Author's disclaimer: If the Mountie were mine, I wouldn't be here writing stories. Paul belongs to Martha. I don't know who Camilla belongs to. ALL the characters belong to Alliance.

Author's notes: This is dedicated to my good friends on the Red Suits You list. It's my first ever Due South fic, so please be kind.

"Acceptable Behavior"

Strwriter

PG-13

Fraser/Thatcher

Drama/Romance

Time: Early Third Season

***

She hadn't thought it was possible, but it was. There was an entire brigade of tap-dancing polar bears frolicking around in her skull to the accompaniment of a large brass band.

Very slowly, very carefully, Inspector Margaret Thatcher opened her eyes. It was an action she immediately regretted, as it sent the polar bears into a frenzy. Moaning, she closed her eyes again, bringing her hands up to cradle her tender head. However, that action caused a rather shocking revelation.

The blanket covering her fell away from her upper body, and the rush of cool air informed her that she was minus quite a bit of clothing. Her headache was suddenly forgotten, and her eyes snapped open as she grabbed the blanket and hoisted it up again. Tentatively, she peeked under the covering, only to discover that she was wearing only her bra and panties. Not exactly regulation attire.

Worse, the blanket she was clutching was not her own. Thatcher recognized it as the thick Pendleton that belonged to Constable Fraser, and it was, in matter of fact, his spartan cot she was lying on. In his bedroom/office.

*Although,* she thought, *it looks like it was more bedroom than office last night.* With growing horror, she looked around the tiny room. Her shoes were neatly placed next to Fraser's boots in the corner, her suit and stockings draped over the back of a chair. Clearly, Fraser had already woken up, and he was apparently feeling better than she was if he had been able to clean up.

Desperately, she tried to remember what had occured the night before. A few vauge memories drifted back...giggling as she drank punch with the French Ambassador...collecting her coat to return home...walking out to the taxi.... Suddenly, her eyes flew wide as a few other memories asserted themselves.

Running her fingers over Fraser's face. Throwing his Stetson haphazardly across the room. Unbuttoning his tunic and getting her bracelet tangled in his Sam Browne for a few moments. Kissing him full on the... *Oh, God, Meg, what have you done?!* Moaning in horror, she buried her face in her hands. *You actually did it! You got drunk, and you...you and Fraser..*. She gave a brief snort of amusement. *Hell, Meg, you might as well think of him as Benton now. Or even Ben! You certainly know each other well enough!*

Thatcher jumped as she heard the door open, quickly jerking the blanket up to her neck. Constable Benton Fraser peered cautiously around the edge of the door, his fair-skinned face blushing crimson as he saw her. "Oh, you're awake, sir! My apologies...I hadn't meant to disturb you. I was just -" He had begun to babble, and realized that. Abruptly closing his mouth as the blush deepened, he quickly began to retreat.

"Constable!" She called after him, sitting up a little, although she was careful to keep the blanket tightly held. He reappeared, looking at her with that innocent 'now what' expression that was simultaneously endearing and maddening. Thatcher motioned him in.

As he stepped into the tiny room, she felt her breath catch. It was Sunday, and he had traded in the customary red serge for civilian attire. Blue jeans outlined the long, firm lines of his legs and encircled his trim waist, the cut just tight enough to show off his physique without being too snug. A simple black shirt emphasized his broad shoulders and chest, the sleeves rolled up to show smooth, muscular forearms. The darkness highlighted the contrasts in his coloring...skin like buttermilk, hair like dark chocolate, with those startling blue eyes shining out of the whole perfect package.

She blushed as she realized that her outlook on the previous night's fiasco had changed somewhat. Now, she was actually more regretful for being unable to remember it than she was for having done it in the first place.

Quickly, she pushed those thoughts aside. Physical attractiveness was irrelevant. Constable Fraser was her subordinate, and it was simply against the rules to even think of sleeping with him. Much less thinking of doing it again just so she could remember the experience.

Taking a deep breath, she looked him directly in those sapphire eyes and began. "What happened last night did not happen...or rather, it happened, but I didn't mean for it to happen the way it happened, so it would be better if we just went on as though it hadn't really happened at all."

"Sir?"

"The..." She fumbled for words, trying to come up with a delicate way to put it. Although Fraser was beet red by this time, his sympathy for her situation was obvious.

"The additional contact, sir?"

"Yes! The additional contact. You and I both know that I most likely wasn't quite myself..."

"You were somewhat intoxicated."

