Story Notes: This is set a couple months after "Perfect Strangers."

She finds Fraser and the wolf staring out the consulate's front window, apparently entranced by the heavy snow piling up outside. There were a few flurries earlier in the month, but this is Chicago's first significant snowfall of the year. Her booted footfalls softened by the carpet, she joins them, watching the snow make pale hillocks out of bushes in the yard and cars parked along the street. "Reminds you of home, doesn't it?" she asks softly. "Well, a pale imitation, anyway."

"Yes, it does." The wolf, his front paws resting on the window sill, chuffs in agreement.

Her hands itch to make a snowball, something she hasn't done since she was a child. She looks at Fraser's face once more, his expression clouded with longing, and her resolve breaks. "Come on," she says, reaching over to the clothes pole and grabbing her RCMP-issue peacoat.

"Sir?" he asks.

She hands him his coat. "There are occasions, albeit rare, when we might have to subdue a criminal through the use of snow-based projectiles."

"Agreed, ma'am, but I'm still not sure what you're suggesting."

She digs in her pockets for her gloves. "I'm suggesting, Fraser, that we've both been cooped up in court all day, wearing these infernal dress uniforms. I for one feel like I've spent plenty of time being professional today. Let's go play in the snow."

Diefenbaker shoots out the door as soon as she opens it, barking ecstatically as he plows his nose into the six inches or so that blankets the ground. She follows, delighting in the squeaky crunch of the snow under her boots. Fraser comes last, still buttoning his coat, and looking absolutely bewildered at the thought that she has invited him to play in the snow.

She picks up a handful of snow, shaping it into a ball. It's the perfect kind for that; "packing snow," as her father termed it, usually just before launching a snowball into her chest and then laughing, letting himself be caught by her childishly inefficient return fire. She took up softball partly so she could practice her aim the rest of the year, and be a better match for her father in those snowball fights.

"Fraser," she says, taking aim. "If I were you, I'd duck." She throws her snowball.

He dives out of the way just in time, and when he stands up again she can see that she's finally convinced him to join her in this frivolous interlude. Both of them are so serious, especially with each other; she's willing to fool herself into thinking this is an exercise in improving morale. She ducks out of the way of his snowy projectiles, scooping up more snow from the ground as she runs. Laughter bubbles up inside her, and she doesn't hold it back.

They eventually work each other into defensive positions against the walls of the consulate, her on the north wall and him around the corner on the east. They could peer around the corner and lob snowballs at each other for hours, so someone's going to have to truly go on the offensive if this fight is going to end in anything but a draw. She could attack from the front and probably get pelted with snowballs, or...she glances behind her. There's a gate in the way, but it's easy to climb, and if -- big if -- she can sneak up on him, she would be the certain victor.

She steals around the back of the consulate.

Poking her head around the corner of the front wall, she sees Fraser waiting expectantly, his back to her. He must be getting suspicious by now about the lack of any return fire, so she'll have to be quick. She takes a step forward, and immediately catches the attention of the wolf.

It's all over if Diefenbaker rats her out, so rather desperately, she puts her finger to her lips. Amazingly, the wolf appears to wink at her, and returns his gaze to Fraser.

Using all of her training, she approaches them silently, stopping once to pick up a handful of snow. Fraser still hasnt noticed her, which is a minor miracle given his preternatural hearing. She hopes it doesn't mean he's just lulling her into a false sense of security.

When she's a couple feet away, she gives up on stealth and rushes forward, catching him before he turns just long enough to shove snow into his collar. She doesn't get to celebrate her victory for long, though; before she can escape, he grabs her shoulders and pulls her forward. He obviously expected her to try and struggle away, but her training emphasized using an opponent's own momentum against them, and so she pushes forward; off-balance, he tumbles backwards, taking her with him.

He's apparently not completely surprised, though, because before she can get any purchase, he rolls them, trapping her underneath his larger bulk. He's left her arms free, but there's no way she can squirm out from under him, so she's going to have to concede the match -- although the way he keeps twitching his shoulders does give the impression that the snow she stuffed down his neck is at least making him mildly uncomfortable, which is heartening.

"You win," she says.

"Apparently," he replies.

She expects him to move, to stand and then chivalrously offer his hand to help her up. He doesn't. He stays right where he is, staring at her, for what she's pretty sure are the exact same reasons she's staring at him.

Just above his head, she can see the flag hanging over the door of the consulate. It's almost as though the fabric itself is woven from every reason they can't pursue what they both want: duty and rank and their own stubborn adherence to what are not rules, exactly, but boundaries that those with good sense shouldn't cross.

She looks at Fraser again. He's still staring at her, his earlier longing once more visible in his eyes, only this time twice as intense.

Twisting themselves up in knots like this is making them worse officers, not better. What's the use of painful formality when it just means she can't get through a conversation with her subordinate without both of them tripping over their own tongues? Surely the guidelines were never meant to have that effect.

She places her hand on his neck, her fingers just grazing his hairline. She pulls his head toward hers, and he follows willingly, meeting her open mouth with his own.

It reminds her of the train, with the cold and the snow and the feeling of his skin beneath her fingertips. At the same time, it couldn't be more different. This isn't a reaction to him having just come back from a fall that would've killed anyone else, or to a situation where the most likely outcome is death for everyone involved. No imminent danger attends them on this snowy afternoon; all that exists is mutual desire, a sense that giving in to it is going to make things easier, not harder, and that this is -- oh, God, she hopes it is -- the start of something much bigger, the something he was talking about when he came into her office two months ago, his hair slicked back and a bouquet of daisies in his hand.

He keeps his eyes closed for a long moment after they part, as if he's trying to burn this into his memory because he fears it will never happen again.

Suddenly she has a horrible premonition that he's going to ask if this is another moment that can never be repeated unless the exact same circumstances arise, and if there is one thing she knows, it's that she does not want to be someone who can inspire such a question.

"I'd like to do this again," she says as he opens his eyes. Her mouth twists a little, wryly. "Maybe inside."

He smiles at her, and there's not a trace of wistfulness in it. "So would I." He stands up then, and holds out that chivalrous hand, and gently brushes the snow off her coat. Hand-in-hand, they return to the consulate door, Diefenbaker at their heels. They're barely inside before he cups her cheek and kisses her again, and though they're dripping snow all over Turnbull's pristine entrance hall, she doesn't care, because this is wonderful, this has the same magic that a snow day held when she was a child, all the promise and excitement and wonder.

Spring and summer have their charms, but she's always going to love the snow.