Title: Passage of Hearts

Author: Lys at tyklys@hotmail.com

Rated: G

Section 1 - Passage of

The discarded red serge lay over the back of the desk chair with a pair of jodhpurs casually laid over the serge tunic. The uniform's Sam Browne was also carelessly thrown on top of the desk and the room's owner, of however temporary a nature, finished stepping into dress uniform pants and casually drew a fresh red serge tunic over a long sleeved cotton white t-shirt worn solely for the purpose of eliminating the feel of an itchy, red wool serge tunic against human skin. The uniform's owner picked the discarded pieces of clothing up in his arms and crossed the room with just a few steps to reach his closet door. He took out a hanger and placed the uniform pants and jacket over it before returning the hanger to the closet pole. He regarded the interior of the closet before turning to the inside of the door.

He looked at the mirror that hung on the backside of his closet door and watched his fingers snap the fastening of his high, black, Velcro collar shown in the image of the mirror. He noted that his facial coloring was even paler than usual against his dark, newly cropped short hair and that made his lips look nearly a bruised, dull, red. He avoided looking into the reflection of his own eyes, knowing that he might see the dull, lifeless eyes he noted in the mirror's reflection of late. He took a deep breath, stepped back and closed the closet door. With a tug of his fingers at the bottom of his uniform, he took a quick glance around his office to make sure that all noticeable traces that this was in actuality his living quarters were tucked discreetly away out of sight of possible prying eyes. He took a couple of paces towards his office door and removed the chair he had propped under the door handle as a temporary lock to ensure his privacy. He privately wondered if the door had ever had a lock that had actually worked in its long residence in the old building.

Constable Benton Fraser stepped out his small cloistered office area into the hall leading to the consulate foyer. The white belt at his waist had his impeccably clean gloves tucked against his body. He held his torso erect as he walked, militarily erect as always. A quick glance at his wristwatch assured him that he was quite on time. He only hoped that the caterers were continuing their preparations in the kitchen where he'd left them an hour early. He knew better than to worry about the whereabouts of his commanding officer. She was never late for a function and demanded strict adherence to her policies by all those under her charge. She'd been like that ever since the she had first taken over the running of the Canadian Consulate in Chicago some years earlier and now she was more strict and intent of purpose than she ever had been before. Benton sighed with relief when he heard the sounds of Constable Turnbull entering the Consulate through the foyer door. It wouldn't do for the Inspector to find either or both of her subordinates late to their duty stations.

Constable Renfield Turnbull marched directly into the middle of the foyer and watched his superior officer approaching him. He quickly noted that the changes he'd been seeing in the Constable lately were highly in evidence across the handsomely structured facial features. Renfield knew most people took him for a complete fool, but he did notice things and he was concerned that the Constable was coming down with something, a serious illness perhaps. But it wasn't Turnbull's station in life to watch out for Constable Fraser or even remark on his concerns to the man, so Renfield determined to just be `there' in case of need.

The two men stood shoulder to shoulder for a few minutes in complete silence. When the Consulate clock chimed half past the hour of seven in the p.m., they marched shoulder to shoulder to the front door. Constable Turnbull took up his position at the Consulate door and Constable Fraser stood rigidly at the edge of the sidewalk to wait for the first of the evening's guests to arrive.

It wasn't long before the Consulate door was opening and closing behind elegantly dressed guests. Often the guests turned to either of the Constables as they passed and thanked them, though it was usually only the women who paid any real attention to either man in his dress red uniform.

When one particular woman climbed out of her limousine and lifted her hand up to Constable Fraser for his help in exiting the vehicle she noted his thick, dark lashes sliding down over his eyes as if to avoid acknowledging her. She couldn't have known he was just feeling tired of it all and the closing of his eyes was a way of escaping his duties for however brief a second or two. She noted that his fingers were cold to the touch and he seemed distant and cold to her despite her quite considerable charms. When she stood erect outside the vehicle, she draped her evening shawl over her shoulder and remarked snidely in what she thought was a discreet whisper to her escort that climbed out after her. "The doormen here are above themselves my dear." Constable Fraser heard the remark and drew his shoulders back as he closed the vehicle door and set his lips in a tight line.

Punctually at 8 p.m., Constable Fraser stepped away from his post at the curb and approached Constable Turnbull. "Well, Turnbull I think that's quite the last of the arrival rush of guests. I think you should be able to handle the late comers." Benton opened the door and was about to cross the threshold when he leaned back and said softly, "I'll send some refreshments out to you later." Constable Turnbull smiled but did not comment as he stepped down off the Consulate steps to approach a late arrival.

Benton Fraser watched the waiters moving about the foyer and wandered into the main reception room where he heard soft strains of piano music filtering through the air. He moved about the room, making sure to remain unobtrusive as he checked that all the evening's arrangements were running as expected. He found no faults evident: from the piano player right on down to the coasters under the drinks on the waiters' trays as they mingled among the guests dispensing wine. He avoided the corner of the room where he knew Inspector Margaret Thatcher would be standing until the last possible moment. With but the briefest of looks in her direction, he noted that her wine glass was almost empty and he obtained a replacement for her from a passing waiter and walked towards her.