*No kidding*, she thought ruefully, reaching with one hand to gingerly massage her throbbing temples. "I am aware of that. And for that reason, I am hoping I can trust you not to say another word on this matter. It simply did not occur. Is that understood?"

A pained look came over the boyish features, and she felt a twinge of guilt. Maybe she had been a bit harsh. "Yes, sir. But perhaps if I could explain..."

Thatcher held up a hand to cut him off. "No explanations are needed, Constable. I'm a big girl, I don't need you apologizing for the...additional contact, or going into a thirty minute Inuit legend to explain why this isn' t as bad as it seems."

"But, sir! I -"

The look in Fraser's eyes made her heart stop. *Oh God, he's going to say that he loves me or something, and I am not going to be able to do this!* She had to head it off. "I said not another word, Constable. Are you having difficulties hearing? Or should I repeat myself in another language in case you aren't feeling up to English this morning? Will French do...my Tshimshin is a bit rusty."

"As is mine, sir."

"That's not the point. The point is that this never happened, and that if you breathe a single word about it to anyone, even that wolf of yours, you' ll be shipped back up to the Territories before you know what hit you. Do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly." Damn! Why did he have to look at her that way? With those big, melting blue eyes and that expression that said she was breaking his heart! It wasn't fair!

Feeling like scum, Thatcher nevertheless forced herself to be the very image of authority - even if she was sitting half-naked on her subordinate's bed with the blankets clutched around her neck. "Good. Now, if you'll please leave for a moment, I need to get dressed, and then I want you back in uniform. We have some business to attend to, and I am assuming that you will remember how an officer of the RCMP is *supposed* to conduct himself." *Not to mention you're too distracting in that outfit.* She added mentally.

He nodded subserviently as he shut the door. "Yes, sir."

As soon as the door closed, she climbed out of the bed, shivering in the chilly room. Apparently, Fraser had decided to use the consulate's air conditioner to re-create his own little corner of the Artic Circle. Ignoring the goosebumps that had formed on her exposed flesh, she reached for her clothing. Her hand was only a few centimeters away from the white silk fabric of her blouse when she stopped, transfixed by the way Fraser had laid everything out so neatly.

He was so considerate, so kind, and so polite that it was often easy to forget that he had feelings. Feelings which she had undoubtedly hurt very badly just now. Damn.

***

*I hope she doesn't think I...that we...oh dear!* Fraser leaned heavily against the wall outside his office. He had tried to explain to the Inspector what had happened, but she hadn't given him a chance, having apparently drawn precisely the conclusions he had feared she would. The worst part about it, though, was that as she had ordered him to silence, he couldn't set it right.

Fraser sighed. He seemed to have a lot of problem with explanations lately. In fact, that problem was precisely what had gotten them into this situation in the first place.

There had been a reception at the French Embassy the previous night, to which both himself and Inspector Thatcher had been invited. All had seemed well until he had sampled the punch, which, although quite good, contained a deceptively high alcohol content. The characteristic 'bite' of the inebriating liquid was dulled by the fruit juices, and by the fact that a good portion of it was in the form of flavored liquors, leading one to believe that the mixture was far less intoxicating than was actually the case. He had tried to warn the Inspector of this fact, but she had been in deep discussion at the time, and had instructed him to save his commentary for a later time.

When she finally declaired herself free for conversation one hour (and four glasses of punch) later, it was rather beside the point. What had happened next was still clear in his mind.

***

"Perhaps, Constable, you might wish to escort the lady home. She appears to be quite intoxicated." The French liason officer's voice was sympathetic and Fraser nodded.

"Of course. Thank you kindly for the lovely evening."

"Oui, and thank you for attending. Should I call a cab?"

Fraser looked over at his superior officer. She was far more relaxed than he had ever seen her, leaning casually against the banister of the staircase as she conversed with a staff member from the Italian consulate. Thatcher was giggling freely as she sipped at her fifth glass of punch, blissfully oblivious to her condition. "Yes," Fraser agreed, "perhaps you should. I'll get the Inspector."

Winding his way through the crowd, he soon reached her side. "Excuse me, sir."

She jumped a bit in surprise at the sound of his voice, then smiled when she saw him standing there. Taking his arm, she gestured at the man she had been speaking to. "Constable Fraser, I'd like you to meet Roberto. He's Italian." Her voice was decidedly slurred.

