This story is for Katherine Fox, who has bean after me to write a Meg-and-Ben coffee story that would perk up right where "The Edge" leaves off.* At the end of that episode, Fraser is Blanc, Thatcher is Noir, and this story blends the two. If you prefer a dark and gritty drama to something frothy, just filter out this tale of cafe society. If you want to roast me on these grounds or espresso yourself in some other fashion, please E-mail this female at the address indicated. I'm ready for any kind of brew-ha-ha!
*Katherine herself makes a cameo appearance in this story.
by Diana Read
Constable Fraser
In the end, he was the one who drove.
When he'd asked, "Would you like some coffee?" and Inspector Thatcher at first replied, "Well, I really don't think--" Fraser felt as if he'd been kicked in the stomach. All the breath was on the point of leaving his body. But in the next instant she saved his life by changing her mind. "All right. Get the car."
"Do you want to drive?" he asked. After all, it was her car.
"No, you drive." (Did she want to make clear the difference between his rank and hers by having him act as her chauffeur? ) "No! I'll drive."
She made a grab for the keys. (Did she plan to show him what a good driver she was?)
"You." She thrust the keys back into his hand. (Had she just decided that since this was a semi-social occasion, they ought to observe the social convention of male driver/female passenger?)
Fraser left before she could change her mind again. When he returned he stopped the car in front of the building, intending to leave the engine running while he ran up the steps to find her and help her on with her coat. To his surprise, she was already waiting.
As he helped Inspector Thatcher into the passenger side of her car, part of his mind registered disappointment that he wasn't going to get to help her on with her coat. The coat in question was, unfortunately, covering up the low-cut, form-fitting, short black dress she was wearing. Oh, well, he'd be able to get another discreet look at her when they got to wherever they were going and she took the coat off again, preferably with his help this time. Perhaps there would be a chance to let his fingertips linger ever so lightly--ever so slightly--on her shoulders?
In the car, she bent one of her imperious looks on him. "Constable, have you a destination in mind?"
Fraser came back to himself with a start. "Sir?"
"Constable," she began and inwardly he quailed at the familiar note of irony in her voice, "for the next hour or so, you have permission to address me as ma'am,' in view of the fact that we will not be on official business."
"Thank you, ma'am. Do you have a favorite coffee bar that you'd like to go to?"
"I'm asking you, Fraser. As your friend Detective Vecchio would no doubt put it, Where do two cops go for a cappuccino'?'"
"I suggest Java Joe's, ma'am."
"That new place near the Magnificent Mile? Fine, let's be off, then."
Why had she changed her mind and accepted his invitation to coffee after all? He couldn't believe his own nerve, asking her out like this. He'd never have dreamed of doing such a thing if it hadn't been for that incident in Lieutenant Welsh's office three days ago, following the disastrous SWAT team rehearsal.
Someone--Sherlock Holmes?--said that when you had eliminated the impossible, the answer was what remained, however improbable. By that reasoning, Inspector Thatcher had been beside herself with jealousy when Anita Cortez, the Mexican police officer assigned to the NAFTA Joint Security Task Force, grabbed a tissue and began cleaning the fake blood off Fraser's neck. The Inspector had all but elbowed the Mexican agent out of the way, then grabbed a fresh tissue and started cleaning the paint off his neck herself.
Which meant that if the Inspector was jealous of Ms. Cortez, she obviously considered that she had a prior claim on him.
Which meant that she didn't hate him as much as she pretended to.
* * * * * *
Java Joe's, glowing with gold lamplight and filled with hanging plants, wafted a delicious smell of freshly brewed coffee all the way out into the street. A pleasant buzz of music and conversation, interspersed with the grinding of coffee mills and the hissing of espresso machines, flowed around them as they entered. Looking around, Fraser noticed a small dance floor in one corner, packed with gyrating Generation Xers.
After he helped the Inspector off with her coat and handed it to the hatcheck person, he saw that she was regarding him with a faint lift of her eyebrows. "Tell me, Fraser, why coffee?"
She looked as bewitching as Circe, with the contrast of the black dress against her creamy skin, but he could hardly tell her that she looked like coffee and cream. She'd already tried to fire him once.