At one time in their association, Benton Fraser would have been feeling quite heady at the sight of Margaret Thatcher in evening dress and out of her usual business suit attire. He would have noted her beauty, her lovely hair and the deepness of the color of her eyes. But, this evening as he crossed the room towards her, some part of him was aware that all of those feelings deep within him had died. He was even aware on some level that she had murdered his burgeoning feelings for her herself. His thoughts were ever-quick silver in their movements when he contemplated his relationship with Inspector Thatcher. His thoughts rapidly flew over the details of her first meeting with him and on to her firing of him for wearing his chosen uniform as well as her derision of him for his sometimes-obtuse behavior and for his clueless level of thinking in terms of modern society. Amidst the more painful images of her were the images of her in good times: laughing, throwing eggs, sharing a joke about 7 cm of wire from a collar stay, her brave ride behind the mad Bolt brother and her occasional friendly smile. He couldn't help the awful feelings that left him feeling bereft of ever possibly coming to really know her. He remembered the staggering sorrow he'd felt when she had entered the Consulate one night in a clearly inebriated state. She had slung an arm around his neck and grinned at him with a bottle of wine in her hand that she had retrieved from her office to share with her current date. She seemed to have no regard for the conversations they had had earlier in the day. They had shared words that had seemed to draw them ever closer together as a hopeful couple. Even his memories of a certain incident atop a train couldn't wipe out the feelings of inadequacy that seemed to permeate all her dealings with him with lately. And so he approached her with wine glass in hand in his stiffest of correct military demeanor.

Inspector Margaret Thatcher reigned over her corner of the Consulate ballroom dressed in beautifully full-skirted dress of an ultraviolet blue. The dress's nipped and narrow waist showed off her shapely form and the dipping heart shaped bodice showed off other portions of her anatomy as well. Her long and slender neck curved in a gently

rise from beautifully rounded shoulders. Her lovely medium length hair was swept up and back from her face to fall in soft waves behind her ears. Most men in the room were keenly aware of her and so were their wives.

She'd arrived right on time and entered the Consulate through the back door. She'd carried her dress bag and had gone up to the queen's bedroom where she changed and did the final touches to her appearance before the room's large guilt mirror. It wouldn't do for her to arrive in crushed gown or to have her hair less than perfect. She'd made sure she was in the entry foyer just after Constable's Fraser and Turnbull had gone out the front door. She'd taken up a glass of wine offered by a waiter, tossed it back quickly

through slightly parted lips and moved on into the ballroom. Her dress's crisp material swished around her as she moved. She did a quick dance turn across the floor before returning and settling near the ballroom door to greet the guests as they arrived.

She'd greeted the Canadian Ambassador and his wife with her usual urban charm and stood to the left of his wife as their guests began to arrive. She knew at just what point the heaviest of the arriving guests would begin to dwindle and took the earliest opportunity to fade away from the ballroom door.

In quick succession, she'd drained two more glasses of wine before settling in a far corner of the room within a small circle of guests, many she knew quite well from other Consulate functions. Several of the room's bachelors kept eyeing her as they moved from one cluster of guests to another. She held her left arm crossed over her tiny waist and seemed oblivious to all the male stares around her. She was mentally noting the good and bad points of each one and adding up their individual tally points.

Margaret Thatcher knew precisely the moment Constable Benton Fraser entered the ballroom and began his surreptitious movements within its confines though her back was to him. She'd felt the almost electric buzz among the room's female population as the dratted man moved around oblivious to the hungry stares. When she turned around and finally let her eyes wander casually over him, she noted with displeasure that he seemed distant and off color. Her fingers tightened on the stem of her wine glass. She nearly snapped the thing in two.

She thought of all the conversations the two of them had had during the last month or so. She contemplated how they always seemed to be talking at cross-purposes of late, neither understanding the other. The fact that they couldn't seem to understand each other perplexed her. She'd been so sure they were of a similar turn of mind and purpose. She'd been sure of it after the incident on the train. She felt suddenly very thirsty at the thought of his retrieval of that bobby pin from the confines of her cleavage. She nervously sipped at the dregs of her wine and looked down into the bell of the empty wine flute. She raised her eyes calmly; confident that no one would see the tortuous thoughts she was hiding.

She knew she vacillated like a mad woman in her reactions to him during every moment of her acquaintance with him. She was even aware on some level of her being that she often belittled him and denigrated his feelings. She wasn't quite sure what caused her to do that. Margaret Thatcher was not the kind of person who enjoyed another person's discomfiture; at least, she hoped she was not that kind of person. She knew that on occasion she was abrupt with him because of her own embarrassing feelings towards him. Somewhere deep down inside her, she hoped that he could see that, could feel that. But, even as much as she thought she knew him, she was quite aware of the fact that sometimes she had no clue what he was about at all. She even passed the problem of their non-relationship on to him with the thought that it was just quite possible that he wasn't really a stable person at all; after all he seemed always to just pass his semi-annual evaluations. Heavens knew what the Consulate psychiatrist thought about the man.

So, when the Constable came near her with a glass of wine in his hand Margaret Thatcher was determined to keep a professional face on the evening.

Benton had to swerve away from an inept waiter as he approached the Inspector. This caused him to sidestep quickly around one of the male guests and to nearly step directly on the hem of the dress of the nearest female guest. He avoided both those disasters admirably only to be brought up short as the gentleman nearest the Inspector stepped back a step. As Benton stopped just short of disaster, the wine sloshed on the gentleman's expensive suit coat sleeve. Benton quickly apologized and began to carefully blot up the offending liquid with his own pristine handkerchief which he had quickly drew out of his sleeve.

"Really Constable! You're quite as twidllepated as Turnbull." Margaret's voice was laden with consternation and rebuke.

Benton Fraser, Constable, RCMP, stopped his ministrations over the spilled wine and felt the color draining from his face. He once again apologized to the gentleman with the slightly damp sleeve and looked Inspector Thatcher directly in the face with a look in his eyes totally devoid of all expression.

Margaret's cheeks flamed with embarrassment as her own words rang like huge clanging bells in her ears as she heard the Constable remark that if the gentleman would just accompany him he would go obtain a small amount of the correct fluid for removing the wine stain.