Fraser looked at the man. Had the clearly Mediterranean features not given him away, the finely tailored Italian suit, the Italian footware, or perhaps the Italian flag above his nametag surely would have provided clues. "I see."

The Inspector's smile deepened, and she winked at Roberto before running her fingers up Fraser's arm in a way that was decidedly suggestive. "So, Ben...is there something you wanted?"

Desperately, he attempted to keep his composure despite the tone of that last query. "It's, well, it's getting rather late, sir, and I was wondering if we shouldn't be taking our leave."

She seemed to consider this for a moment, then nodded. "Good idea, Ben. Back to the consulate."

The appropriate thanks and goodbyes were quickly made, and the Inspector's coat was retrieved from the coat room, along with Fraser's Stetson. He was began to believe that this could end with nothing worse than a bit of a hangover on Thatcher's part. Then they got to the consulate.

Fraser began to give the driver direction's to Thatcher's apartment, along with instructions to see her all the way to her door, when Thatcher interrupted. "Thank you, but I will be getting out here with Ben."

He frowned quizzically, "Is there something you need here?"

She didn't answer until the large wooden doors of the consulate had closed ominously behind them. Locking them securely, she turned to face Fraser. The next thing he knew, the Inspector was draped over him like a pelt, her arms laced around his neck in an iron grip, her eyes staring straight into his. "Yes, Ben," she informed him, "I need you."

Fraser's mouth dropped open in shock as he ducked out from under her, tripping over his own feet as he tried to hurry backwards away from her onslaught. "Inspector!"

Advancing on him like a wolf, she kept her eyes locked with his, her expression a disquieting mixture of sadness and blatant lust. "I'm not getting any younger, Ben, and neither are you. We're both mature adults, old enough to know when we're attracted to someone. We're also both very far from home, aren't we, Ben? Not many people understand us."

Her voice dropped to something quite like a purr. Fraser's heartrate went through the roof, and he began to wonder if there was a history of heart attacks in his family. His pulse had to be pushing 200, and even though he was in good physical condition, that was a bit high. "I understand you, Ben," she murmured, "do you understand me?"

He tried to back up further, to become one with the woodwork of the hall, but he was rapidly finding that impossible. His throat turned to dust, and he felt his face flame as her fingers began to unbutton his tunic, one torturous button at a time. "I...uh..." He attempted to clear his throat, as his voice had taken on an odd rasping quality. "I understand that you are perhaps not yourself at the moment. Your judgment has quite likely suffered from the effects of the punch, not to mention -"

"Shut up, Ben." A split second later, he had no choice. Her lips crushed against his, and she kissed him with a fierceness that made their previous 'contact' on the train look like a friendly peck on the cheek. Her forehead bumped against his Stetson, and she responded by simply grabbing it and hurling it Frisbee-style down the hall so that she could continue her assault unimpeded. Without thinking, he began to return the kiss, but then the taste of the punch on her lips reminded him why she was acting this way in the first place. He forced himself to pull away, turning his head and stretching up on his toes to take advantage of his superior height.

Unfortunately, this maneuver only served to change the focus of her attentions back to his chest. Slowly, he began to inch sideways down the hall, hoping he could get to a door and escape. The tunic was all the way unbuttoned now, and she was grappling with the Sam Browne. *Great Scott! I do believe she's GROWLING now! Oh dear.*

There was a sudden cry of frustration, and Fraser looked down, something he had been trying not to do, as it placed his face in great jeopardy of another oral assault. Thatcher's bracelet had become entangled in the buckle of his belt. Taking a deep breath and hoping she would be too busy with the entrapment to notice his new proximity, he reached down to help, afraid she would damage the jewelry or belt in her efforts. The bracelet was soon released, but that proved to be a mixed blessing, as the buckle of his belt was released with it.

With remarkable speed and singularity of purpose, she disposed of the belt, then took hold of both sides of his black collar and pushed backwards. Fraser was once again pinned firmly to the wall, and despite his struggles, soon found himself divested of his tunic. She took hold of one strap of his suspenders next, and the Constable saw his opportunity. Twisting down and away, he managed to free himself, although the strap came down off his shoulder in the process.

Thatcher stood between him and his office, but there were plenty of other rooms in the big house. Rooms he could lock himself into until the Inspector calmed down. It was the only logical course of action, but somehow, his feet refused to obey the dictates of logic. He just stood there, paralyzed as Thatcher began to walk towards him again, a leisurely sway to her hips and a lascivious gleam to her eyes.