Realizing that he'd opened his mouth at least thirty seconds ago to reply, he said the first thing that came into his head. "I don't drink, ma'am, so it would have been pointless to go to a bar."
And besides, he wanted to look at her. In a coffee house he'd be able to look at her as much as he pleased, whereas in a bar he would have had to peer at her through smoke and shadows.
He planned to study her behavior as much as he could. Was it possible that her opinion of him had risen because of the events earlier this evening? After all, she'd offered to see to it that he received a commendation for his work. Her display of jealousy during the Cortez incident was the first indication she'd ever given that she considered him to be anything other than pond scum. He writhed inwardly at the idea that as far as she was concerned, he was a cross between an overgrown Boy Scout and a maverick police officer who caused more trouble than he was worth.
"What's your favorite coffee, Fraser?"
"I'm afraid I don't know much about coffee, ma'am. I usually drink camomile tea or milk." Desperately he scanned the menu board, looking for something familiar, and found it: French Vanilla. Yes, that would do. "What will you have, ma'am?"
The Inspector chose French Roast. Of course: she would. Hadn't she gone to college in Paris, after all? She even looked French, with her slender figure and chic way of dressing. And those red lights in her dark hair, like a dash of cinnamon on cappuccino...
What was it about those dark eyes, the warm brown of freshly brewed coffee, that made him want to wear her colors and do battle for her? What he would give for a smile from those perfectly painted lips, to see that look of disdain change to one of...well, desire.
When their orders arrived, he noticed that the Inspector's coffee looked strong and dark--like herself, in fact. He noticed that she drank it straight, too, no milk, no sugar. Clearly, the woman feared nothing.
Inspector Thatcher
It was amazing, it was even rather annoying, how attractive Constable Fraser was. Just as if he weren't good-looking enough in his everyday RCMP uniform, he'd looked even more devastating in civvies at the airport, when the Joint Security Task Force had covered the arrival of the trade representatives. And now this! Here he was, still wearing the white jacket and dark trousers that Americans called "white tie," but which was really the waiter's uniform he'd borrowed to outwit the Secret Service, looking so heart-stoppingly handsome that it was all she could do to maintain her habitual expression of hauteur.
She watched with barely concealed amusement as Fraser poured enough milk into his coffee to change the color from black to caramel. He would. Fraser was rather like milk himself, come to think of it: good, wholesome, and innocuous. But blend it with spices, add a dash of spirits and heat it up--and milk could pack a punch that surprised you. She wondered what Fraser would be like, heated up and blended with the right person....
The fact that he'd turned down the chance of a commendation, preferring to take her out for coffee instead, was one more example of what she found so troublesome about Fraser: he was a nonconformist. Her first instinct had been to refuse his invitation: fraternizing with subordinates so often led to trouble, she'd observed in the course of her RCMP career. And so far she had avoided trouble, which was one of the reasons why she, and not Fraser, occupied the corner office of the Canadian Consulate, with its curtained windows and its coffee-making equipment.
But she knew instinctively that if she turned him down this time, he'd never ask her out again. And this was a chance to find out what made him tick.
He looked so nervous that she found herself wanting to put him at ease. "That was good work tonight, Constable."
He looked up from his coffee and smiled in such delight that her heart skipped a beat. How could anyone have such deep dimples? And if she didn't stop staring at his slightly tousled hair, his blue eyes, and the slight cleft in his chin, she was going to dissolve into a pool of caramel syrup herself.
"Thank you, ma'am. But really, it wasn't just my doing. Detective Vecchio and Ms. Cortez were extremely helpful--"
Here he was again, attempting to deflect attention from himself and give other people all the credit. No wonder he was still a constable after 14 years in the RCMP. "Tell me, Fraser, what made you suspect LaCroix was the assassin?"
"Well, actually, ma'am, it was the fact that he first infiltrated the SWAT team..."
She smiled as she appeared to listen to him recite in mind-boggling detail exactly how he had arrived at his conclusion that the assassin would infiltrate the guests arriving at tonight's reception.
Yes, he was a nonconforming troublemaker, and it didn't help that he was so good-looking. But in the three months of their professional association she'd noted, with an approval of which she gave no outward sign, that Fraser never flirted. No matter how the various female support staff at the Consulate sighed after him or rendered various small services, such as fetching his coffee or doing his copying, he never lingered in conversation--merely thanked them politely and went back to work. Fraser was, she'd decided, that rarity, an uncommonly handsome man who seemed completely unaware of the fact. It was that as much as anything that had subtly altered her attitude toward him.