Benton handed off the nearly empty wine glass he'd been holding in one hand to a passing waiter's tray and removed a fresh glass and gave it to his superior officer. "Inspector." was the only word he said before leading the gentleman out of the ballroom.

The lady standing next to Margaret was the lady of the `rude' comment at the curb earlier in the evening. She took a sip of her own wine glass and muttered again, "Wasn't that the doorman?" The remark was made loud enough for Benton to hear it as he walked away. His back stiffened even more when he didn't hear any comment out of Margaret's mouth in his defense.

It was only when Benton as out of ear shot that Margaret turned to the woman and said, "Actually, that was Constable Benton Fraser. He's quite one of the best officers we have." Margaret was also well aware of the fact that she had probably just burned away any chance she had had at all of settling things on a better note for the future with Benton Fraser.

Section 2 - Bruised Hearts - Meg

Silence finally settled over the old building that housed the Canadian Consulate in Chicago. The evening's guests had long since departed, most with smiles on their faces. The caterer and clean up crews had actually done most of their clean up work in the kitchen before the evening's festivities were over and so their final pick up and pack up work was completed in a relatively short period of time.

The Canadian Ambassador and his wife had delayed their departure from the building until every guest was gone and had lingered over a last cup of coffee with Inspector Thatcher while Constable's Fraser and Turnbull oversaw the return of the building to it's pristine daily condition. Constable Turnbull had left at Constable Fraser's biding earlier than he had planned to do so. Less than an hour after the evening's activities, the Ambassador and his wife had departed for their home in one of the cities high rises.

Inspector Margaret Thatcher stood at the base of the staircase that led upstairs to the Queen's Bedroom and to several other guest rooms that were always kept ready in case of need. She listened to the stillness of the building and laid a hand gently on the banister and with a deeply heartfelt sigh began ascending the stairway one slow step at a time.

She opened the door to the Queen's room with a sharp turn of the knob and hardly noticed the way the moonlight threw romantic beams of light about the room and onto the bed through the room's sheer draperies. She turned around and closed the door with excruciating slowness and turned away with one hand to the necklace she wore at

her throat. She started to remove her jewelry and pack it away in her small carryall pouch that fit into her purse. She began to unhook and unzip her dress and kicked off each of her shoes as she stood next to the bed. As she lowered her zipper, she realized that she felt like crying.

At first she wasn't sure just why she should feel that way, but as she fumbled with the suddenly recalcitrant zipper, Constable Benton Fraser's features seemed to fill her brain and her fingers refused to answer her stern commands to get to work on that zipper. She fought the zipper for a few seconds and then collapsed and sat on the edge of the bed with the dress's zipper finally released, the shoulders of her gown beginning to droop down her arms.

There were red swirls and curves of color in the bedroom rug beneath her nylon covered feet. She found herself staring at each swirl of bright color and seeing not the rise and fall of the rug fibers but the rise and fall of her non-existent relationship with her junior officer. She thought over all his personality traits that drove her to be infuriated with him. He was self-assured in his duties, confident of the rules and regulations of their service and on the whole he appeared to be everything that proscribed the ideal officer of the RCMP. She'd read his file when she took over the Consulate and couldn't help wondering why he appeared to be the quintessential officer for the RCMP but was relegated to mundane consular duties in a city like Chicago. When she'd read the file copies of reports sent over by Lieutenant Welsh, she been further mystified by the Constable's abilities and apparent shortcomings. Before she even met him on a formal basis she had begun to doubt the veracity of all the paper reports she'd read about this officer. Why had he looked so good on paper, so technically the `almost' perfect officer, yet ... Then she had found the files on Victoria Metcalf case. She'd read them over several times and tried reading between the lines. But, as hard as she had tried she never did quite understand the entire story that she knew the Lieutenant knew. And she was damn sure that Detective Vecchio and perhaps even that pushy sister of his knew the inner details of the Metcalf case. She was just as sure that in the end perhaps she would hate knowing those details.

It was only when she met him and had seen for herself that the outer trappings of a modern officer of the RCMP hid a throwback in terms of regulations and personality to an earlier breed of man that had worn the uniform. She'd been trying to get him to join the modern world when she'd ordered to let go of the old brown uniform. That was the first hint she had had of both his vulnerability and his stubbornness. She still couldn't believe she had verbally fired him for that indiscretion of uniform only to rehire him in the next 24 hours when her temper cooled.

And therein lay their basic problem. They were both cool on the exterior, in their professional setting, nearly icy. But underneath their cool exteriors beat hearts of fire kept well banked by sheer will of purpose. Margaret was aware that much of the problem with their relationship was that she often vacillated quickly from the professional to the more private person; from Margaret Thatcher to the more private woman that the few people she called friends called Meg.

Inspector Margaret Thatcher was a career-oriented officer, a go-getter, severe in her strategies for advancement and goal setting. Meg Thatcher was soft of heart and felled easily by a romantic turn of phrase or personality. As Meg Thatcher, she was a vulnerable woman, ready to take what life offered her. Somehow, though, the characteristics that made up Inspector Thatcher over rode the personality of Meg Thatcher wanted to control Constable Benton Fraser, wanted to test him, wanted to see if his exterior was at least as strong as hers. She'd spent her years at the Consulate alternately deciding he was as hard as a rock or as soft as the shifting sands in the desert.

But, she realized as she sat unzipped and nearly defrocked on the Queen's bed, she had at some point begun to treat her relationship with Benton Fraser as a game and one that she wanted to win at all costs. The `game' as she came to see it as she sat there in the moonlight was one of control, waiting to see if she could make the soft interior personality of the Constable break through his Mountie shell. Though she enjoined her game of cat and mouse with him; she was well aware that he was oblivious of the game or its rules.

