to do it a fourth. 

 He rolled over, tried to sleep, and failed.  

Mistakes 

 The day was littered with them, thousands of stupid mistakes. But three
were big. Three 

were unforgivable.  

 She didn't see that the film crew were in reality terrorist, but that was
understandable. She 

wasn't looking for terrorist. No one else had noticed, not Sgt. Frobisher,
none of the men in the 

musical ride, none of the rail crew. Whatever had tripped Fraser off, she
would never have known.  

Perhaps she was pampering herself, but that was forgivable. 

 When Bolt and that woman had charged into the room, threatened her,
humiliated her, she 

could have fought back, tried to fight back. Some would count that a
mistake. But she was wise 

enough to know they would have shot her. She may not have been
particularly brave, but she was 

alive, that's all that mattered. 

 When she and Fraser had been hand cuffed together she actually thought
that they had 

done a remarkable job of team work, of communication. He had known what
she was thinking 

when they knocked out the guard, and she had known what he was thinking
when he used the 

hairpin to unlock their cuffs. It was such an odd sensation, having his
head buried in her breast.  

She had concentrated solely on breathing, not letting his breath on her
sensitive skin register, nor 

the soft tickle of his eye lashes. That wasn't a mistake, She reasoned.  

 But why had she insisted on following him up to the top of the train.
What had she been 

thinking.  

 Well the answer was clear, she hadn't been thinking.  

 He told her, in his polite, roundabout way that she shouldn't try and
help. Of course she 

didn't listen, after all what did he know, it was only his life on the
line.  

 He didn't die. She reminded herself, he didn't die, he didn't even appear
to be injured.	

But the possibility was there. How could she have blamed him for calling
her a murderer. That 

was a bit of an overstatement. He had said she would kill a few innocents
to save thousands of 

lives. Some people might consider that a complement, that she was able to
see the big picture, 

make the tough decisions. For some reason, the man who couldn't spit out
an insult to save his 

life, had broken her heart by telling her she was a competent and
responsible commander.	

 Thankfully, that had lead to the only truly bright spot in her day, week,
year . . . the kiss.  

 It seemed miss placed, and oddly it could only have happened in a day
when she could only 

think a minuet at a time, lest she became overwhelmed. If she had time to
think ahead she would 

have decided that the Kiss would be a mistake, that it would undermine her
authority, that it would 

. . . somehow . . . change things. It had, but after the fact Meg knew it
wasn't a mistake. She 

allowed herself a small smile, remembering the way he held her, and his
taste on her lips.  

 She took a deep breath, "Not now," she muttered, she still had a lot of
the day to cover. 

 Of course immediately following the kiss was quite possibly her biggest
mistake. Why 

hadn't she let Fraser, the big, strong, man who was experienced a hand to
hand combat, go in first.  

Why had she pushed herself to be brave and lead the charge, she certainly
didn't want to. But on 

the other hand she didn't want Fraser to have the helpless victim image of
her. She didn't want 

him to think she was afraid of them. She didn't want to be weak.  

 "Pride cometh before the fall." She muttered as she rolled over in her
bed. She knew that 

Fraser and Frobisher had been right on her heals, but it seemed like an
eternity until they got there 

and saw the end result of her brashness. Fraser had looked so angry, and
she thought that he 

wanted to follow. But of course he couldn't. She didn't expect him to, and
she knew that they 

had no hope if Fraser followed her. But still, she had to try very hard
not to brake out into fearful 

sobs as she watched him get smaller and smaller. 

 Everything after that was a blur. She didn't say a word, she didn't look
away. She was 

too frightened to move or speak. Bolt talked to her continually after he
murdered his collages. He 

would talk about America, about how pretty her eyes were, about his life
in the marines, and about 

how he was going to kill her as soon as he thought it was safe. Meg hadn't
said a word. She 

couldn't have if she wanted to. It was a defense mechanism. She only acted
if propelled into 

action, that was the only way she could see to stay alive, and at that
moment, she could only think 

about staying alive.  

 She should have tried to run when the car finally slowed to a stop, or
when he had trouble 

getting the A.T.V. running, or even when they were driving across the
country side. She should 

have slapped him, or kneed him, or punched him, and then turn and ran. She
should have tried to 

disarmed him, and then arrest him. But she couldn't. It was quite
literally physically impossible 

for her to do those things. She had been far to frightened. She was
ashamed of that. She was also 

ashamed of how much courage it had taken her to actually push Bolt out of
the way and all but 

begged Fraser to rescue her. Her plan for not appearing weak had failed on
the grandest scale.  

 Meg buried her head in her pillow and tried not to sob. She didn't know
why, she was 

alone in the darkness of her apartment. No one would ever know. But she
couldn't. The fear was 

still a little too close and a little to real. She needed to push on. 

 Fraser had rescued her, and she had admittedly been grasping at straws.
She had been 

overcompensating for her weakness with professionalism. That was a
mistake. She didn't quite 

know what would have been the right thing to do, but she knew that telling
him to forget the kiss 

was cruel, to both of them. As much as she wanted to, she couldn't write
that off to over charged 

emotions.  

 She took a deep breath, and rolled over in her bed, finally ready to
sleep. Outside her 

window there was a bang, a city bang, the bang of a car door being
slammed, or a window shut, or 

a trash can knocked over. Nothing sounds, but still, she panicked. She
could hear the two bangs 

of the gun, and the thuds of bodies hitting the ground. She started
crying.  

Apologies 

 Back to the Consulate, back to work, back to real, everyday, calm life.
Or at least there 

was the attempt. Fraser reported to the inspector's office at eight ten to
go over the day's 

Itinerary and receive any assignments she had for him. The same as every
other day at the 

consulate. They calmly discussed the agenda for the day, and Meg outlined
how they were going 

to handle the news hounds that had descended on the consulate like a pack
of ravenous hyenas.  

"Anything else sir?" He asked at the end of their short interview, as he
had at the end of every 

other such meeting.  

 She looked up at him. She had a lot left to say, "About yesterday . . ."
She stuttered. 

 "I'm sorry." he said softly, before she could say anything more. She
could see in his eyes 

that he really was sorry, about yesterday. 

 "So am I." She said simply.  

 He looked up at her curiously. What did she have to be sorry about?
"Ma'am?" 

 "Dismissed." She said, before any questions could be asked. 

 "Understood." He nodded, and left the room. 

 The End