Dead *Again*???


by Chastity, chastity_daze@hotmail.com

Warnings: Character death, angst

Pairings: Fraser/Thatcher

Spoilers: Minor for both Dead Men Don't Throw Rice and All the Queen's Horses.

Rated: PG

I don't know, maybe it's just me, but after re-watching 'Dead Men Don't Throw Rice' I can't help feeling that it's just a liiiiiiittle bit weird how Fraser seems never to appraise Thatcher, his commanding officer, of his activities. I mean, watching the funeral scene, it struck me that this would be the second time Fraser had 'come back from the dead' without a word of explanation to Meg - the first being, of course, in 'All the Queen's Horses' after he's fallen off the train. So this is my attempt at getting inside Meg's head and seeing how she feels about this...

All the rest of the required stuff, as well as some notes I feel are necessary, will follow the story.

***

It's raining again, Fraser, or rather still. Hasn't stopped since... well, it hasn't stopped for well over a week. I don't remember having seen this much rain for a very long time, if ever - perhaps not even when I was posted in B.C. In Victoria, it rains a lot... Oh, I'm sorry, Ben, I didn't mean to bring her up, even indirectly. Let's just forget I said anything and get back to the weather. That's always a safe topic for Canadians.

Well, yes, it's been a week. It doesn't feel like so short a time. It feels as if it's been much, much longer. I suppose that's because I haven't been able to go back to the Consulate yet; I've been staying at home, so my days have been stretching out, yet I don't seem to be able to do anything constructive. Although I dread to think what I might find when I head back to the Consulate after leaving it in Turnbull's care for a week or more, I can't manage to force myself into it. My life has become rather apathetic lately. I just don't care anymore.

Not that many people would think these circumstances any different than those I used to operate under. I know what both Rays used to call me; Vecchio the "Dragon Lady", Kowalski the "Ice Queen". Vecchio thought I breathed fire, while Kowalski thought I was made of ice. I can't really say either was entirely wrong. I know I hide my feelings far too much; I've always been too scared to reveal them, too uncertain of myself and of the others I think I know to let the truth out. Icy, indeed. And when I do let any feelings show, it's usually to snap out at someone for a minor mistake, expending in anger the emotion I've bottled up from everything else. Quite the fire-breather, aren't I. But that's something I'm trying to change. It's hard, fixing the patterns of an entire lifetime; but after the consequences of not revealing my feelings this time, I can't afford not to any more.

This is the third time, isn't it, Fraser? The third time you've been dead, without any explanation. But this time, you're not coming back, are you? Not going to appear out of thin air and tell me that the fact you aren't dead 'isn't important'. Not going to pop up from out of your coffin and scare *me* half to death.

Hmm... that wasn't supposed to be funny, yet it was. I think that's the first time I've fainted since well before I started training at Depot. I certainly gave the detective a piece of my mind for just letting me fall, spectacle though it must have been for him. I had a bruise on the back of my head and a splitting headache for a week - although I suppose I shouldn't be complaining to you, now should I.

You know, this whole situation doesn't seem real, especially since I've been through this twice before. Exposure has dulled my reactions. The first time, on the train, I was absolutely livid with you! I'd thought I killed you, knocking the man you were fighting off the train only to have you pulled down with him! I couldn't believe I'd been so stupid. I did grieve for you then, Fraser, and not at all briefly. I didn't understand in the least what might have been starting between us when we were handcuffed together. Then when I thought you were dead, I couldn't comprehend what I might have lost. And when you appeared - well, I did what I'd done best. I balled up all those conflicts roiling inside me and lashed out, covering the truth of what I was feeling. You never explained to me how you managed to survive that, not even after our... contact. And that hurt. Why didn't you ever tell me? Did you truly think it unimportant? Did you think I wouldn't care? You were wrong.

I had all but forced myself to forget those feelings - until the next time you turned up dead, when they all came rushing back. That time, though, I wouldn't let myself believe you were really dead until I saw your body. I told myself that you were Benton Fraser, that there was no way you could be dead. But when I did see your body, it sent me into a state of shock. Numb. I couldn't feel anything but disbelief. And then, thank God, you woke up! I felt then - relief, then more shock - then, of course, I fainted. And when I awoke, I was embarrassed - and you and the detective were nowhere to be seen! Well. I headed back to the Consulate, burning with all the emotions I felt, to simmer for a good half-hour. When you finally walked in, I was steaming, yet after I'd heard your explanation - convoluted, but it qualified - I couldn't manage to chew you out. Yet what kept you from telling me your plans in that case? Time limits? All it would have taken was a phone call from you or from someone at the Precinct. Simple forgetfulness? Perhaps with others, but with you? I don't think you've forgotten a thing in your life - except perhaps one or two 10989-b reports. It simply didn't seem to occur to you that I'd want to know - at least, that's how I see it.