But she hadn't realized how much her attitude had changed until she'd seen that little Mexican spitfire Cortez daring to lay hands on him while she pretended to clean the paint off his neck. The jealousy that filled her had been of such towering proportions that in one moment she'd realized her true feelings.
Fraser was HERS. Her property. She hadn't decided yet whether to keep him or throw him back, but the fact remained: having fished him out of the gene pool, she was going to weigh her options. And she was damned if Ms. Cortez was going to poach on her preserves. Canadian pride was at stake: the Maple Leaf should prevail!
And after she'd finished scrubbing Fraser, who appeared stunned by it all, she'd realized that everyone else in the room--Lieutenant Welsh, the obnoxious Detective Vecchio, and Ms. Cortez--was fully aware that she had just made a fool of herself. She could see them trying not to smile as they studied the pattern of their shoes. There had been nothing to do but leave the room, looking as haughty as possible, and make a point of being extra cool to Fraser the next time they met.
"...and then, of course, I knew tonight would be the night he'd try something," Fraser was saying.
Meg came back to the present. The coffee cups were empty: it was time to go, but she felt oddly reluctant to end the evening.
"Like it or not, you'll probably still receive some sort of commendation from Ottawa. Well, this has been very pleasant, Constable. The coffee here is excellent. Thank you."
Fraser looked mildly distressed. Was he also feeling reluctant to leave? "Ma'am...shall we have a look at the dancing before we go?"
She took an instant to think it over, then nodded. "Yes, let's do that."
He rose from the table and came round to pull her chair away. He had charming manners, no question about that. Who had instilled that courtesy in him? His mother?
The small floor was still crowded with people dancing to a lively song that was just ending. Meg looked at the twenty-something dancers, and for a few seconds regretted that she was no longer a twenty-something herself. Then she remember the contrast between her life then and as it was now, at age 35. No question, now was better.
"Ma'am, would you care to dance this next one?"
No way was she going to get out on that dance floor, jiggling around, making a spectacle of herself, and losing her dignity in the process. How could she continue to terrify her constables if they saw her writhing about like the rest of the people here?
Fraser appeared to notice her hesitation. "It's a slow one, so..."
Illogically, she felt annoyed. Did he think she was too old and feeble to dance like all these Generation Xers? "Yes, Constable, let's..um..."
He required no further persuasion. He offered her his arm--sometimes Fraser did seem to be from another century--and they moved into the swaying crowd of dancers.
Now they were touching, one of her hands on the shoulder of his white Eton jacket, the other swallowed up in his large, warm right hand, but Fraser kept a respectful distance between his body and hers. Suddenly she felt nervous. Perhaps this wasn't such a good idea after all.
A voice spoke behind Meg. "Hey, look at that fox in the little black dress, shakin' it like nobody's business."
She started. Had being seen in public with Fraser unnerved her so much that she was shaking? Exactly which part of her body was shaking? Then she realized that the unknown voice was referring to a tall young woman wearing a black dress even more daring than her own, dancing energetically with her partner at a tempo twice as fast as the music. Her long, otter-colored hair swung out behind her as the Holly Cole trio crooned "Neon Blue." Meg decided it was time to leave.
"Fraser, agreeable as this has been, tomorrow is a work day, so I think..."
"Yes, ma'am. Let's retrieve your coat, then I'll get the car."
Ben
His fingertips brushed the back of her neck as he helped her on with her coat. How he would have liked to have the right to brush his lips across her hair after she had fastened the coat around her, before she turned to face him. Well, but why stop at brushing his lips across her hair? If it were up to him, he'd have permission to do a lot more than that.
"Constable, perhaps I'd better drive. I can drop you off at your place on my way home."
"I'd prefer to see you safely home first, ma'am." He had to be firm. Didn't the Inspector know that men always saw that women reached home safely? Even if the woman in question did happen to be his superior officer. Not to mention that she was a police officer as fully trained as he, and quite capable of looking after herself.
"But that's ridiculous, Fraser. It's out of your way, and besides, how would you get home?"