And then, by the time she had asked him for help with her interest in raising a child, years had passed and they had settled so far into the `game' that she hadn't realized that he was the stronger of their two characters until he had stood groomed impeccably in front of her with those flowers in his hand. Their mutually misunderstood words and looks over the passing of the days had led him to her with those flowers. And for reasons she still couldn't fathom she had hurt him, had tried to disabuse him of the feelings she had really felt.

Meg Thatcher sat in the waning moonlight dancing around the Queen's bedroom. She thought of the remarks she had made during the evening that she was sure he had heard. She was very aware of how his shoulder's had slumped ever so slightly when she hadn't stood up for him as he departed the ballroom. Her head bent low as she thought of the words she'd said in his defense only after he'd left the room. Why had she delayed those words?

Her stomach flipped inside her as realized that she had once again hurt the man she might have been able to love for the rest of her life. That she had in fact hurt him in a way that was perhaps beyond any words she might say to try and repair their relationship. She thought of the looks she had seen him give her over their years of working together, and she remembered how unreceptive she had been most of the time. Meg was self aware enough to know that often she had put her own career first. She was also aware of the time she had tried to push him into a media darling, a role he was manifestly unfit to want for himself.

Tiredly, she rose and drew off the dress, the nylons and packed them away in her dress bag. She dressed in a pair stylish slacks and thick sweater. She brushed her hair severely back into place around her face and left the room. She didn't look back. She'd retrieve the dress in the morning

When she descended the staircase, her ears told her the building surely must be empty. The silence was too solid, too thick for anyone to be in the building with her. She wandered down the hall towards the Constable's room and almost put her hand on the doorknob. As her fingers nearly touched the metal of the knob, she drew her hand back...she'd burned enough bridges under her feet this evening. She turned and left the building without knowing if the man had been in his room.

Section 2 - Bruised Hearts -Benton

After all the noise had died away and the Consulate's kitchen was back to its pristine shininess. Constable Benton Fraser walked slowly out of the shadows of the Consulate's back hallway. He stopped and turned his head and listened to the sounds of the catering company putting the last of their boxes in the back of their huge truck out in the alley behind the old building that housed the Canadian Consulate. Benton reached up and tugged at the black collar of his uniform and opened the door leading out to the alley. He walked out onto the poorly lit cement steps that led to the enclosed

yard and the alley beyond and stood there a moment nearly in guard duty stance.. There were three steps leading from the kitchen door down to the small fenced in area filled with wooden boxed beds of flowers. Wearily he sat down on the first step and watched the last of the caterer's slam the rear door of the truck shut. He pealed the Velcro holding his collar closed open and undid the top button of his uniform.

The warm night air surrounded him as he sat there on the steps looking up into the orangey glow of sky that was visible between the neighboring buildings. He had hoped when the Consulate was located to this new building that it's distance from the busy downtown streets of Chicago would mean that he might actually see a night sky with its dazzle of stars on occasion. He leaned back until his shoulders nearly touched the wood of the doorframe behind him. If he closed his eyes and squinted a bit he thought he could just about imagine that the flowers filling the boxes in the yard were the riotous color of a high mountain meadow back home in the early spring, but, squinting like that only created an illusion.

Benton Fraser was a man who lived in the dry, clear-cut and sharply focused world of daylight, though he did so wearing the rose colored glasses of an ever hopeful soul. He housed his spirit in a world of hope and while he expected the best from everyone around him, he was never quite prepared for the disillusionment people often threw his way. He leaned forward and pulled his right knee up and encircled it with his arms. In the distance, he could hear the blaring of horns and the barely distinguishable sounds of traffic.

He felt wounded of spirit and knew he'd been feeling that way more than was probably healthy quite a bit of late. But, while he could not place a finger on the exact date the odd, off kilter feelings had begun besieging him, he was aware that he had at varying points in his life felt at home with them. He turned over and over in his mind most of the events of his adult life, beginning with his grandfather's death. And then, he realized if he gave it some serious thought he could remember those feelings visiting him even as a child. Kalideoscoping pictures of his childhood ran one into another as he sat on the steps. But he realized quickly theorized that the feelings of his youth had been the natural feelings of bereavement over the loss of first his mother and then his father from his life.

No, the feelings he was dealing with now were of a more morose nature than those of his childhood. He was aware on some level of always watching others develop relationships that formed into friendships and more. He had been raised in the pattern of wilderness family life. He'd learned to make do with what he had or what was available to him. His spirit hadn't exactly starved as it developed, but he hadn't been able to give it much emotional dessert time either.

Moving into the ranks of the young recruits in the RCMP hadn't broadened his knowledge base. Some of the young men he met there had known each other for years, had, in fact, attended school together. Benton hadn't quite known how to ingratiate himself into this society and hence, had kept much to himself, though the few friends he did eventually make would be his for the rest of his lifetime.

He felt a slight chill crawl over his skin as he remembered how ill prepared he had been both times he had encountered Victoria Metcalf, the woman he had once considered to be the love of his life. It was only now with the distance of time between those meetings that he realized he had just been young, and impressionable and never a match for her hard view of life. Though as he thought about it now, he did think that they had both suffered from stunted emotional growth of spirit. Looking back, he realized that their first meeting had been wildly exhilarating in a situation fraught with danger, with no stable emotional footing to be found for either of them. She had looked to him for a way out of a disastrous situation that she had thrown herself into and had been devastated when he hadn't freed her. He had not been capable of the shaded gray outlook she had of life. For Benton, most things were black or white. Just as with many other young people entering adulthood, his decisions were nearly all based on a concrete attitude of right and wrong based on the teachings of his elders and caregivers. It was only many months after their disastrous last meeting that Ben had finally begun to realize that she had been a blazing, bright and delicate thing of beauty. A beautiful creation that had been marred with a fatal flaw of thought about what was due her in life. Ben's heart constricted as he wondered where she was and if she was still a creature of hardened fire burning the fingers of those who would touch her.

