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      	  Lovers and Madmen (and also Canadians) 
 by Icepixie  

 Author's Notes: A thousand thanks to my beta, Ellen!

 Story Notes: Spoilers for ATQH and RWB for dS; nothing for Cupid. 
. 
As you may have gathered by now, this is a crossover between due South and
Cupid, two shows set in Chicago which were on the air at basically the
same time in the mid-90s. While due South fans can probably get away
without prior knowledge of Cupid (although it never hurts), those who have
never seen dS should probably take a gander at the Wikipedia article, or
this will make little sense. 
. 
This fic is set roughly two months after "Red, White, or Blue," before
RayV leaves in the dSverse, and perhaps a similar amount of time after the
final episode of Cupid. (Yes, I realize that puts Cupid about a year ahead
of dS in real time. Shhhh. I won't tell if you won't.) 

 

 * Part 1 *

 It was a slow Thursday night at Taggarty's, and Trevor Hale was looking
for something to enliven the remaining hours of his shift. He got it when
he spied a man and a woman in identical red coats walk into the bar. With
them was also a dark-haired man in flashy clothing, but Trevor ignored him
in favor of the red-coated pair. As soon as they'd picked a table, he was
by their side.

 "The British are coming, the British are coming!" he called in mock
horror as he came toward them.

 The woman rolled her eyes. The man gave him a patient look. "Actually,
we're Canadian," he said. He looked hurriedly at the other man. "Well, Ray
isn't, but the Inspector and I are."

 Trevor raised an eyebrow. "'The Inspector'? What are you, James Bond?"

 "Sometimes he acts like it," the other man, "Ray," muttered darkly.

 Seeing the question growing in Trevor's eyes, the woman--the
Inspector--broke in. "Perhaps you could take our orders, and then we could
discuss this?" she asked, although it was less of a question or even a
suggestion than it was a command.

 Trevor straightened. "Yes, ma'am," he mocked, which only increased the
sour downward turn of her mouth. He took their orders--rather
incredulously in the case of the male Mountie, who ordered mineral
water--and scurried back behind the bar to fill them.

 The front door opened while he was pouring various drinks, and in walked
Claire Allen, Trevor's state-appointed psychiatrist. She did a double-take
at the red uniforms. Police officers weren't an entirely uncommon sight at
Taggarty's, but Mounties were decidedly rarer. Mounties as good-looking as
the man sitting by the window were even more so.

 Seeing Trevor headed for their table with three glasses balanced on a
tray, she had the perfect excuse to find herself in that general vicinity
as well. "Claire-bear!" he cried, catching sight of her, and also of her
conservative suit. "Aren't you looking schoolmarmish tonight. Was there a
PTA meeting I missed?"

 The Armani-clad man at the table stifled a laugh. The Mounties had no
reaction. Claire shrugged off Trevor's greeting in favor of saying, "Good
evening to you too, Trevor. Who are your friends?"

 He was placing their drinks in front of them. "Actually, we haven't been
introduced," he commented, "although I hear his name is Ray." His hands
now free, he chucked a thumb at Ray.

 Ray, who tried not to be a stranger to attractive women, held out a hand.
"Detective Ray Vecchio, Chicago PD, ma'am. And our fine Canadian friends
are Constable Benton Fraser and Inspector Margaret Thatcher of the
Canadian Consulate."

 Trevor peered at Thatcher. "Really? What, did Britain disown you and send
you to Canada?" She gave him an eloquent glare. *I have been putting up
with this for almost twenty years,* it said. *I know every variation on
that joke. I also know dozen different ways to break every bone in your
body.* Convinced that Trevor had gotten her message, she took a sip of her
drink.

 Claire took the remaining seat at the table--beside Ray, which he was
happy about, and across from Fraser, which she appreciated--and introduced
herself. "Dr. Claire Allen."

 "You write a column for the *Tribune*, don't you?" Fraser asked.

 Pleased to be recognized, Claire nodded. Before she could respond, Trevor
asked, "Problems with the love life, Big Red?"

 A light blush spread across Fraser's cheeks. Trevor marveled at how easy
that was, and made a mental note to try and provoke that reaction as often
as possible for as long as they stayed at the bar. "Ah, no," the Mountie
said uncomfortably. "I just happened to notice it when reading that
section of the paper."