"I'd walk, of course, ma'am."
"Fraser, it's ten degrees of frost outside! No, we'll do it my way."
Oh, God, she didn't like him. She wanted to be out of his company as soon as possible, that's why she wanted to drop him off first and then drive herself home. He bowed his head in acquiescence. "Yes, ma'am."
He'd done everything he could think of to make her like him and she still didn't. This was too much: a dozen times a day the women at the Consulate tried to engage him in conversation, and as far as he was concerned, they could all vanish into the atmosphere and he wouldn't notice. At the 27th District station, when he went to see Ray, he had to fend off the blatant overtures of Ray's sister Francesca as well as dodging the more restrained sighings of Elaine, the Civilian Police Aide. He wished it were possible to tell them to save their energy, because their blandishments left him utterly unmoved. He had eyes only for the woman who stood before him at this moment, drawing her dark eyebrows together in a frown.
Inspector Thatcher stamped her foot. "Oh, all right, Fraser! Drive me home then, and put the car away in the garage. I'll send you home in a taxi."
"Yes, ma'am. Would you like to wait here while I get the car?"
"No, thanks, I'll walk to the car with you."
He hastened to open the door for her, then stepped back to let her precede him out of the building. Funny: the only other time in his life he'd tasted love he'd drunk the cup right down to the dregs, and found them bitter indeed. So disastrous had been the affair with Victoria that he'd resigned himself to living the rest of his life without the love of women. But now he wasn't so sure. The Inspector--he hardly dared to think of her as "Meg," although he'd heard a visiting RCMP official call her that--the Inspector had stirred something tonight, and it wasn't just coffee. In fact, he was hoping rather desperately that she wouldn't notice exactly what she had stirred up. Normally, he had complete control over himself: he was a Mountie, after all. This was merely another example of the extraordinary effect she exercised on him.
When they arrived at the apartment house where Inspector Thatcher lived, he drove into the garage, parked in her allotted space, then helped her out of the car.
"Come up to the lobby, Constable, so we can call a taxi for you. We'll charge it to the Canadian Government."
He opened his mouth to protest that calling a taxi wouldn't be necessary, but she held up her hand to forestall any arguments. "The Government owes you, Fraser. Considering that you saved the trade representative's life, it's a small enough recompense."
In the lobby, she held out her hand. "Good night, Constable. Thank you again. I'll see you in the morning."
He shook her small, cool hand, permitting himself a respectful smile. "Good night, ma'am."
In the taxi, bound for the slum neighborhood where he lived, he analyzed the time he had just spent with the Inspector. Tonight he'd found out something that he hadn't known before: despite the maddeningly superior way in which his superior officer often behaved, there was a chink in the wall she had built between them. Three days ago she had made plain her jealousy of Ms. Cortez, and tonight she'd agreed to spend time with him that was completely unrelated to business. Yes, there was a chink in that wall, and one day he would widen it to a window of opportunity and dive through....
One day.
Meg
When she'd told Fraser that she would drive herself home and drop him off on the way, he had looked so disappointed that despite her better judgment, she'd changed her mind. He was clearly operating under some nineteenth century idea of etiquette that decreed women must be escorted to their homes after a social evening.
Well, it had been an interesting evening, no question about that. In her bedroom, as she reached for the jar of vanishing cream to take off her makeup, Meg considered what she had learned about Fraser. The downside of being a Scorpio was that one's astringent personality tended to alienate people, but the upside was that one "knew" things without knowing how. And she knew, indisputably, that Fraser on some level wanted to win, if not her hand, at least her love.
And she knew something else: if she hadn't made that ridiculous blunder in Lieutenant Welsh's office three days ago, Fraser wouldn't have had the nerve to ask her out for coffee tonight. So...she now knew something about Fraser that she hadn't known before: if she gave the man an opening he would take it. She smiled inwardly as she contemplated the nature of the opening she would give him one day.
One day.
The End
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*Copyright November 1996 by Diana Read on all original story content. Dialogue quoted in the first six paragraphs of this story is from the Due South episode "The Edge." Not meant to infringe on copyrights held by Alliance Communications, or any other copyright holders for DUE SOUTH. Please do not reproduce for anything other than personal reading use without written consent of the author. Comments welcome at scribe@his.com.