He stretched out again and tilted his head towards the roofline of the Consulate building. He'd become friends with several other women since he'd come to Chicago. A few of those women he counted as friends, intellectual equals, a few others he admired for their persistence and tenacity of spirit. A few of them frightened him with their zeal for life, but that only peaked his interest in their direction.

And then, he thought, there's Meg, Inspector Thatcher. She had begun by firing him for wearing the brown uniform against her wishes. In fact when she first arrived at the Consulate, she had run him ragged running errands. She had chastised, ridiculed and bullied her way into his life. She had been thoughtless where he was concerned on occasion and endearing when she had at times gone out of her way to help him. He never had quite figured out why she had singled him out for harsher treatment.

The only word he could use to describe her was baffling. He knew a deep and strong romantic spirit ran deep within her character for he'd never forget that episode on the train that she deemed best forgotten. She proved herself a romantic over the loss of her prized broach. She'd shown she could be swept away by enthusiasm when she'd sung with the choir.

And lately, Inspector Thatcher had shown a softer side as she contemplated having a child of her own, though those thoughts brought a warm, embarrassing flush to his cheeks. He'd told his friend and partner, that she had melted and could no longer be considered the Ice Queen. But, after the events of the evening, he knew deep within his heart that any romantic liaison he had hoped for with her would do neither of them any good. They were both too needy of spirit to be able to help the other.

A sharp tangy feeling of tears about to release from his eyes brought his hands up to his face to prevent their course down his face. He was about to wipe away the wet residue on his eyelashes when a soft, furry muzzle ending in a black and cold nose pushed its way between his hands. He grinned and pulled the animal behind the nose in for a hug.

"I see that Ray has brought you back early." Benton looked up at the sound footsteps coming up to the gate.

"Old fur face there has been driving Ma nuts. He's been pacing the kitchen all evening." The tall, balding Italian leaned over and cuffed the soft coat of Benton Fraser's wolf, Diefenbaker. Ray Vecchio's green eyes narrowed a bit and he sat down on the steps next to his friend. "Not a good night, huh?"

Benton Fraser nodded his head in answer to his friend's question, as his throat muscles were too tight for him to speak. Both men sat on the steps looking out at the flowers.

"You still coming over to look over those files the Lieutenant wants us to complete?"

"Yes," Benton's strong hands remained linked around his wolf's neck.

Ray stood up and put his right hand down on his friends shoulder. "Get some rest, I'll pick you up in the morning." He stretched and walked out into the night.

Constable Benton Fraser rose stiffly and entered the Consulate and beckoned his wolf inside. Ray heard the sharp snapping of the lock as he exited the garden gate.

Section 3 - Healing Hearts - Ben and Meg

Benton stepped away from the entry door he had just closed with a devout snap. The sound broke the silence that had settled over the old building. Diefenbaker and a few errant mice were probably the only companions he had in the Consulate at night. He leaned down and ran a hand slowly over the wolf's head before walking over to the kitchen sink and pouring himself a cup of water. His throat was dry, despite the copious amounts of liquid he'd drunk during the evening's festivities. He refilled his glass and carried it along with him as he went through the darkened halls towards his office where he needed to set up his cot for the night.

It took him barely a quarter of an hour to divest himself of his uniform and set up his cot complete with hospital corners around the cot mattress. The cot fit nicely into a small area right under the window in his office and as he lay down on it dressed in his t-shirt and highly starched boxers he realized just how tired he was. Diefenbaker curled up on the small rug that lay on the floor near the desk and soon both of the room's occupants were asleep.

Sleep took Benton quickly and he was soon deep into a world of unconscious thought. Several hours passed before he entered that zone of sleep level that most scientists agreed upon as the dream state. He lay on his back with the soft city lighting filtering in

through his window as he slept.

Scenes of his posting in the North of Canada where he had been stationed when his father was killed began to lay themselves out in disjointed waves of thought. He distinctly remembered the faces of several of the young female officers stationed there. He remembered feeling out of kilter with all of his fellow officers at that posting, but being especially unable to make any kind of personal contact with the female contingent of the post...

Most of the officers stationed on the post were barely older than he had been. It was their upbringing that had kept them divergent. His life hadn't been one formed alongside most of what other people his age would call life's necessities. Where they saw a snowmobile as the best form of transportation in winter snows, he gravitated without thinking to the nearest dogsled. Where he bundled up in a thick parka, heavy gloves, and layers of clothing and enjoyed the severe cold, they drove heated vehicles and wore modern coats and gloves. They suffered greatly when leaving one safe warm haven to another.

The women of the post had eyed him keenly at first; after all he was new in their rank, young and very attractive. But, true to his own personality traits, he paid scant attention to any stimuli that didn't directly have a bearing on his current goal. So, while he spent time acquainting himself with the physical area of the post and its surroundings, he totally missed the first offerings of friendship that had been extended towards him by his fellow officers, both male and female.

After he had settled in and felt himself familiar with his surroundings, he was puzzled by the distantness most of his fellow officers showed him. But, being a young man who had traveled from place to place as a child as his grandparents had uprooted their traveling library to roam the wilds of Canada, he was familiar with the `new kid' on the block feeling. He had, however, never understood all the ramifications of making new friendships in a new home where he was often the only boy of white skinned parentage for miles around.