 Ray happened to be looking at Thatcher when Trevor asked his question.
The sudden stiffening of her spine had alerted him to the fact that
something about the idea of "Fraser" and "love life" being in the same
sentence made her twitchy. *Yep,* he thought. *Something's going on
there.* Though he didn't really care for Thatcher, anything about which he
could torture Benny was worth its weight in gold.

 At that point, Trevor was called back to the bar by a thirsty customer.
He left Fraser asking Claire questions about her psychology practice,
Vecchio sneaking glances at her, and Meg pinching the bridge of her nose,
apparently developing a headache.

 It had been a rather headache-inducing day for all three of them. From
eight to five, with an hour for lunch, they had been in court, listening
to and giving testimony about Randall Bolt, now charged both with taking
over a train and setting it on a crash course with nuclear disaster *and*
with conspiring to blow up the justice building during his first trial,
not to mention assorted murder charges for the trail of dead henchmen he
had left behind him. Hence why she and Fraser were in their infernally
itchy dress uniforms. Meg's back ached from the hard wooden seat behind
the prosecution's table, and all she wanted to do after this drink was go
straight home and to bed. She hadn't originally planned to go on this
little outing, but after a dinner spent with the prosecuting attorney
going over tomorrow's arguments, Vecchio had suggested it, Fraser had
agreed, and then when he'd asked her if she wanted to come, the plain hope
in his eyes had subverted her objections, and she'd found herself saying
yes, she'd come for a few minutes.

 Those few minutes passed the hour mark, the three police officers staying
past the first drink and into a second. Trevor kept coming by their table
to tease Claire, attempt to get another rise out of Fraser, or to be
generally annoying and/or amusing, depending on one's sense of humor and
number of drinks ingested.

 Ray was getting the third of those drinks from Trevor at the bar when
Claire came up to tell Trevor she was leaving. "I'll see you at ten
o'clock tomorrow," she said, "Sharp, please. I have a lunch meeting with
the board of directors at the hospital tomorrow, and I need to be out by
eleven."

 Trevor acknowledged her a little too laconically for Claire's tastes, and
she crossed her arms and tapped her foot until he finally said, "Five till
ten, got it! Hey, maybe Jaclyn still has some chocolate kisses in that
bowl on her desk I can steal while you keep me waiting. Although you know,
they don't hold a candle to the real ones..." He puckered his lips
invitingly at Claire.

 Claire merely rolled her eyes heavenward and turned to leave the bar.

 The drinks and the conversation had taken an appreciable amount of Ray's
cares away, and now he nodded at Claire's retreating back. "You and
her...?"

 "Ha!" Trevor's laugh was just a bit forced. "Not us, my friend. She wants
me, of course. But she's my shrink. It 'wouldn't be appropriate.'" He made
air quotes around the phrase, then began to fill the glass.

 Ray rolled his eyes and nodded. "Where have I heard that before?" he
said.

 "I don't know. Where have you heard it before?" Trevor handed him the gin
and soda.

 Ray inclined his head toward the table where Fraser and Thatcher sat, not
talking. "The guy in the uniform. About her, of course."

 "Really." Trevor was all ears now. Ray should have, but sadly did not,
notice the almost predatory gleam in the bartender's eye.

 "Absolutely. But you *cannot* tell me nothing happened on that train."

 "Train?"

 "Yeah. It was the terrorist case that made all the headlines back in
March. There was a train full of unconscious Mounties, and--wait, why am I
telling you all this?" Ray gave Trevor his patented cop stare.

 "Because you know I'm here to help." Trevor was around the bar and headed
for the table almost before Ray had time to blink. Only now was he
realizing exactly what he had inspired. And he had a feeling he was going
to enjoy every minute of it.

 * * *

 Thatcher put her money on the table and stood up a few minutes after
Claire left, pleading exhaustion. Fraser, inevitably, asked to be allowed
to walk her to her car; inevitably, she refused, claiming she was
perfectly capable of making it the twenty-five feet to her vehicle by
herself. Fraser sat back down at the table, which left him, once Thatcher
had gone through the door, in the perfect position for Trevor to pounce.

