Author's webpage: http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Starship/6102/home.html

Author's disclaimer: You know the drill. Ben isn't mine (don't I wish). Meg isn't mine. Ray, Frannie, the Riv, and anything else Due South aren't mine either. The story, the rain, and the fish, however, ARE.

***

"Constable, from now on, if it involves any form of fish, fowl, or anything else that is a member of the animal kingdom, the answer is an automatic no. Sight unseen. N. O. Is that clear?" Inspector Meg Thatcher picked angrily at the small, silvery scales that covered the front of her suit. Her voice crackled, and she knew she would regret her terseness later, but right now she really didn't care.

Fish. Fish! She had let that damned Assistant Liaison Officer of hers use those damned blue eyes to talk her into political amnesty for fish. Endangered fish, he had said. Fish unprotected by American law, he had said. Fish that Canadian law would protect. He had given her that big-eyed puppy dog stare, and she had melted, agreeing to drive out and provide the requisite ranking second opinion to give the fish amnesty as defacto Canadians.

Which was why she was out here, a two-hour drive from Chicago into the middle of nowhere. It was also why she was covered in fish scales. She shuddered. Best not to think of how *that* happened. As it was, she'd have to shower for at least a month or two to rid herself of the smell.

It was all Fraser's fault. It was *always* Fraser's fault. "I know that you would like to think the RCMP was created for the purpose of

single-handedly protecting the world," she snapped, "but it wasn't. Our job is to protect Canadians."

The Constable didn't get angry. He didn't snap back at her. He never did, which was part of why he was so maddening. The blue eyes never left the road that stretched ahead to Chicago, an asphalt ribbon across the rural landscape. "Technically, sir, you did agree that the fish should be granted amnesty because of their ecological impact on the Great Lakes region...including a significant portion of Canadian waters."

Thatcher sighed, leaning her head back against the headrest as she closed her eyes. For once, the sound of the gentle summer rain that was pattering against the car windows wasn't soothing. Instead, it was contributing to her general annoyance. "Constable," she explained slowly, "do you have any idea what would happen if we granted amnesty to every fish who might someday effect the Canadian ecosystem?"

"Yes, sir. We might well need to extend the offer to each one of the over 20,000 species of Pisces."

"Does that seem reasonable to you?"

"Well..." He paused, and she shook her head. Incredible. The man was actually considering the possibility of extending political shelter to every fish on earth. Thatcher opened her mouth to point out that it was really a very simple question, and that the very simple answer was 'no', but she never got the chance.

Without warning, Fraser suddenly spun the steering wheel, swerving the car violently to the side and throwing her hard against her seatbelt. Letting out a rather unbecoming shriek, she grabbed for the nearest handhold as she was tossed to and fro. The car rapidly slid out of control on the wet road. Fraser did his best to steer, but the little Mazda clearly had a mind of it's own. With a nerve-wracking squeal of wet rubber on asphalt, they skidded, spun, and then went off the road entirely. There was a colossal splash as they landed in the roadside ditch, water sheeting up to roof level on either side before settling again.

Then it was over. The engine made a last, gurgling cough, then proclaimed it's aversion to water by promptly dying. The car was tilted at approximately a twenty-degree angle in the meter-and-a-half deep ditch, but they were in no danger of turning over, and she didn't seem to be hurting or bleeding anywhere. For several seconds, Thatcher just sat there, listening to her heartbeat thundering in her ears and the sound of her own adrenaline-accelerated breathing. She was trembling all over, fish citizenship now the farthest thing from her mind.

"Fraser," she finally managed, "what in God's name just happened?"

Slowly, he turned to look at her, his fair skin alarmingly pale. "Fish."

Her jaw dropped nearly to her lap. "FISH?!" Fraser nodded. "FISH?!" He nodded again. "You nearly got us killed for FISH?!! What was it this time, Constable? Were they standing in the road waving citizenship papers? Did they want to know the words to 'O Canada'? Or were they just tourists?!" She was screaming at him now, more or less hysterical, but Thatcher felt that in this case her behavior was more than justified.

"No, sir." Fraser's pale face began to turn an alarming shade of red now, and he looked down in embarrassment, only occasionally daring to flicker a glance up at her through his eyelashes. "It was a bundle of frozen fish. I would guess they were being transported to a Chicago restaurant, perhaps even from the very fish farm we just visited. It couldn't have been that long ago, considering that they were still frozen, and with the ambient temperature combined with the surface of the -"

"Constable...." Her tone was low, dangerous.

"Yes, sir." He began to babble, rushing to get it all out before she hurt him, an event he knew was imminent. "It was a large bundle, sir, approximately 50 kilos of frozen whole fish. Possibly lost out of a freezer truck with an improperly secured door. If we had hit it, there might have been serious ramifications."

"Such as landing in the ditch, flooding our engine, and being trapped in the rain a thousand kilometers from the nearest phone?" Thatcher's voice was colder than a Yukon winter, and she heard Fraser's breath catch.

"Well, yes."

"I recommend you find a way to get us out of here, Constable."

He nodded almost desperately, his head bobbing like one of those little plastic dogs the Americans liked to put in the rear windows of their cars. "Yes, sir." Fraser reached for the handle of the door, then stopped.