And, when he had entered the RCMP, he'd again keenly felt alone. By the time he entered the corps he'd developed a close association with the peoples with whom he had grown up and he was by far more comfortable among the indigenous peoples of Canada than he was among the peoples of his own heritage. It was plain to even the most casual of observers that Benton Fraser was a self-sufficient young man with a highly developed intellect and strong sense of his own ability to accomplish anything. Most observers failed to note, however, the shy young man who hid behind his capabilities. What most people saw was a seemingly brash young man who seemed so secure and set in his ways that he often seemed to ignore what others might consider the easier way to accomplish something. That his methods often worked much better than those of his fellow companions often drew him censure from the very young people he would have liked to call friends.

Unfortunately for young Benton Fraser, most of the young women who had been posted to the same outposts during his career, appreciated his old world manners learned from his grandparent's but weren't quite sure how to take Benton Fraser as a person. And for all that he was one of the best-looking young men to come into the RCMP constabulary, his air of confidence and reticence put them off.

He was born of an older breed of RCMP officer, the like of which his father, Robert Fraser, had been. And while that style of excellent work was admired, the energy it took to achieve such a status was beyond most of Benton Fraser's contemporaries. It was those characteristics that, though often admired, were not aspired to by modern standards. To be quite frank about it, Benton Fraser appeared more than a little odd because of his old style mannerisms and zest for jumping in where he saw a wrong to right. He knew he was often ridiculed for his methods. He seldom gave much thought to the fact that the young women of the post seemed to either be in awe of his accomplishments or to disdain his methods. Certainly none of them actively pursed him as they did the other young men of their acquaintance. He usually just equated his lack of female companionship with the fact that he was usually the newest arrival on any post where he served.

Then there was Victoria who had crossed his path in the very early years of his service to the Crown. She'd been like a flaming star out of the heavens. She'd been young, beautiful and in danger. He'd survived the bitter cold and snow with her and had known from the start that it was his duty to take her into custody. But, she had been quick to take advantage of the rawness of his unattached heart by dint of which she hoped to remain free. She had failed to note his rigid mode of justice and honor and therefore went into shock when he turned her in to the authorities. But he'd fallen in love with her and Fraser men are unswerving in their devotion to the women they fancy they love. So, added to his own private personality was the fact that he mourned the loss of Victoria in his life. All of this made young Benton Fraser a very hard young man to get to know.

And so, when he came to Chicago on the trail of his father's killers, he come to a town in a country he was unfamiliar with and to a people of which he had no experience. His first days in Chicago had been lonely. He was used to being lonely. He realized he'd grabbed onto Ray Vecchio out of a need to find a place in his new surroundings. He used Ray as a marker of sorts for behavior in this new land. He looked at Ray as a worldly person full of knowledge on how to follow the trails of life in the city they called Chicago near the lake they called Michigan.

It was at Ray's side that he first ran into women like Elaine Besbriss who was clearly interested in him as more than an officer of the law. Benton had nearly tripped over his own feet returning her gaze when they first meet. No woman since Victoria had given him a look the proved he was of value in and of himself. He'd been totally astonished to have three women in the space of two minutes make what his grandmother would have called brazen, flirtatious comments to him. Ray had had to nearly shove and drag him out the door because Benton had been so non-plussed by the forward comments of the young policewomen who had crossed his path so quickly on the heels of Elaine's obvious interest.

It was at Ray's side that he'd learned to navigate the city. And, though Ray didn't avail himself of the many culturally edifying institutions offered by the city of Chicago, he had given Benton the roadmap and skills to be able to partake of their amenities. And so, librarians, teachers, and ladies who peopled intellectual poetry reading clubs found Benton Fraser in their midst. After his first meeting with Elaine, Benton began to develop some idea of how others saw him. He never did quite understand that to many of the women in the city Chicago he was more than a throwback to old world manners and not just someone who was `soft' on the eyes as he had once heard himself described. His form, breeding, education, manners and soft voice coupled with a pair of great eyes made every woman he met think of Prince Charming waiting to be swept of his feet. The dream state is a vapid area of rifts and eddies and tides of thought. One slips into it quickly and rides the waves between deep sleep and waking. Benton Fraser had spent the last several weeks slipping into that area earlier and earlier every evening upon settling down to sleep. When he woke the morning after the `doorman' fiasco, he had only a vague memory of visiting his early years as a constable in his dreams. He did, however, have a very clear memory of his thoughts regarding Meg, Inspector Margaret Thatcher.

So, as he lay on his cot, with the sun just beginning to mark a purplish morning sky, he felt the pain he felt every time she sent him crashing to the ground emotionally. He thought over her smile, the serious nature she presented to the world and the deviltry he

knew she kept well under wrap. He considered the way he was attracted to her and the way her lips felt when he'd kissed her atop that train so long ago. He knew at some level they could be right for each other. He also was well aware that on some level she'd rip his heart out as surely as ever Victoria had done. The only difference was that Victoria had known what she was doing. Meg would do it unthinkingly. Oh she would be wounded to the core once she realized she'd done it, but she'd never be able to alter the drive she had in her own makeup to be the top in her field, to make something of her career. And that was where they were alike. For though Benton had no lofty goals to reach as a constable in the RCMP, he did have the same amount of drive to be the best he could be, to help those in need.

The sunlight brightened through his window. He pushed his covers down and rose on an elbow to look at the wolf sleeping on his floor. The wolf, he knew, thought of him as alpha in their small pack. Margaret Thatcher had a place in the pack as well, but even Diefenbaker knew that though she was an alpha female, she wasn't Benton Fraser's alpha female. It was becoming obvious even to Benton that she was not now nor could she ever be his alpha female; for an alpha couple in a wolf pack were equals.

