Hello Fellow Duesers,
the following is my very, very first fanfic and I'm a neurotic newbie
author so easy-up on the flaming otters, TYK. It just sort of spilled
out of me one day, kind of like a cuppa coffee all over a crowded desk.
I went with the waffles, well, because I *like* waffles and as an oblique,
esoteric homage to Robert Heinlein, my favorite author, who also had
waffles cook up in a story or two. Definite Romance rating, indefinite
time frame, sappy *and* syrupy, easily PG for the implied sex and
gale-force Thatcher Warnings since it is written from her point of view
(an internal monologue, if you will). Quite possibly even Plot? What
Plot? My mom liked it, that should be a clue. Standard disclaimer applies
'cuz if they *were* mine, DS would be on the air longer than Coronation
Street! Enjoy!
by M. L. Ross
Chicago, Illinois, 9:13 AM.
Meg opened her eyes slowly, letting her soul fit back
into its customary place on its own good time. Stretching like a cat
before coming fully awake, enjoying the warmth of the snuggly duvet cocoon
against her bare skin. A soft, contented sigh. A heartbeat later, dark
eyes flew wide open and as she snapped upright she remembered what had
happened yesterday, and last night, in vivid detail and glorious Technicolor.
*OH* *MY* *GOD*!! *Fraser*!!
I can *do* this. I am, after all, an Inspector
in the RCMP. Meg smoothed her hands over the shorty PJs she had quickly
donned and slowly made her way down the hall towards the kitchen from
the bathroom. There were quiet cooking noises coming from behind the
swinging door, mixed in with a wolf whine or two and some really lovely
breakfast foody smells. Screwing up her courage to the sticking point,
she pushed the door open wide and walked in.
There he stood, in those jeans and that white sweater
of his from yesterday, in front of her rarely-used stove next to a countertop
scattered with bowls and utensils. She looked around at the one room
of the apartment she used the least, amazed to see that it looked cleaner
somehow, even in the midst of what looked like a serious breakfast in
progress. The table was set for two with folded napkins and glasses of
apple juice (one place had a big glass of milk next to it), the cans
and boxes of her pantry shelves seemed to have rearranged themselves,
there was a wonderful smell coming from the coffeemaker and there was
perfectly browned and buttered toast, ready and waiting.
"Fraser", the word slipped out of Meg's mouth but
was it a question, a statement, an accusation, what?
Fraser's eyes were on her now but before she could speak
he had turned his attention to some sort of appliance on her countertop.
He opened the lid and as the smell reached her nose, he turned one beautiful
golden brown waffle out onto a plate and stepped toward her, offering
it to her with a smile.
"Good morning. Would you like bacon with your waffle?
Or eggs perhaps?", he queried gently, looking at her intently, trying
to gage her reaction.
Waffles. He made *me* waffles for breakfast. Me,
the person who has made his life merry hell on a daily basis for over
the past year. His boss, his superior officer, the Dragon Lady, the Ice
Queen. The woman he'd spent the whole of last night loving to paradise
and beyond three incredible times and damn near four if I hadn't fallen
asleep! *Me*. I got the most amazing night of passion the world has ever
seen *and* waffles.
Waffles. He made me *waffles* for breakfast. *How*
did he know they are my most favorite thing in the whole wide world,
drowning in syrup. I simply can't make them properly for love or money
or cook much of anything else for that matter and how *did* he find that
old waffle iron away up on the top shelf? It hasn't seen the light of
day since I moved to Chicago and hasn't even been used since my mother
gave it to me, *now*, out of the blue, those blue eyes, *waffles*.
Waffles. He made me waffles for *breakfast*. Well,
he couldn't very well make them for dinner, now could he? How long has
he been awake anyway? Bacon takes time to cook, even I know that, and
that waffle batter is from *scratch* or I'll eat my Stetson! *Toast*?
But my toaster has been broken for a good three weeks! Did he fix my
toaster too? How? He must have taken Diefenbaker out for a walk and gone
down to the grocery store and where did these flowers come from? They're
beautiful! And the strawberries and that heavenly smelling coffee! Did
he buy them for me? Me? All this work, for breakfast, for me?
Waffles. *He* made me waffles for breakfast. Constable
Benton Fraser of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police who first came to
Chicago on the trail of the killers of his father and remained attached
as Liaison with the Canadian Consulate. The most annoying Mountie ever
made, minted or molded anywhere at any time! Best friend of the most
annoying deaf wolf and the most annoying cop in Chicago. The very same
Fraser who can't stop helping or trying to help everyone he meets, can't
stop meddling in and helping to solve all those cases for Vecchio and
the Chicago PD. He of the beautiful, beautiful blue eyes, clever hands,
strong body, brilliant mind, that pelt of hair (so soft under her hands),
old-fashioned morals and manners and speech. Benton Fraser who doesn't
lie, doesn't flirt, doesn't lose his temper and doesn't ever seem to
get dirty or mussed or have a hair out of place. Ben who offers me loyalty,
strength, passion companionship, friendship, joy, laughter, confusion,
frustration, excitement and most importantly, love. All there on the
same china plate with that sweet, golden waffle whether he knows it or
not and then he goes and offer me bacon besides.
Waffles! He made me waffles for breakfast!