She frowned. "What are you waiting for?"

"Your hand."

"My hand?" He blushed, then gestured downward. Puzzled, Thatcher followed the motion, then she also blushed when she saw what he had been referring to. During the spin on the road, she had grabbed randomly for the nearest solid anchor she could get her hands on. Apparently, given the tight confines of the small car, that anchor had unintentionally been the Constable's thigh. Her hand was locked in an iron grip around the taut muscle beneath the navy blue fabric, dangerously close to the hem of the brown tunic.

Quickly, she jerked it away, folding both hands tightly in her lap. Her face was flaming, and she felt a strong urge to dissolve into the upholstery. Thankfully, Fraser didn't say anything else about the subject, merely nodded his thanks before opening the door and stepping out into the rain.

As soon as the door closed, Thatcher slumped forward, burying her head in her hands. Why was it that where Fraser went, disaster always followed? It was like a new law of physics, and every bit as reliable. She thought back on some of the events that had occurred since she had met him a little less than a year ago. Retrieving Tshimshin masks. Fighting off criminals using eggs as ammunition. Saving the NAFTA conference from that crazed ex-GI. Standing on top of a train.... No. Bad line of thought.

Now it was fish. Completely insane. Utterly ridiculous. Strangely logical. And so very Fraser.

Splashing from outside caught her attention, and she leaned forward, squinting to peer through the rain-spattered windshield. Fraser was standing by the hood of the car, up to his knees in brown, swirling water, and he seemed to be doing something with his coat. She frowned. What was he doing messing with his clothing when he was supposed to be extricating them?

Thatcher watched curiously as he unfastened his brown tunic, then removed it, laying it out neatly on top of the hood. The rain soaked through his khaki shirt in a matter of seconds, causing it to adhere to his torso like a coat of tan paint. Next in the odd procedure was the removal of the tie and suspenders, which he then tied together to form one long makeshift rope. She had stopped trying to figure out what he was attempting to do, resigning herself to simply watch it happen.

Fraser waded around to the side of the car, where he affixed one of the suspender straps to the side mirror. Water was coursing down his boyish face in thick streams, dripping from his nose and chin. His dark hair was plastered down against his skull, the ends of each strand curled into tight ringlets. The 'rope' secured, he turned and began to climb up the embankment.

The grass was slick, the ground beneath soft and muddy, and his shoes slipped several times on the side of the ditch. Each time, Thatcher held her breath, but each time he managed to regain his footing and continue. She realized that the purpose of the 'rope' was to act as a tow line to assist her up, but what on earth was he going to anchor it to? There were no trees, no rocks, not even a stop sign.

When he had reached the top, she watched in fascination as he industriously hauled over the block of frozen fish that had been responsible for the entire predicament. They had begun to melt in the warm rain, tails and fins separating from the main block to flap free. He seemed to have thought of that, however, and promptly removed his shirt, wrapping it around the block and buttoning it securely. A fish head protruded from the collar, making it appear as though the entire strange mess were one very well-dressed whitefish.

He quickly attached the rope to this, then simply sat down and slid down the side of the ditch to the car again, coating the back of his trousers with mud. Fraser was now wearing nothing more than a sopping wet undershirt from the waist up, and Thatcher unconsciously pressed closer to the window as he pushed himself upright and waded back into the water. She could see the movement of every muscle in his chest and abdomen beneath the white cotton undershirt, and the water seemed to accentuate the contours of his broad shoulders and strong arms.

Not until he looked back at her and got an extremely odd expression on his face did she realize that she was against the glass so firmly her nose had flattened against it.

Embarrassed, she pulled back, rubbing self-consciously at her nose as Fraser came around his side of the car and opened the door. The water in the ditch had risen slightly, and it spilled over into the drivers side foot well, creating a small pond about a centimeter deep. He climbed back in and shut the door, swiping a hand over his face to clear the rain out of his eyes. Thatcher reached into her purse and pulled out a handkerchief, and he used to dry his face, offering his customary "Thank you kindly" before returning it.

"Can we get out?" she asked.

He paused. "Yes...and no. We are going to require the services of a tow truck to extricate the vehicle, and the nearest facility for placing such a call is approximately three kilometers away. On the bright side, however, there shouldn't be much difficulty getting us out. I've used my -"

"I saw." Thatcher interrupted. "Very...creative."

"Thank you, sir." Fraser suddenly stopped, rubbing at his ear in that odd way he always did when he was nervous. "Also, sir, I think it might be best if you left your shoes here."

Thatcher looked down at her feet. The gray pumps were certainly stylish, but on footing like that, they'd likely kill her. She kicked them off, then put her hand on the door handle. "Are we ready, Constable?"

He nodded, causing drops of water to sprinkle from his dark curls. "Yes, sir. May I ask that you wait until I can come around and assist?"

"Of course." Fraser waded back around the car to her side, opening the door for her like the gentleman he was...even soaked to the skin and standing in swiftly-moving brown ditch water. Thatcher cringed as she stepped out of the car. The rain pelted down on her like a shower, soaking her to the skin almost immediately. She could feel mud squishing through her pantyhose as she stepped down. *The only redeeming quality*, she decided, *is that it's warm.*

The Constable made sure she had a good hold on his makeshift tow rope, then quickly scaled the side of the ditch himself. He declined the rope in favor of spots of solid ground he seemed to have noticed as potential toeholds on his last trip up. Once at the top, he took hold of the fish bundle, making sure that it wouldn't move under her weight. "All right, sir," he called, "everything's ready."