Benton rose, stretched and grabbed his shower things. He took a quick look at his wristwatch and knew he had about a quarter of an hour before Ray would pick him up for a day at the 27th precinct. Sometime during his shower, Benton washed his hair, rinsed the soap from his body and began to let his Meg leave his heart to remain Margaret Thatcher.

Across town, in a very fashionable apartment leased for her use by the Canadian Consulate, Margaret Thatcher woke up after a fitful night of sleep. She'd arrived home despondent and heavy of heart for she was well aware of the hurt she had caused one of her subordinates. And as she woke under her heavy covers and noted the sun trying to creep into her room at the sides of her thick curtains, she realized that she had already made a decision of sorts. She'd gone to sleep worried about Benton Fraser and now her heart hurt as he realized she'd just referred to him in her own subconscious mind as her subordinate.

A myriad of images crossed her mind as she rose and showered and dressed. She sat at her kitchen table and drank her morning coffee and ate her morning toast, the current newspaper spread before her. She finished eating, folded the paper and put her dishes in the sink. She looked around the apartment and smiled a crooked smile. It had taken her years to get where she was. She'd forfeited more than most people would imagine attaining her rank as Inspector. She sighed as she put on her coat. She knew that a steel drive to be the best existed in both of them. But she was well aware that he didn't give a fig about advancing in rank. She opened her door and exited her apartment and began another lonely walk down the hall towards the front entrance and the parking garage where she kept her car. She wondered if he was still hurting over the evening's events. She was quite sure he had been wounded deeply by her actions. She entered her car and started the engine and drove out into the street. While she drove, she practiced what she hoped would be comments aimed towards the healing of the breach in their association and return them to their normal subordinate/commanding officer status. She took a look at her eyes in her rear view mirror and grabbed her sunglasses to block out what she saw in her own eyes. It was over, she'd better make that clear, from now on their association was business, as usual. It was perhaps the only way for either of them to survive.

Section 4 - Healing Hearts

That first morning after things had gone horribly wrong between Inspector Margaret Thatcher and Constable Benton Fraser had been wearing on them both. They had exchanged flushed, red-faced expressions on meeting and neither had actually spoken a word of apology or explanation to the other. They had exchanged pained looks and settled into a relationship of perfect comportment due fellow officers according to RCMP regulations. The first hour of their new relationship had passed so slowly and agonizingly. When Detective Ray Vecchio arrived he found Inspector Thatcher nearly as eager to see the detective there to remove the Constable as Fraser was to leave the building, as Fraser was to leave it.

Ray noted the taught line of his friend's jaw as they drove towards the 27th precinct. For once the voluble Italian kept his lips shut. He did, however, find time to give Constable Fraser's wolf companion an extra pat on the neck. He also found time to sneak Diefenbaker a choice pastry delicacy. By the end of the day, even Lieutenant Welsh noted that there was something a bit off kilter with the Mountie. He'd called the detective into his office and inquired softly about the change in `Big Red'. Ray Vecchio had replied, "Not a clue sir. But probably something to do with his boss sir."

Lieutenant Welsh had looked out his office window at Fraser who was occupied with going over a piece of evidence with a magnifying glass. He sighed. He noted the set of the Constable's stiffly held shoulders. He noted the flushed coloring of the Constable's cheeks that belied the unusual paleness of his normally bleached out complexion. "It comes to us all Detective, it comes to us all." He sighed again and returned to his desk. He picked up a file folder and sat in his chair. "Perhaps, Detective, you could a...keep our friend busy...until..." The Lieutenant suddenly felt out of his depth and didn't complete his sentence.

"Yes, sir. I have the very case in mind sir." Vecchio grinned and closed the office door with a slight bang of confidence.

Several weeks, three suits, one pair of totally ruined shoes and a ripped tie later, Detective Vecchio stood by his desk and contemplated that it was a sad day when he began counting time by the number of clothing items he'd ruined in pursuit of wrongs his

companion the Mountie found it incumbent to right. After this last case, he wasn't all that sure that someone shouldn't rename Benton Fraser. The name Don Quixote suddenly came to mind, which made the detective grin. "I guess that would make me the faithful companion. Or, would that be Dief? Naw, it'd be me. Dief would complain too much."

Benton Fraser turned his head and glanced at his friend. A slow grin began to lift the corners of his mouth. "What was that you said Ray?" He'd heard the comments correctly; he just enjoyed watching Ray squirm. He secretly enjoyed watching his friend to see if he'd repeat them or settle on comments less likely to cause a verbal joust.

Ray chose to send his friend a huge grin rather than answer. He picked up a muddy tie that he'd let mold into a petrified lump on his desk. He turned the tie this way and that and was fascinated by the fact that not one drop of crusted mud fell onto his desk. "This was my best tie you know."

Fraser reached over and gently took the offending `rock' out of Ray's hands. He turned away to hold it up to the light coming in the far window. "Ray, I think I can clean ..." He stopped speaking mid phrase and stared across the room. Ray noted that the Mountie who, in his experience, was never at a loss for words, seemed to be transfixed by something across the room.

Ray noted the two female figures across the room and sighed. "Damn," he thought. Just when he was sure that Benny was getting over the funk he'd been in. There she was. What the devil was the Inspector doing at the 27? And just what in heavens name was she doing talking to his sister. He didn't want to know, he wasn't even going to ask.