And now, once again, I'm the last person to know. I'm the last person anyone thought to tell. *Turnbull* heard before I did - dammit, I heard it *from* Turnbull! Again, I didn't believe it until I saw your body. Even then I had my doubts, but the autopsy report finally set those to rest. And then we laid you to rest. I made sure you were buried with the fullest honors possible, and here in Chicago. I hope I wasn't wrong to fight the force, who wanted you buried at home in Canada; but I know that your life was here so much more than there. It seemed more fitting.

I miss you, Ben. It's too late now, but I wanted to apologize for the way I've treated you. I never knew how to treat someone I loved, like I loved you. That's the only excuse I have, and even it isn't enough. But I hope I can apologize sometime, in the future.

~~~

Meg rose from where she had been kneeling on the wet earth, brushing dirt from her knees absently. She leaned down to trace the letters on Ben's tombstone with her finger; it was a simple memorial, with his name, rank, and dates of birth and death, and the single other line of text emblazoned on it nearly hidden in the earth. She placed a small bouquet of fresh-cut daisies on the grave and walked out of the grounds, her head held high. Behind her, the daisies waved gently in a wind and a disembodied voice spoke the half-concealed words: "I miss you..."

Meg turned around.

The colour drained from her face until she was as white as the tundra. Her mouth opened, then closed wordlessly; her legs gave out on her, and she dropped to her knees on the muddy ground. "Fray... Fraser?" she stuttered finally, looking at the tombstone, then back to the man in front of her, then back to the tombstone again.

"Hello, Inspector," Fraser's ghost said.

Meg's eyes rolled back in her head and she slumped backwards, unconscious.

"Oh dear," said Fraser, twisting his Stetson in his hands. Fraser Sr. appeared beside his son, looking down on the prostrate Inspector.

"Well, what are you waiting for, son?" he asked. "Wake her up and reassure her that you *are* dead!"

Directing a bright blue glare at his father, Fraser knelt down beside Meg; his knees made no dent in the rivulets of mud, nor did his uniform pants get dirty (death being the ultimate answer to Scotch-guarding). "Inspector?" he said, trying to slap her cheek gently, only to have his hand pass right through it. "Oh my," he said. "Inspector," he called again, then louder, "Margaret!"

She stirred and opened her eyes. They focussed immediately on Fraser and she sat up quickly. "Constable!" she said. "I thought you were..." she gestured at the tombstone, "dead. You *are* dead!"

"Well, yes, I am," he replied.

"Oh, that's good," she said without thinking, then did a quick double-take. "I mean... hold on. You're dead?" Fraser nodded in confirmation. Confused, Meg reacted in the way she was most used to; she snapped into 'command mode'. "An explanation would be appreciated, Constable," she said sharply, then drew back from the sound of her own voice. "Wait... um," she hesitated, remembering what she'd just finished saying at the grave of the man who was kneeling next to her. "Why... why can I see you?"

Visions filled her head. 'Maybe I'm dead too. Maybe I drank too much of Turnbull's coffee and it finally killed me. Maybe Fraser is just here to hand in that 10989-b report and make sure that his files are in order before I send them to Ottawa.'

"Well, sir," Fraser said, scratching at his forehead with the back of his thumb, "it's rather a complicated story, and you might wish to," he gestured at the mud, "go somewhere more comfortable."

"Oh, smooth move, son," said Fraser Sr., "how come you couldn't say something like that while you were alive? Ruined any chance I have for grandkids, you did."

"You can't have grandchildren anyway; you're dead!" Fraser hissed, turning away from Meg.

"You say that as if it were a bad thing, son. Don't forget that I'm not the only dead one here," Fraser Sr. replied tartly.

By this time Meg, ignorant of the ghostly exchange, had taken stock of her surroundings. "Yes," she agreed, "perhaps my apartment would be a better place to talk." She stood up shakily, exposing a large smear of mud down the back of her rain slicker. Gesturing towards the cemetery gates, she said, "My car is out there... do you need a ride?"

"Ah... yes," Fraser said. Although he could materialise in Meg's apartment just by concentrating on her location, he thought it best not to frighten her any more than necessary. As they walked together towards the car, however, he was wondering how he was going to manage getting into the car without her seeing him sliding *through* the door...

That dilemma was solved when she stripped her muddy slicker off and popped the trunk to put it in. He quickly moved into the passenger seat and was waiting for her when she got in.

The drive to her apartment was silent, Fraser trying to think of a good explanation when he himself hadn't been completely sure that Meg would be able to see him, and Meg trying not to let the fact that she was sitting next to a self-admitted dead man affect her driving. They made it all the way into her apartment without another word. Meg closed the door, dropped her purse on the side table, kicked her shoes in the general direction of the closet, and sat down on her sofa.