 Untying his apron, he slid into Thatcher's vacated seat. "So," he said,
"I hear you have a problem which I might just be uniquely suited to
solve."

 Fraser, completely guileless, asked, "I do?" He mentally ran through a
list of areas in his life which could be improved. Perhaps this bartender
knew of a diet plan for wolves?

 "You and your Inspector. Tell me everything." Trevor put on his best
"listening intently" face. It looked a little like the way the junkies who
littered Fraser's neighborhood often looked at him on his walk home from
work.

 "What do you mean?" Fraser asked slowly, trying and failing to control
the redness spreading across his cheeks. He knew exactly what Trevor
meant, but hoped that protesting cluelessness would allow him to avoid
this conversation. "Oh, I don't know, maybe the way you couldn't stop
glancing at her every few seconds despite the particularly attractive
specimen of femininity sitting across from you wafting pheromones as hard
as she could? Not to mention offering to walk her to her car--who *does*
that anymore?"

 "He's Canadian," Ray butted in. An air of long-suffering pervaded his
words.

 Trevor barged on. "And trust me, the way she kept scooting her chair
closer to yours to 'get out of the way' of the exactly two people who
passed within ten feet of your table tonight was completely intentional.
So what's the problem? Guy like you, girl like her, obvious attraction on
both sides--you oughta be holed up in some igloo love shack by now."

 Fraser's face was a nice shade of tomato by that point. "Inspector
Thatcher is my commanding officer. To think of her as anything more would
be completely inappropriate."

 Ray gave Trevor a look. *What did I tell you?*

 "Come on!" Trevor cried. "It's *love*! Or at any rate it's some serious
attraction, and that's close enough. You think these things are bound by
rules of etiquette?"

 "It's not exactly etiquette--" Fraser tried to respond, but Trevor
steamrolled over him.

 "Romeo and Juliet, greatest love story ever told. You know why? They
weren't afraid to defy everyone so they could be together."

 "Romeo and Juliet also ended up dead at the end of the play," Fraser
muttered darkly.

 Trevor waved his objection away as if it were no more than a buzzing fly.
"All right, so they were teenagers; maybe they didn't make the best life
choices. But better a short life with the one you love then a long and
empty one, right?"

 Fraser was completely tongue-tied. His mouth moved, but no words came
out. Ray finally took pity on his friend. "Come on, Benny. We've got a
long day tomorrow. Let's get out of here."

 Fraser practically sent his chair flying across the floor with the speed
he stood up. "Good idea, Ray."

 Trevor, who did in fact have *some* compassion, restrained himself to one
parting remark. "Just remember what I said, *eh*?"

 Fraser blushed again, and Ray said, "Don't count on it, buddy." They left
the bar, Fraser at the fastest possible pace that could still be called a
walk.

 Trevor remained at the table, fiddling with his apron strings. He had a
thoughtful expression on his face, one that said, *This isn't over yet.*

 * Part 2 *

 At a busy streetcorner on her walk from the L station to her office,
Claire felt a distinctive tap on her shoulder. She turned around, knowing
exactly who it would be.

 Trevor pressed a styrofoam cup of coffee into her hand. She automatically
took a sip, knowing that it would be just the right temperature, and
exactly how she took it--one sugar, one cream. "Thank you, Trevor. What do
you want?" In her experience, while Trevor Hale could be thoughtful, kind,
even sweet on occasions, rarely was it without the hope of some kind of
favor.

 The light changed, and they crossed the street with the crowd. Trevor
didn't bother protesting her assumption. "What do you know about
Mounties?"

 Claire stopped walking. "Trevor, no," she said, as one might correct a
disobedient puppy.

 He gave her a saucy glance. Well, saucier than usual for him. "I see," he
said. "You don't want anyone else horning in on territory you'd like to
mark for yourself."

 "Trevor--"

 "If you'd leaned over any farther last night, let's just say that your
cleavage should apply for diplomatic immunity, because it was having
international relations."

 "Trevor, I'm not interested in Constable Fraser," Claire finally managed
to get out. She struck Trevor speechless, which was a rare pleasure she
tried to savor. "He's too..."

 Well, momentarily speechless. "Too what? Law-abiding? Polite? Canadian?"