The tow rope made the ascent easy, and she made it up the embankment most of the way without any difficulty. As she neared the top, Fraser extended a hand for her to take, and she let go with one hand to accept it. Perhaps that movement shifted her weight on the slick mud, or perhaps she just lost her balance, but Thatcher's feet suddenly went flying out from under her and she fell hard. She would have slipped back into the water, but the Constable's reflexes would have put lightning to shame. He grabbed her wrist just in time, hauling her easily back to the level asphalt.

"Are you all right, sir?" Little creases of concern appeared between the blue eyes as he looked at her.

She looked away quickly, scrambling to her feet. "I'm perfectly - ow!" Pain shot up her right ankle the moment it touched the ground. Her breath hissed between clenched teeth as she stood there on one leg, carefully holding her bad ankle off the ground. Slowly, she eased back down to the road.

Fraser knelt down beside her. "May I take a look?"

"Go ahead."

Thatcher bit her lip as he examined the ankle. His hands were gentle, but the joint was too tender for it to matter. It hurt. A lot. She concentrated on the things around her, trying to ignore the fact that one of those things was a rather good-looking member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Finally, he rocked back on his heels to look at her. "It's not broken."

"That's good to hear."

"But it is rather badly sprained."

"Damn." Thatcher sighed, then gritted her teeth, forcing herself back to her feet. She stood there for a moment, waving away Fraser's assistance while she regained her balance. The Inspector wobbled a bit, then began to hop resolutely forward.

The Constable knew better than to try and help her when she was determined to do things on her own like this, but he walked slowly along side, staring at her. It was really rather disquieting. After several minutes of this, she stopped, turning to face him. "Is there something you wanted to say to me, Fraser?"

"Yes, sir. I was just noticing that you're progressing at approximately 0.5 kilometers an hour. Proceeding at that rate, it should take us approximately 6 hours to reach our destination. I also took the liberty of listening to the weather forecast this morning, and they are predicting that this rain will turn to thunderstorms later today."

"I see." She paused, wiping her dripping hand across her eyes in a futile attempt to sweep away some of the water. "So what do you recommend I do? Rent a wheelchair? Hail a passing car...which there have been none of, might I add."

"Actually, I was suggesting that I might carry you."

"Carry me."

"I'm quite capable of carrying you three kilometers...and I can still maintain a pace of around five or six kilometers an hour, compensating for the rain and the footing, of course, which would probably decrease that to perhaps four or five kph. We would still reach our destination in a little less than an hour." The words came out in a rush, and she shook her head in wonder. Did that man keep a calculator hidden somewhere?

Unfortunatly, he was right. As if to underline the fact, thunder pealed in the distance. She turned awkwardly to face him. "All right."

He looked at her innocently. "All right?"

Frowning, she motioned to herself. "Go ahead." He continued to stand there looking at her for several more seconds, as if gathering courage. She sighed in exasperation. "Constable, I am giving you permission to carry me."

Even with the rain coursing down both their faces, she could still clearly see him blush. "Is there a problem?", she asked.

"I'm concerned about your ankle. The motion while I carry you might exacerbate the injury. I'll need to splint or bind it somehow." He frowned, contemplating the problem, then in one swift motion took hold of the hem of his undershirt and whisked it off.

Thatcher nearly stopped breathing.

Her eyes widened as she took in the Constable's bare torso. The skin was perfectly smooth and pale, without the coat of fur that covered the arms and chest of so many men. Each muscle was beautifully formed and clearly defined, but while he obviously kept in excellent physical shape, he didn't 'pump iron' as the Americans referred to it. His muscles did not bulge like a bodybuilder's, and she found that subtlety far more appealing. Like the classic sculptures of Greek and Roman male perfection.

The Inspector's gaze wandered from the softness of his throat down across the strong line of his broad shoulders, his collarbones forming small, sensitive hollows above his pectorals. His stomach was firm and flat, with a teasing glimpse of what she had heard Francesca Vecchio call a 'six pack' as he moved. She was thankful that if he noticed her goggle-eyed stare, he probably attributed it to the fact that he was systematically shredding his regulation undershirt into four centimeter wide strips.

As he began to bind up her injured ankle with those strips, Thatcher felt her heart constrict as she had a sudden realization. He was going to be carrying her. Carrying her for almost an hour, pressed up against that beautiful, half-naked body. This was not going to be good. Suddenly, an even more horrifying thought came to mind, and she gasped involuntarily.

Fraser looked up, his expression completely innocent of the problems he was causing. "Sir?"

"Constable," she began, "I've noticed that you seem to have been...um...taking - no...finding unorthodox uses for the regulation uniform. It has resulted in something of a state of undress. I am hoping that these...innovations will not continue at the expense of any more of the uniform."

