Wayward Tears Wayward Tears By: Michelle Sinclair Rated PG. Romance. **Note: This is a Meg story. I think I've given you fair warning. Meg Thatcher sat at her desk in the Canadian Consulate. She concentrated on the list of names in front of her. She had to decide where to take them for dinner. Four officials from Ottawa were coming into Chicago and she was charged with entertaining them. She suspected that she was also being checked up on. Though there had been progress within the Canadian government in general and the RCMP in specific, some still didn't think a woman belonged in her position of authority. Meg checked her watch. Almost 6 P.M. She sighed heavily. Constable Fraser was long gone, as was Constable Turnbull. She was supremely happy the latter was gone. Sometimes she wondered how Turnbull ever was accepted into the RCMP. She had to figure out what to do about the officials from Ottawa. She removed her jacket as she was going to be staying at least two more hours. Removal of the pale blue jacket revealed the deeply cut V-neck silk shell she had worn today. It was so white that it reminded her of snowfall back home. She smiled softly to herself and allowed her thoughts to drift back to her youth. That image of snow falling cascaded through her tired mind, mingled with the remembrance of a fire burning. She thought of her mother and father. It was an idyllic life for six years. Who knew that the sweetness of her first six years of life could be replaced with such . . . heartache. After the accident she had gone to live with her Aunt Sofia, a cold, harsh, abrasive woman. Aunt Sofia taught her niece Meggy one thing: "Trust no one. Love no one." She had taught Meg the difference between chosen solitude and forced loneliness. If you never let anyone in, then no one could ever hurt you. Meg would cry softly to herself at nights. She blinked back the tears now. An errant tear trickled down her cheek. She rubbed at her eye carelessly. This act only accomplished one thing: it smudged her mascara down the side of her cheek in a black streak. Still not thinking clearly, she began to rummage through her purse for a mirror to inspect the damage. She pulled the compact out and opened it. The black smear was a glaring contrast to the paleness of her skin. She found a tissue and began to rub the mascara off her face. It came off slowly, but had the odd effect of producing a faded blackness that looked rather like a bruise. She stopped rubbing at the mascara and looked at her cheek. She shivered suddenly. It did look too much like a bruise. She lightly touched the skin that had the faint remnant of blackness on it. She half-expected it to be sensitive to her touch, half expecting to feel the pain throb again. She did feel a specter of pain that lingered still, somewhere in her subconscious. She fought against the memories, but it seemed that on this night she couldn't stop them. She had gone to live with a foster family after Aunt Sofia had died when she was only 15. So much tragedy for such a young girl, the social worker had said. Meg had said she didn't need a foster parent. She was fine on her own. And she was, but that's not how things work. She had gone to live with a family. Her foster father beat her once when she had dared to fight off his sexual advances. She had run away and they had never seen her again. She left her hometown and headed off to Calgary. Worked through college, joined the RCMP. Model officer. First in her class. She let out a sigh. So much tragedy. Meg hated to dwell on it. Aunt Sofia had been right though, Meg never got hurt because she never let anyone close enough to hurt her. "Inspector?" The word filtered through the pool of images that floated through her head. She looked up. Fraser. What was he doing here? "What are you doing here, Constable?" "I . . . forgot something. I didn't think anyone would be here now ma'am." "Well you thought wrong. Proceed." She looked down at the papers on her desk again as a way of dismissing him. But he had heard the emotion in her voice and he wasn't moving. "Ma'am, do you need any help with . . ." He wandered closer, trying to read the papers on her desk. "The plans for the guests from Ottawa?" She looked up at him. "No. Thank you, I can do it." She looked deeply into his eyes, pleading with him silently to just leave her alone. Fraser didn't notice her plea, or if he did, he just ignored it. "Are you all right, inspector?" He wanted to ask if she'd been crying, she certainly looked like it. But that wasn't an appropriate thing to ask your superior. "Fine, Fraser. I really need to do this so if you could please get whatever you came for and go . . ." He looked at her more closely. He brought his large hand down softly on her cheek, on the area of the black smudge. She didn't flinch; wouldn't flinch "It's just some mascara," she said. "Yes, I know." He could tell it wasn't a bruise, though it might be mistaken for one by a less observant person. There was no discoloration that was usually present in bruises . . . the stripe was too uniform. He kneeled down in front of her now, to look in her eyes directly. He took her hand and opened up the tight fist that she had made. He removed the balled up paper tissue and gently began wiping the smudge away. He finished by carefully patting at the little rivulet of tears that had begun to brim over her lower left eye lid. Fraser and Thatcher looked at each other for a long moment. He was still crouched down in front of her, her small hand was still in his larger one. He was rubbing her hand with his thumb reassuringly. She looked up, breaking his gaze. Her heart was palpitating at a dangerous rate in her chest. "Meg? You want me to leave?" he asked in a coarse whisper. "I want . . . could you help me?" she said this beseechingly. "I . . ." "With the plans?" He said, knowing very well that's not what she had meant. "Please Ben . . . don't make this hard on me." "I'm sorry." He stood up now and proffered his hand. She took it and he helped her to her feet. He looked down now at her. He laid a hand on her chest, slipping a few fingers inside of the V neck of her blouse. "Ben . . . I don't know how much I can give you . . ." "I'll take what I can get, Meg," he replied and bent down to kiss her tenderly. His lips were silk. She could feel herself giving in to his tender touches. She didn't know if she should stop him. She knew this was a direct violation of Aunt Sofia's rules. But for the first time in her life she didn't really care about rules and regulations. She only cared about the powerful man that had her in his arms. "Let's get out of here, Meg," he said softly into her ear. She nodded. That was a good idea, A very good idea. Her mind was swimming with the possibilities of how wonderful this night could be because she was finally giving in to her desire; giving in to Ben. She thought of white snow and warm fires and felt a bliss that she thought she'd never experience again. The ice is thin come on dive in underneath my lucid skin the cold is lost, forgotten. Hours pass days pass time stands still light gets dark and darkness fills my secret heart forbidden . . . I think you worried for me then the subtle ways that I'd give in but I know you liked the show. Tied down to this bed of shame tried to move around the pain but Oh your soul is anchored Sarah McLachlan Ice'--Fumbling Towards Ecstasy 1996 by M.S.