"Playing hard to get, Ben?" She chastized. "I know that game. But the game's over...this game of pretending we aren't attracted to one another, that we don't want each other. I know you want this, Ben...I know I'm an attractive woman. And you..." Thatcher grinned and ran the tip of her tongue over her teeth. Fraser felt both his knees and his resolve begin to weaken. "You are one damn attractive man, Benton Fraser, and I know you have feelings for me, just the same as I have them for you. How long are you going to do this, Ben?" Her tone softened to something akin to a purr. "How long are you going to let damned protocol rule your life? How long do you want to be lonely?"

Now her arms were around his neck again, pulling him to her, the strap falling from his other shoulder as her fingers teased it away. Fraser felt as though he were standing outside himself, watching his body respond, even as his mind screamed that this was Not A Good Thing. He knew that everything Thatcher was saying wasn't really her, no matter how much he wished it was. What's worse, even if it was real, he couldn't allow himself to act on it.

So why was he kissing her in return? Why were his hands coming up behind her to run through that silky, fragrant hair? Why wasn't he fighting as her hands slipped up under his shirt and undershirt to do wicked things to his chest? Why was he finding it extremely difficult to retain any cognizant thought?

"Stop it, son!" Robert Fraser's voice snapped in Benton's ear, and though he jumped slightly, he didn't look up. He also didn't obey.

"I know, I know...you've got a beautiful woman in your arms. She's willing, you're lonely, this looks like a dream come true," he continued sternly, not caring that his son was ignoring him. "But it's only an illusion. If you do this, she'll hate you for it. Trust me, I know....why, your mother once gave me permission to invite the entire Yukon detachment of the RCMP up for dinner. Forty-seven of them! Now, I knew she was a little loopy after inhaling the fumes of rendering seal blubber all day, but I took her yes as a yes anyway. Slept outside for a month."

Fraser pulled back, but only long enough to let out a short sigh of frustration. His father was dead...what business did he have nosing in on the love lives of the living just because his spectral status gave him the ability to waft in and out at will! "Your point?" Fraser asked tersely. His hands continued to stroke over the Inspector's back, as she nibbled in a truly maddening fashion along the line of his jaw.

"My point," Thatcher mumbled through a mouthful of Constable, "Is I want you, Fraser! How dense...mmm, that feels good...how dense are you?"

"My point," Fraser Sr. clarified, "Is that this may or may not be the punch talking. If it is, she'll kill you. If it isn't, she'll just hate you, because you let her do it when it could have been."

His father was right. Damn it, but his father was right about this one. He couldn't let her do this. He cared about her too much to do this. It simply wasn't worth it to have one night of granted wishes if it meant he had to lose his friendship with her, that close and precious thing that held the promise of being more someday. But not today.

With a deep, burning feel of regret, Fraser slipped his arms between the two of them and pushed her away. She looked at him in disbelief, and he took advantage of her shock to slip past her and into his office. There, he locked the door behind him, trying to block out the sounds of her calling him. Begging him. Threatening him. Declaring both love and hate, ordering him to come out, to let her in...anything.

He couldn't.

Fraser buried his head in his hands. He felt like the dregs of humanity. Thatcher was right...how long would he sacrifice everything for duty? At thirty-five years old, he had planned on having a wife, a family, on living happily in the Yukon amongst his Inuit friends. Instead he was a lonely bachelor in a far-off American city, locking the woman he loved out of his room and his life. Why? Because it was his duty.

"You did well, son." Hearing his father's voice, he looked up, not caring if the ghost could see the tears beggining to glisten in his eyes.

"Dad?" His voice was tighter than he had expected, but he made no effort to hide it.

"What?"

"Go away, please."

***

The tirade went on for another ten minutes, but was then suddenly replaced by an odd silence. After five minutes, Fraser nervously cracked the door just enough to peek out. To make sure she was all right. She wasn't.

Thatcher was on her knees in the hall, swaying slightly, with a rather nauseous expression on her pale face. The Constable recognized the signs of imminent alcohol-induced regurgitation, and he quickly grabbed the trash can. He was at her side in a matter of seconds, but it was too late. In a very undignified, un-Inspectorlike fashion, Thatcher proceeded to throw up rather violently. Some of it landed in the trash can, but a good deal more wound up on the front of her suit and blouse.

She looked up at him plaintively, all the lust that had been in her eyes before now gone. No longer was she the dangerous vixen or the demanding boss. Now, she was just a woman who had drank a heck of a lot more than she was accustomed to, and was pretty darned sick as a result. Fraser smiled gently, trying to show her that all was forgiven and understood.