The blue eyes went as wide as saucers as he looked down at himself. She realized that he actually hadn't been aware of what he was doing. Of the fact that his improvisations had amounted to something of a gradual strip tease. He was very aware of it now. Fraser looked at her, obviously mortified, his mouth opening and closing in a rather excellent fish imitation. Thatcher almost smiled as she realized that she had actually rendered him speechless. His reaction also assured her that the trousers would not be in danger of being transformed into a life raft or any other ridiculous use he might conjure up for them.

Satisfied, Thatcher held her arms out to him, aware that she looked like a little girl asking to be picked up. Fraser was obviously relieved that she seemed to have abandoned her previous line of thought, and he complied quickly. She was surprised at the ease with which he scooped her up, taking great care not to bump her injured ankle as he settled her into his arms.

Without even being asked, she wrapped her arms around his neck, knowing that would both stabilize her and distribute her weight. This way, the strong muscles of his back and shoulders could take more of the load, rather than having it fall exclusively to the arms that wrapped beneath her knees and shoulders, the strain evident in the rock-hard tautness of his biceps that pressed against the fair skin. He smiled slightly in gratitude, and she looked away. "Are you ready?"

"Yes, sir. Is everything all right? Are you comfortable?"

*Comfortable! He wants to know if I'm comfortable!* Thatcher was unable to help her open-mouthed stare of incredulity. Her ankle was throbbing, she was sopping wet, she had mud in places she hadn't been fully aware she had possessed, and beyond that, her mind and hormones were reeling from being pressed up against an annoyingly attractive subordinate who was rather distressingly out of uniform. "I have a sprained ankle, Fraser." She replied, "What do you think?"

"Sorry, sir." He looked at her with a genuinely contrite expression, and she felt a pang of regret for being so sharp with him. She took a deep breath, deliberately softening her tone.

"Fraser?"

"Yes?"

"Let's go."

"Ah. Of course."

With a final glance to be sure she was ready, he set off. Thatcher's arms automatically tensed around his neck as he began moving, but she soon relaxed. His grip on her was sure, despite the rain that continued to soak them, and his gait was smooth and steady.

The summer rain continued to fall, warm and wet, making soft, comfortingly rhythmic noises as it splattered on leaves and danced on the surface of the road. Occasionally, a bird would twitter it's annoyance at being confined to the shelter of a bush, or thunder would growl low and lazy in the distance. She could feel Fraser's chest rise and fall with each breath, and motion of each step rocked her slightly in the solid cradle of his arms.

Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all.

***

They walked along silently for almost twenty minutes. Fraser didn't seem to have any need for conversation, his strides sure and even, his face bearing the same look of expressionless efficiency as it did when he was on guard duty. Only occasionally would she think that she saw the blue eyes flicker down towards her, but it was always like a mirage, something so quick that she wasn't entirely sure she had seen it.

The Inspector was, however, quite sure of something else. She was losing her mind.

At first, it had seemed a perfectly logical thing to do. Resting her head on the Constable's shoulder was, after all, the easiest way to travel in this position, and it allowed her to hear his heartbeat. The reason for that, she had told herself, was to monitor him. As stoic as he was, the first hint she might otherwise get of overexertion might be his collapse. Of course, that also meant the side of her face was against his bare skin, her lips mere centimeters from his neck and the line of his jaw...skin that had lately begun to remind her of vanilla ice cream and promised to be just as sweet.

Thatcher had tried closing her eyes, but that had only made matters worse. Her skin seemed to burn where his arms wrapped around her, and her senses seemed to be more acute than ever. Despite the rain and the smell of the moist earth around them, she could still smell his clean, but faintly masculine scent. The fluid motion of his shoulder muscles was becoming increasingly fascinating, and Thatcher realized that her thoughts had begun to take a turn towards a direction that involved gross violation of protocol with a junior officer.

Finally, she was over it. This was simply not acceptable. Abruptly raising her head to look him right in the eyes, she assumed a brisk, all-business manner. "Constable."

Her sudden motion clearly surprised Fraser, and she felt him jump a bit. "Yes, sir?" He kept his eyes fixated on the road ahead.

She realized that she had no idea what she was going to say. Her mind raced for something to talk about. Suddenly, she remembered the reason they were there in the first place. "We need to clarify some things about breeding.", she blurted, not realizing until it was too late how that had come out.

Thatcher could have sworn that she actually felt Fraser's heart skip a beat. Every muscle in his body tensed, and she saw his throat move as he swallowed. His eyes were wide and incredulous as he looked down at her, the expression reminding her of a small animal in the headlights of an oncoming vehicle. "Ma'am...I mean, sir...I...uh..." He fumbled desperately for words, a rapid blush spreading over his face from his neck to his hairline.

"Fish!" She knew she was at least as red as he was, and she attempted to quickly backpedal from the egregious error. "The breeding program for the fish. The reason we're here."

The tense muscles relaxed immensely at this. "Ah, well, yes, sir. You see, the entire problem started when the curves were brought to my attention."

Now it was her turn to skip a beat or two of cardiac action. "Curves?"

Tense again. He looked back at the road, staring at the asphalt ahead with alarming dedication. "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. Graphs. Curves on Mr. Murphy...well, actually, on his graphs. Breeding graphs. For fish."

"I see."