Sunlight in a bold bid to brighten the dull confines of the bullpen as the room was affectionately called poured over the two women as they stood near a row of file cabinets. Their hair suddenly glinted with burnished highlights of an auburn color not normally seen in either of their coifs. They were talking animatedly, the nearly severe cut of the Inspector's hair bounced on her head, as she seemed to be doggedly pursuing some point in the conversation. Francesca Vecchio, stood with her curls bobbing close to the Inspector's as she waved her hands to and fro making a physical if not a verbal point in her side of the conversation. In one hand, Francesca held a large paper bag, which she held carefully though her hand, waved through the air. Both women wore smartly colored outfits that were comprised of skirts and blouses, though the Inspector's outfit was a decidedly expensive business-looking affair.

Inspector Thatcher hadn't meant to let herself be waylaid on her way to her quarterly review meeting with Lieutenant Welsh. She prided herself on keeping her appointments, arriving exactly when expected. She had parked her car outside the building and proceeded to the entry only to be brought up short by her own senses as she smelled the most delicious aroma coming from the bag carried by the young woman she knew to be Ray Vecchio's sister. The two women had stopped short in the doorway and exchanged quick glances. Francesca was also well aware of the Inspector's identity. The young woman wanted nothing more than to pass the other woman and deliver the contents safely to her brother in hopes that the Mountie would be around.

The two women had been embarrassed when a young patrol officer had entreated them to remove themselves from the doorway. They'd actually found a common ground to share an embarrassed laugh. It was at that moment that both women decided that perhaps they could call an unwritten truce between them. Margaret had enquired as to the contents of the bag and the two of them had walked through the building and up the stairs talking all the while they moved about the varying qualities of pastry. Francesca grinned as she explained that this was her mother's baking week and she had wanted to share her efforts with her son before the rest of the family found her culinary delights stored in the family kitchen.

Benton Fraser stood immobile watching the two dissimilar women in their animated conversation. He hardly noted Ray Vecchio's equally statuesque stance beside him nor did he note the quick intake of breath his friend did as he, too looked at the women across the room.

In the days and weeks that had followed the coup de gras that had put an end to any personal relationship that Benton Fraser and Margaret Thatcher might have had, both people had begun to find new ways to communicate to each other in an entirely professional way. They had actually developed a bond of respect for the other person's

capabilities and needs. But, though they had never actually discussed the newest incident in their relationship they had arrived at a mutually agreeable way of dealing with each other. It was to their credit that neither their colleges at the Consulate or the 27th

Precinct had noticed any appreciable change in their professional behavior.

Somewhere deep in Margaret's subconscious thoughts she still thought of Benton Fraser as a very desirable man. She hadn't yet given up the last vestiges of interest in him. She was though on a very self aware level cognizant of the fact the Constable was further out of her reach than he had ever been before.

Sometime during her conversation with Francesca Vecchio, Margaret felt the prickly feeling on the back of her neck that she usually felt when someone was watching her. She was not a self-conscious person in even the most nerve wracking of circumstances. But, as she watched the wildly waving hands of the young woman in front of her she began to feel a sharp sense of being watched. She put a hand up to the collar of her shirt and adjusted it while she took the opportunity to look around the room. She felt her face flushing with an old remembered pleasurable feeling when she noted Constable Benton Fraser standing nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with Ray Vecchio. At first glance, she was nearly sure that perhaps she was the object of his direct stare. She faltered in her stance and stepped immeasurably away from Francesca. Her heart seized a bit in her chest when she noted that his eyes didn't follow her movements when she realized that the clear blue/gray eyes across the room were riveted on her own companion. She forced a smile and turned to Francesca as she became aware of blushing heat filling her cheeks.

Benton felt the collar of his red serge tunic constricting tightly across his throat as he watched sunlight dance in Francesca Vecchio's hair. He watched her wild hand movements as she gestured with broad movements as she spoke. He'd noticed how tiny she was before. But he'd never been quite as aware as he was at that very moment of the vibrant life that seemed to bounce off of her with every move she made. He realized that Inspector Thatcher was standing next to Francesca. He knew that somewhere in his mind he was comparing the two females and that the Inspector came up lacking in some way. He was also aware that she was looking his way and evaluating a resumption of their on again/off again relationship.

It was at that moment that Francesca chose to turn her head towards her brother's desk. Her heart plummeted a bit when she noted the look on Benton Fraser's face. He was pole axed, transfixed and totally oblivious to his surrounds. Well, that wasn't so unusual a look for him. Francesca had spent the better part of most of her waking moments since her brother, Ray, had brought the Mountie home for dinner in contemplation of ways to get his attention. She knew people often thought her totally immersed in her own problems. But she had listened to her brother of late and was aware that the object of her heart's desire was causing her brother some concern because of his steadily downward spiral into what appeared to be a depression. Francesca felt the other woman back away slightly and was surprised to note that the Mounties eyes didn't follow the Inspector's movements. Francesca nearly dropped the bag of pastries she held tightly in her hand when she realized those gray/blue eyes were staring at her. She looked right back at him for a second then dropped her eyes for a second and looked at him with a slight sheen of wetness filling her eyes.

Ray nudged the Mounties shoulder and kept his own eyes riveted on the Inspector. He was impressed with her outfit, her hair and the total picture she presented standing there in the light of the window. He wanted nothing more than to get closer to her and start a conversation that had nothing to do with his job, her job or crime in general. When he didn't get a response from Fraser, he turned to look at closely at his friend and noted just where those Mountie eyes were looking then directed a very `come hither' look at the Inspector.

Several seconds later, both men shivered slightly and blinked.

Lieutenant Welsh stood in the door of his office and grinned. "Vecchio!" he yelled. "Get in here and bring the Mountie with you." He smirked and turned away from his door and laughed outright when he heard those Mountie boots tripping over each other as a certain man in red turned to face his office door.

end