 "He's too...perfect." Yes, that was the word. "There's not a single flaw.
I mean, it's great--it's wonderful--but all that perfection kind of makes
you feel inadequate." She shrugged. "I guess I just want someone I can
feel...comfortable with."

 They were at the door to her building, and she pulled it open with her
free hand. "I'll see you at ten, Trevor," she said.

 "Later, alligator," he replied.

 She rolled her eyes, but as the door shut behind her, he heard her call,
"After a while, crocodile." Trevor stood smiling at the closed door for a
long moment.

 * * *

 That afternoon, as he was bracing himself to dive into the small mountain
of paperwork in his inbox, Ray Vecchio received a visitor.

 "You know, for people who call themselves Chicago's finest, you could
really invest in some better digs, or at least some better coffee." Trevor
took a swig of the stationhouse swill and made a face. He poured the
remainder of the brew in the sickly potted plant Frannie Vecchio had given
her brother for his birthday before flipping the cup into Ray's trashcan.

 "What do you want?" Ray asked.

 "People keep asking me that. One day I'm going give someone the whole
list, starting with 'my own centaur.'"

 "Do you have a point, or do you need to be escorted outta here by a
couple of very big guys in uniform who are thoroughly trained in the use
of force?"

 Trevor dropped into the folding chair beside Ray's desk. "Your Mountie
friend. I need to know how to get into his head, figure out what the
resistance is about hooking up with the good inspector."

 For the moment, Ray kept his opinions on the goodness of Inspector
Thatcher to himself. "Why do you even care? You've met the guy once.
What's in this for you?"

 "One more couple matched up is one more bead closer to home, my friend."

 Ray stared at him.

 "Beads? Home? Mount Olympus? Any of this ringing a bell?" Ray shook his
head. "Claire didn't tell you?" Ray shook his head again. "Wow. Usually
she loves to tell everyone within broadcast range about my 'delusion.'"

 Ray, feeling more and more as if he were dealing with a crazy person,
said, "You have thirty more seconds before I kick you out of here, Mr.
Hale."

 "Cupid, actually."

 Ray raised an eyebrow.

 "You know, Eros, god of love? I got kicked off Mount Olympus because
apparently I was off my game. I match up a hundred couples without the
magic bow and arrow, they let me come home, and trust me, that *cannot*
come soon enough."

 Ray was silent for a moment. Then, in one quick, fluid movement, he stood
up and clutched Trevor's collar, dragging the shorter man up with him.
"Out!" He began to frogmarch Trevor towards the exit.

 "Oh, come on, I'm one of the nice gods!" Trevor cried as he tried to
squirm out of Ray's iron grip, attracting stares from the rest of the
detectives in the room. "You should meet my father. God of war, kill you
as soon as look at you. Or Gramps--he'd strike you down with a thunderbolt
just because his morning ambrosia was a little sour and you're the closest
thing at hand!"

 Ray pushed Trevor into the hallway. "And stay out!" The slam of the door
rang against the walls.

 * Part 3 *

 Several days later, early on Wednesday afternoon, Fraser was called, or
rather bellowed, down to the first floor of the consulate by his
inspector, whom he found with her head and most of her body deep in a
storage closet. "Ma'am?" he inquired.

 There was a crash, and then a muttered curse, and finally Meg pulled her
head from the closet. "Fraser, there you are," she said, handing him a
flashlight. "See if you can find the extra stack of file folders we had.
Turnbull has squirreled them away in here somewhere, but I'll be damned if
I can find them. And of course, he would be at lunch just now, so I can't
ask him." She sounded quite peeved at that fact.

 "Of course, ma'am." Fraser walked into the closet and began hunting
methodically through the shelves of accumulated office supplies, holiday
decorations, beaver hats, cooking utensils, moose antlers, Canadian flags,
and yet more diverse objects, attempting to find the file folders.

 When he paused to lift up an old computer monitor, Thatcher stepped into
the closet with him, her chest brushing his back, and grabbed it, saying,
"Here, let me hold that while you look behind--"

 Abruptly, the door slammed shut.

 Coincidentally, the flashlight, which had been on its last legs anyway,
chose that very moment to die, leaving them in utter darkness.

 Intentionally, the door, as it always did, locked upon being closed.