He took a deep breath, then began, the words practically tripping over each other as he rushed to explain. "The species of fish Mr. Murphy is breeding are not yet scarce enough to be listed on the American rosters of endangered species, thereby limiting his American funding. Detective Vecchio happened to arrest the gentleman for attempting to feed a whole, live specimen to the EPA agent assigned to his case, and during the arresting process, Mr. Murphy showed me his cur - his charts. By the time the fish were scarce enough to be listed as endangered under American law, it would be too late for his efforts...I thought Canadian law could help them." Fraser stopped and looked down at her, his expression genuinely remorseful. "If I'd known it would come to this, sir...."

"I understand, Constable. You just can't help taking matters into your own arms...I mean hands! Taking matters into your own hands."

"I know the feeling."

She looked at him in surprise. "You do?"

"Yes."

"You know the feeling."

"The feeling...?"

"About arm - han - nevermind." Thatcher abruptly cut off, unwilling to continue embarrassing herself like this. What was her problem? She couldn't even seem to manage her name without it coming out terribly garbled and mixed with all kinds of double entendres. Fraser also seemed to decide that silence was the best course of action at the moment, and for that she was intensely grateful.

As they walked on in silence, she mentally kicked herself for her stupidity. Talk about making a complete ass out of yourself! Fraser probably thought she was inappropriate at best, unhinged at worst. How could she possibly make this up to him?

It took her several seconds to notice something was different. They had stopped. Curious, she looked up at Fraser, only to feel a flock of butterflies burst out in her stomach at what she saw. He was looking at her. No, not just at her, *in* her, those devastating blue eyes seeming to stare right past the surface, slowly dissecting and laying bare every thought, every whim, every emotion. The intensity of his gaze was almost frightening, but she didn't look away.

She didn't know how long they stayed like that, but finally, she found the words to speak again. "Constable," she whispered, "I do believe your heartrate has increased." His eyes never wavered, but a tiny smile danced on his lips. "It's racing."

Oh, God, what was he doing? Fraser wanted to...but she couldn't. Could she? She had sworn it would never happen again, but hadn't he been the perfect gentleman, the absolute soul of discretion after the last time? And after all, though this might not be the top of a speeding train, there was no one around for kilometers. Whatever they did would be between herself, Fraser, and the rain. Thatcher took a deep breath, then took the leap. "Out of control?"

"It's a runaway."

She didn't know who moved first. But whether she did or he did, it didn't matter. One moment they were looking at one another, and the next her eyes were closed, her body leaning forward in his arms. Their lips touched, only lightly brushing at first, then coming together more intensely. Her arms tightened around his neck as he pulled her in closer, and she felt as though the rain were slowly melting them into a single being. The awkwardness of the past half hour was forgotten, and she determined to hold on to this moment for as long as was humanly -

*BEEEEEEP!*

They jerked apart with a nearly audible pop, and Thatcher froze as she realized that the deer-in-the-headlights look on Fraser's face was accentuated by the fact that he was literally in the headlights. The headlights of a 1971 green Buick Riviera. She cursed under her breath. A certain cop was going to die for this.

***

"I still think we should have brought back up. I mean, Ray, you *know* Fraser. He's never late. There's probably been some kind of disaster, and he's lying somewhere alone and bleeding and..."

Ray Vecchio rolled his eyes. "Frannie, we've been here, done this. I *do* know Benny, and he's probably out helping some little old caribou cross the road. Chill." He knew better than to let his green eyes waver from the road under these driving conditions, so he fumbled one-handed in the Riv's glove compartment until he extracted a map. Frannie yelped as he thrust it at her, his lack of attention causing the folded paper to almost be shoved up her nose.

"Ray!" She snatched the map, shooting him a dirty look. He couldn't see it, but it made her feel better. "So what am I supposed to do with this?"

"Directions to that fish farm-thingy Turnbull said they were headed to." Ray leaned forward slightly, squinting through the rain pattering against the windshield of the Riv. He thought he could see some sort of signpost approaching, the first protrusion other than the occasional clumps of trees along the otherwise annoyingly flat landscape. It was too far to make out any lettering or anything yet, but he was hoping it said something along the lines of 'This Way To Missing Mounties'.

"That's almost two hours away!" Frannie's tone had taken on the distinctive whine that was one of the Vecchio family's less endearing traits.

"Just do it."

She stuck her tongue out at him, then opened the map, spreading it over her knees. Satisfied that finding a locale that Ray knew not to be listed on the old map would keep her busy for a while, he returned his full attentions to the slick, rainswept road ahead.

The signpost was getting closer now, but it was beginning to resemble something other than a signpost. It was also too small to be a tree, too skinny to be a cow, and too tall to be a rock. As they got closer, Ray felt the urge to rub his eyes to ensure what he was seeing was not a mirage. They'd found Benny.

However, he appeared to be naked from the waist up, wearing only the straight-legged trousers and regular shoes that had at one time accompanied the brown uniform. That alone would have been unusual enough for the prim and proper Mountie, but Ray could probably have dealt with it. He could not, on the other hand, deal so readily with other aspects of the scene growing increasingly clear before them.

Benny appeared to be carrying the Dragon Lady, cradling her in his arms like something right out of a very wet Dudley Do-Right cartoon. From the looks of things, the Inspector had come down with an acute case of tonsillitis, and Benny was doing his diligent best to perform an emergency oral field tonsillectomy.