"OK," she said, drawing a deep breath, "talk."

Fraser sat down in the armchair across from her, leaning forward with his arms on his knees. "It seems to be a family trait - the ability to appear after death, I mean, Inspector."

Meg narrowed her eyes. "Do you mean you used to see dead people?" 'No wonder he used to talk to himself...;' Another thought occurred to her. "How come I can see you now, but I couldn't see... the other people you could talk to?"

"It was my father who used to appear to me, and apparently only family members could see him - Constable Maggie MacKenzie, for example, was able to see him when she was here. However, he was also able to appear to Buck Frobisher, although it took a conscious effort. He usually appeared to me when I was thinking about him - reading his case files or the like - although he had an annoying habit of turning up exactly when I *didn't* want him to. He kept an office in my closet at the new Consulate."

"What on earth did a dead man do with an office?" Meg asked, curious.

"Taxes, he said, sir," Fraser answered.

"Look, Fraser," Meg said, "Technically, you're no longer under my command - please, don't call me 'sir' anymore."

"Of course, si - ah, Margaret," Fraser said nervously.

"Oh, come on, son, you're dead, what do you think she's going to do to you?" Fraser Sr. was suddenly sitting on the couch beside Meg.

Exasperated, Fraser snapped, "Go *away*!"

"What?" Meg said.

"No, not you... my father has decided to put in an appearance," Fraser explained.

Meg blinked. Two dead Frasers in her apartment? This was a bit much. "Would you ask him to, um..." She made shooing motions with her hands.

"I have asked him," Fraser said in annoyance, "He just doesn't seem willing to listen."

"Well!" Fraser Sr. huffed, "I know when I'm not wanted!" He disappeared.

"He's gone," Fraser said, relieved.

"Good," Meg said. "It's a little unsettling not to be able to see the people in the room with me." Pausing, she thought over what Fraser had told her so far. "You said that your father appeared to you when you thought about him?" Fraser nodded. "Is that... why you were at the cemetery? Because I was thinking about you?" Another silent nod. She gulped. "Did you hear everything I said?" she asked worriedly. It wasn't that she hadn't meant what she'd said, only that she hadn't actually expected it to be heard.

"Yes," Fraser confirmed, "everything." He hesitated. "I'm sorry, M-Margaret, that I've hurt you so much. I never meant you to think that your feelings meant nothing to me, for they did - they do, or I wouldn't be here now. I think that, underneath the tough exterior you project, you are a very sweet person, and I think that anyone who knows you could tell you that. I'm sorry that you feel guilty over how you treated me, for I never gave it a second thought." He wavered for a moment, then said quickly, "And... Meg... I'm very sorry that I never told you I loved you... while I was alive."

***

The next morning, the sun was peeking out from behind the cloud cover for the first time in over a week. Turnbull was pleased to see Inspector Thatcher walk into the Consulate at seven a.m. as if she had never been gone. She took the time to greet him nicely, leaving him staring slack-jawed after her, and walked into her office. She slipped her shoes off under her desk and shrugged out of her coat, carrying it to her closet. She looked around furtively, then opened the door and slipped inside.

"How are you doing, Ben?" she asked.

"Your closet makes a wonderful home base, Meg," he replied from behind an oakwood desk. "I was thinking about having my parents over for dinner tonight, in fact."

"Do you still eat?" Meg asked, confused.

"Well, no, but I thought it would be a nice touch," Fraser admitted.

"Well," Meg smiled, "while I have you here where I can keep an eye on you... I believe you have a few overdue 10989-b reports you could work on?"

***

Well, as I said, this story was originally going to be a look at how Meg felt about Ben's two 'deaths'. I never had a third one in mind until I actually started the thing. I'm not sure exactly what I wanted to, or managed to, evoke - but I like the results. I hope you do too. I was originally going to end it before Ben's ghost even entered the picture, but got urged for a sequel.

Disclaimer: Alliance's. Not mine. Not dead, although it was fun while it lasted.

Thanks: Thanks to KL for being the first to read this - even though it *was* one in the morning when it was finished.... Thanks also to the RSY list for feedback and sequel requests. :)

Any questions, feedback, archival requests? chastity_daze@hotmail.com Please do remember that this is my first attempt at any kind of character death, at angst, and at an interior monologue. Constructive criticism is very welcome, while flames will be used to make a campfire on which I shall proceed to cook spaghetti.
P.S. This story has appeared in part on my personal website, which I ran under the nickname of Meg Fraser. Therefore, you may have already read part of this story under another name. Please rest assured that it has *not* been plagarised. :) TYK!

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