Reaching around her waist and putting one of her arms across his broad shoulders, Fraser carefully helped her to her feet. Moving like a seasick two-year-old, she eventually made it to the bathroom, where the Constable waited patiently as he listened to the water run in the sink. Next, he heard the shower activate, but instead of the subtle splashing sounds of someone bathing, there was a soft thud.

His smooth brow furrowed in worry, and he knocked on the door. "Inspector? Are you all right, sir?" The only response was a low moan.

Putting aside thoughts of impropriety at the Inspector's likely state of undress, Fraser stepped back and kicked open the door, careful not to kick so strongly as to send it crashing inward too hard. The lock gave way easily, revealing Thatcher lying passed-out near the shower. Thankfully, she was still clad in her bra and panties.

Fraser had gathered her up in his arms and carried her to his own bedroom, tucking her in gently on the sparse cot, and covering her with only the very softest blankets. He had taken her soiled clothing to an all-night laundry, then scrubbed the hall and bathroom. His intent was that there be nothing remaining to cause Thatcher to regret the evening. And more importantly, that there be nothing to make her regret their friendship.

Unfortunately, that effort seemed to have failed.

***

Inside Fraser's room, Thatcher was almost finished getting dressed, but as she went to put her bracelet on her wrist, she found the clasp oddly bent. Holding it in place, she stepped out into the corridor to look for Fraser.

She didn't have to look far. The Constable was leaning against the wall less than a meter from the door. The Inspector began to ask him for assistance, then stopped, her mouth falling open in surprise. Fraser had apparently not heard her come out, for he was standing there with his eyes closed and an expression on his face that she knew he would never let her see willingly.

Her heart twisted, and she felt her throat tighten. *How could you, Meg?* She berated herself. *You make love to a man one night, then treat him like dirt the next morning! Is that supposed to prove something? Are you supposed to make up for losing control by just hurting him as hard and as fast as you can?* She watched in morbid fascination as he took a deep, shuddering breath - clearly only his prodigious self-control stood between him and tears.

Quietly, never letting him know she had been there, she slipped back into his office/bedroom. Opening the top drawer of the desk, she located writing paper and a ballpoint pen. Sitting down, she began to write.

*Dear Constable Fraser:*

Thatcher paused, then crossed out the line. Too formal.

*Dear Ben:*

She began to write, and as she did so, she found that the stiffness that was so hard to bypass in person was ever so easy to ignore on paper. Her words, her thoughts, her feelings flowed through the cheap pen in a virtual flood for twenty minutes, then she stopped. With a self-satisfied flourish, she signed her name at the bottom, then re-read the letter. As she read, the thought of giving such a thing to Fraser took on a frightening degree of intimacy. She couldn't do it.

Feeling hopelessly lost and confused, Thatcher quickly reduced the letter to shreds, wadding up the shreds and shoving them in her pocket. A letter, she convinced herself, was a cop-out. She had to look him in the face and tell the truth.

***

Fraser jumped as he heard the door open, instantly composing himself into the picture-perfect image of a Mountie that the Inspector expected. He nodded pleasantly to her, "If it's all right with you, Sir, I'll go change into my uniform now."

To his surprise, she reached out and grabbed his arm, stopping him. "No."

"No?"

She tossed her head like a nervous filly, forcing herself to look him right in the eyes. "Today is Sunday. The consulate's closed, so there's no reason for you to wear your uniform, is there?"

He looked at her in utter confusion. "Sir? But you said...."

"I know what I said, Constab - Ben. It doesn't matter anymore. I was...disconcerted by my...situation, and I said a number of things that, in retrospect, were perhaps not in the best judgment." Fraser knew that he probably looked as shell-shocked as he felt, but he didn't matter. Thatcher seemed to preoccupied with her own nervousness to notice his elation as she continued. "I was thinking that it might be possible to go someplace for lunch together, as there are...things...that I believe would benefit from discussion. Would that be acceptable?"

"Yes, I...I think it would be...acceptable, that is." His heart was doing cartwheels in his chest, giddy with the prospect of not having ruined everything after all. Perhaps last night's restraint would pay off in a continued friendship, and maybe, just maybe, that friendship might someday have a chance at something more. He smiled, a smile that just barely quirked his lips and dimpled his cheek, but that made his eyes shine like twin gemstones. "Very acceptable."

THE END