Ray grinned. *And I'm the Queen of England.* Innocent little Saint Benton was out there now on that formerly deserted country road, kissing the living daylights out of the Dragon Lady. This was rich! It was all Ray could do not to rub his hands in glee ... this would give him blackmail over the Mountie for the rest of Benny's life. And then some.

Ever so casually, Ray leaned back in the seat, then tapped lightly on the Riv's hom.

Frannie jumped and squealed, but her reaction was nothing compared to that of the two Mounties. It was as though they had been hit by lightning. They reared back, the Dragon Lady swiping quickly at her mouth while Benny just stood there like a shocked statue, staring at the approaching car as he gradually turned a shade of red visible even through the pouring rain. The poor Constable was so unnerved that he didn't even seem to notice his boss shoving against his chest, clearly insisting on being put down.

He pulled the car to a halt in front of the drenched couple, rolling down the window to grin out at them. "Hey, Benny, need a ride?"

Benny was speechless, but the look on his face put a slight damper on Ray's elation. It was half mortified - a half he could easily handle and even relish - but the other half looked like a little kid who'd just had his bike stolen. Then Ray remembered all the times his partner had gotten him on the receiving end of some ridiculous, embarrassing, life-threatening situation. The grin re-doubled, the cop now looking like a cat who had consumed an entire flock of canaries. He nodded to the Dragon Lady. "Hey, Inspector."

Thatcher was too badly flustered to be any more verbose than Benny, but she shot him a glare so hot that he could have sworn he heard paint sizzle as it scorched off the side of the Riv. She seemed somewhat satisfied when she saw Ray wince at the infinite pain promised in that look, then motioned for the Constable to set her down.

That was when Ray noticed her foot. The ankle was red and swollen, wrapped in a makeshift bandage that seemed to account for his friend's lack of undershirt. So that's why she was being carried. Ray frowned, not even noticing the rain as he leaned to check it out.

Suddenly, Frannie was at Benny's side, hanging on his arm with a cloying mixture of relief and lust. "Fraser, I've been so *worried* about you!," she gushed. "I mean, you were late, and not just a little late, but you know, like, a lot late." Her hair had flattened under the rain, and she pushed one soggy strand back off her forehead. "So I start telling my brother that there's something wrong. 'Fraser's never late', I tell him, 'there's something wrong', I tell him. He was a pain in the ass about the whole thing, of course, but I was scared, you know? Anything could have happened ... you could have been lying somewhere in the gutter, battered, bleeding, horribly mutilated by some kind of disgusting -"

"Enough, Frannie."

"Oh, yeah. Right. But I *was* worried, Fraser." She looked up at him with wide, dewey eyes, and for once Benny seemed grateful for her presence. At the very least, it offered a distraction from his 'situation with the Dragon Lady. Ray almost laughed at the way the two of them were acting. It was like watching a pair of schoolchildren, pretending that if they didn't look at each other and didn't talk about it, it would all go away.

"I'm terribly sorry," Benny looked as genuinely contrite as Ray had ever seen him, and he wondered if part of this wasn't a backhanded apology to the Dragon Lady. "We were on our way back to the consulate when I had to swerve rather drastically to avoid a collision with a parcel of frozen whitefish that was in the middle of the road. The lack of antilock brakes on our vehicle, the conditions of the road, and the speed at which we were traveling caused the car to hydroplane -"

Thatcher sighed as she propped herself against the Riv, interrupting Fraser's spiel. "We wound up in a ditch. My cell phone had been eaten back at the fish farm, and the water in the ditch was rising. We got out of the car and out of the ditch, but I fell and hurt my ankle."

Ray snorted. "Eaten? Your cell phone had been *eaten*?"

"Yes. Eaten. Are you having difficulty comprehending the English language today, Vecchio?"

She gave him the look again, but Ray didn't much care this time. This was too good. "They eat your uniform too, Benny?"

Unable to blush any darker, the Mountie's skin suddenly went extremely pale. The cop shook his head, marveling at how easy it was to follow the moods of his fair-skinned friend, from red as a stoplight when he was embarrassed to whiter than the Yukon snow when he was frightened. "Not ... uh ... not exactly," he stammered, "I used my shirt, tie, and suspenders with the aforementioned frozen whitefish to assist the Inspector out of the ditch. I had to use my undershirt to stabilize the injury."

A remark was forming in Ray's mind that he knew would set the Dragon Lady bristling and put poor Benny into cardiac arrest, but just before he said what he was thinking, he had a far better idea. An idea that would completely distress Benny, who as much as he was dreading it, was expecting Ray to pop off a series of wisecracks. This plan was much better.

Smiling with a sweet politeness and concern that rivaled anything his Canadian partner had ever come up with, he opened the car door and stepped out into the rain. He couldn't quite suppress the wince when his expensive shoes squished into the ruinous mud, but he decided to just chalk it up as another entry on the list of 'clothes the Mountie has destroyed.' The Dominion of Canada was going to get a hell of a dry-cleaning bill along with their officer when they decided to take Benny back.

***

Fraser watched in horrified curiosity as Ray approached Inspector Thatcher, a polite smile on his face that Fraser knew meant trouble. Big trouble. Ray usually just made jokes about things like this ... for him to act like this meant that he had devised something far more humiliating than mere sarcasm or wit. He wasn't particularly looking forward to finding out what that something was.

The American fussed solicitously over Thatcher's injury, causing her to give Fraser a number of confused glances at the suddenly uncharacteristic behavior. All he was able to do was shrug helplessly and shake his head. *I have no idea, sir.*

As carefully as if he were loading the Mona Lisa, the cop eased Fraser's superior officer into the spacious back seat of the Riv, sitting her sideways so that her leg could stretch out straight on the seat. That meant that Ray, Francesca, and himself would all have to cram into the front. As he held the door for Miss Vecchio and saw the predatory gleam in her eyes, Fraser began to get an inkling of what Ray's master plan was.

No sooner had he climbed into the car himself, than Fraser found a compact bundle of Italian femininity pressed up against his side. "Sorry, Frase," she purred, "It's a little crammed in here." He decided not to point out that there were approximately thirteen centimeters of open space between her and her brother. Instead, he shut his eyes, trying to press in ever tighter against the door.

The handle was denting his ribs, but he didn't care. One of the results of growing up in the vast expanses of the Yukon was an extremely well-developed sense of personal space. That personal space was being rather strongly impinged upon at the moment, and Fraser felt beads of sweat pop out on his forehead as Miss Vecchio ran her fingers along the curve of his deltoid muscle and down his bicep and tricep. "Wow," she murmured, "what do you do, lift penguins or something?"

He tried to answer that penguins were only indigenous to the Southern, Antarctic regions, but only managed a sound rather like a strangled squeak. She was undeterred, and the tips of her fingernails drummed absently on his forearm as she continued. "You know what? Seeing you standing there in the rain and all, no shirt, doing that Mountie-hero-damsel-in-distress thing with whatshername, you looked just like the cover of 'Heart Of Fire."

Fraser's ribs were now certainly going to bear bruises from the pressure of the handle, but he didn't even feel the pain. He was busy trying to tune out Miss Vecchio's incessant and incomprehensible chatter, while mentally kicking himself for his own stupidity.

How was it that ears that were attuned enough to identify a bird's species from the whisper of it's passing wings could have missed the rumbling engine, coughing exhaust, splashing tires, and crunching gravel of the Riv's approach? How was it that eyes sharp enough to detect a single strand of hair on the forest floor could have missed the glare of headlights reflected a thousand times again off the silver rain? How was it that self control strong enough to wait for a criminal for days without moving a muscle could have failed him so utterly with a woman in his arms?

The answer was as simple as it was inexcusable. Inspector Margaret Thatcher. He had tried to ignore her, tried thinking of her as his boss, as a cold, heartless officer, as a faceless injured person, or even as a criminal he was bringing to justice in a final, desperate attempt to distance himself. He had mentally recited three books of the Bible, two chapters of the Odyssey (the ones dealing with the ' moral lure of Circe's island), the multiplication tables through twenty, and the portion of the RCMP manual that dealt with fraternization. It hadn't helped one bit.

Senses which had been honed to razor-sharpness now served only to betray him. His skin felt like it was being seared with hot brands everywhere she touched him, even as he was aware of the satin texture of her flesh, the smooth weave of her clothing, and the feather touch of her hair. He had to force himself to keep his eyes on the road ahead, trying not to see her. Not to see the way the rain traced the planes of her beautiful face and beaded on her eyelashes like gems. Not to see the way her clothing clung to the supple curves of her body, or her tiny, lithe movements as she kept her balance. Fraser had tried to ignore her clean, feminine smell, or the heady scent of apple and honey from her shampoo. He had tried not to hear the rhythm of her heart, the soft sighing of her breaths, or the little catch that would appear in that rhythm when he would shift her in his arms.

He had managed to fight the sensations she had created within him. Fraser had suppressed his own heartrate, controlled his own breathing, kept his face and words as neutral and businesslike as possible. So why was it that their conversation, brief as it was, had so completely unhinged him?! And why, WHY, *WHY*, had he been crazy enough to actually....

He couldn't even think it. Couldn't even think the word. It was 'contact' again. A simple, dispassionate word that was so much easier to think, to say. But he had actually invited it. He had known her defenses were down, that she was as tempted as he was, and he had still repeated the words from the other incident, knowing that he was sending an engraved invitation for additional contact. Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid!!

What would she think of him now? That first incident had been problematic, but they had been able to explain it away between themselves. After all, they thought they were going to die. People tend to do strange things under those conditions.

This time, however, there had been no life-threatening situation. They had simply been walking down a country road, safe as could be ...if a little inconvenienced. Yet they had given in again, taken advantage of their isolated situation to engage in more utterly inexcusable contact. Not only that, but they had been seen by Ray, though apparently (and thankfully) not his sister. Based on the speed the Riv had been traveling, the visibility through the rain, his height, and the candlepower of the Riv's headlights, they had been watched for approximately 32.7 seconds.

Fraser leaned his head against the side window, closing his eyes as he let out a soft sigh that misted the glass. She was going to kill him.

***

The ride was completely torturous for both Mounties. The fifteen minutes seemed to drag to fifteen years, the time extended not only by their own pained silence, but by Frannie's chatter and Ray's evil smile. By the time they pulled to a stop, both dark-haired Canadians were certain that their hair had become snow-white under the stress.

Thatcher squinted through the window, her beautiful face creasing in confusion. "Detective, this is not the consulate."

Fraser's American partner turned to look at her, his face bearing an expression of such utter innocence that she felt herself shiver. This was not right. "That's real perceptive, Inspector. It's my place."

"Your place."

"Yeah. It's my Ma's birthday. She's kind of adopted Benny, here, and so Frannie and I were sent to go get him. That was...... He consulted his watch. "Forty-five minutes ago. Ma's probably flipping out by now." Vecchio gave her another innocent smile. "I'll take you back to the consulate if you want, Inspector, but that'll mean another thirty minutes round trip. On my Ma's birthday."

Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him. Clearly, he was laying a guilt trip. The question was, why? "What are you suggesting, Detective?"

"You like lasagna? Vongole ripeni puccini?"

"What?"

Fraser's head turned, the Constable speaking his first words since the long ride in the Riv had begun. "Baked clams, sir.

At that, Thatcher realized that she was being invited to dinner. Fraser's blue eyes were begging her not to accept, but she knew she didn't have much of a choice. It really wouldn't be fair to Mrs. Vecchio to detain her other guests any longer. Sighing deeply, she nodded. "All right, Detective. You win."

She allowed Vecchio to help her out of the car, but refused any further assistance. Damned if she was going to owe that annoying American anything else, and she was CERTAINLY not going to let Fraser near her for a while. A long while. In fact, she determined that it was going to be at least three years before she let him in the consulate again.

Still, he hovered near her, watching her with that look of innocent concern as she hopped up to the porch. Thatcher kept her eyes riveted on the path ahead. It wasn't fair. Not fair at all. Why couldn't she have gotten a liaison officer that wasn't so good-looking? Even if she had to get herself a human work of art, couldn't he have at least been conceited about it? Or rude, or patronizing, or abrasive, or incompetent, or immoral, or ANYTHING less than completely perfect?

Thatcher flinched as she felt his hand touch her arm, steadying her as she started to hop awkwardly up the stairs. She almost told him to back off when he leaned towards her, whispering. "Sir, you might wish to reconsider this dinner invitation."

Pretending to ignore him, she hopped up to the next step, but what sounded to the two Americans like a short gasp of pain when she landed on the step, was clear to Fraser as a breathy 'why'.

"I believe that Detective Vecchio is planning to reveal our contact to his extended family as recompense for times I have inadvertently embarrassed him in the past."

She stopped dead, eyes wide. Damn, but Fraser was right!! Thatcher started to turn back, planning on calling a cab, but at that moment the front door flew open. The two Mounties were enveloped by a wall of Vecchios, all speaking at once. Thatcher was soon hustled into the bright entry hall, what seemed like thousands of voices babbling at her. She could only catch snatches of speech here and there, expressing worry over their lateness, demanding explanation, fussing over her ankle, chiding, soothing, worrying, gossiping...

Before she was entirely certain what had happened, she was stepping out of a hot shower, her wet clothes being dried as she wrapped herself in a thick, dry bathrobe that belonged to another of Detective Vecchio's sisters.

Constable Fraser's undershirt was replaced by a real ace bandage, and she almost smiled as she hobbled down the hall, knowing that an icepack and a hot meal waited for her downstairs. She had almost forgotten about Fraser's warning on the way in, enjoying the warmth of the Vecchio hospitality.

Suddenly, however, that warning was rather forcibly brought back to the forefront of her attention. A door at the end of the hall burst open, slamming back against the wall so hard that it knocked a nearby picture to the floor. Francesca Vecchio flew out in a rage, stopping only long enough to whirl back towards the open doorway and scream something in Italian. Thatcher had a feeling she didn't want a translation. The young woman was shaking in rage, and her eyes narrowed to dangerous slits as she saw the Inspector standing there. "You .... you ... you ... CANADIAN!!"

She didn't have a chance to respond, as Frannie simply tossed her head and stalked past her, oozing wounded dignity. Thatcher started to follow, but then Fraser stepped out of the door from which Frannie had just exited so dramatically. He was dressed in one of Detective Vecchio's paisley bathrobes, his fair skin still ruddy from the shower as he called after her. "Francesca! Ray didn't mean it that..."

There was the sound of something breaking from the direction Frannie had gone, and she saw Fraser wince. "Yeah, right, hairbottle!! Go kiss a moose!!!" Frannie screamed out the strange epithet, punctuating her words with another crash.

The Constable's blue eyes met her own hazel ones, and she knew what Ray had revealed to so infuriate his younger sister. She also knew where Frannie was going. Downstairs, to sob on the shoulders of the entire Vecchio clan and complain about how the nasty Mountie had broken her heart. Whaf s more, it was too late to do anything to stop her.

Fraser looked like a spooked steed, his eyes wide and body tense. Thatcher knew the feeling. Wanting to run, wanting to escape, but having nowhere to go. She guessed that her own face probably bore a similar expression, and it was no surprise to find their thoughts and words working in total unison. "Oh dear."

The End