 Fraser quickly became aware of *exactly* how small the closet was. He and
Inspector Thatcher could not both inhabit it without touching, a fact
which was brought into sharp relief when her hand brushed his thigh as she
reached instinctively for the door handle.

 He was blind in the darkness, which forced his other senses, always
preternaturally sharp, to become even keener. Her exquisite natural
scent--hers alone, because of course she loathed perfumes--haunted the air
like the smell of citrus in an orange grove. He could hear her quick,
tense breaths, and feel the way her chest expanded with them, brushing
against his back with each inhalation.

 More importantly, he could also hear her sigh of frustration, which he
knew from experience would quickly turn into an order sharp enough to
rival a ginsu knife. He forestalled the command by turning around and
reaching for the door. "Let me just...ah..." He patted his pockets,
wondering what he could use to pick the lock with. He was wearing his
brown uniform today, so there was no collar with a piece of wire in it
handy.

 "Here." She pressed something small and thin into his hand. His fingers
closed around it reflexively, and he realized it was a hairpin. *That*
brought up a memory he was still having no luck suppressing, and a faint
tremor ran down his back. The last time he'd handled one of these pins
was...well, best to concentrate on picking the lock.

 Which was a bit hard to do with her literally breathing down his neck. As
he fumbled with pins and tumblers, his thoughts returned to the forbidden
territory of his inspector's scent. He wondered if she would taste as
sweet as she smelled...

 While his thoughts were otherwise occupied, he dropped the pin.

 They both heard the piece of metal clatter against the floor, and both
automatically knelt to find it. The closet was definitely not designed for
this; their heads knocked against each other with a *crack*. "Ow!" they
both exclaimed, and then again as their knuckles slammed together; each
had also raised a hand to rub the smacked skull.

 "If you'll allow me, ma'am," Fraser said, beginning to pat the floor
around them. The pin surely couldn't have gone far. Thatcher sat
patiently, unwilling to risk any more bruises by trying to help.

 Ben finally felt the pin under his fingers, and with it safely in his
fist, he stood once more. He offered a hand to help Thatcher up; realizing
she couldn't see it, he brushed her shoulder and quickly trailed his
fingers down her arm until he found her hand. She grabbed on and allowed
him to pull her upright. He couldn't restrain the unseen smile that broke
across his face when she held onto his hand for a moment longer than was
strictly necessary.

 But there was work to be done, and he couldn't allow himself to be
distracted again. He set to picking the lock with renewed vigor, and
within a minute, it unlocked with a slight *click*. They both stumbled
into the hall, blinking at the light. Naturally, it was at that very
moment that Turnbull came back from lunch.

 Meg was the first to notice the constable's astonished gaze. "Constable
Turnbull," she said. "Fraser and I were just...ah..."

 Turnbull nodded. "Say no more," he said. "It's always a good idea to keep
one's skills at escaping confinement fresh. One never knows when a
kidnapping may occur. I understand completely."

 Fraser sent up a brief thank-you to whoever or whatever had made Turnbull
so very...Turnbull.

 "Ah...yes," Thatcher said. Turnbull wandered off, and she sighed
gratefully. Once he was out of earshot, she turned her attention back to
what had just happened. "How do you suppose the door shut?" she asked
Fraser.

 He glanced around them, as if an explanation would magically appear
before them. "Perhaps a sudden draft, or--"

 Dief interrupted them. He had been lingering in the hall during their
conversation, and in the middle of Fraser's speculations, he jumped and
threw his weight against the open closet door. In the thick silence that
hung in the hallway, he sat and looked expectantly at Fraser, who just
then noticed that there was a film of sugar glaze covering the wolf's
nose.

 Thatcher's mouth had first dropped open in shock, but she quickly
schooled the expression into a sour glare. "Constable," she addressed
Fraser, "I don't know what you mean by this--"

 "Honestly, ma'am, I--"

 "--but I trust you will ensure it does not happen again." 

 "Yes, sir." If he stood any straighter, his spine would snap in two. He
was very carefully not meeting her gaze, so much so that he didn't see the
way she avoided his as well. Nor did he see the faint flush that covered
her cheeks, twin to the one on his own. While he was still studying the
ceiling, she turned and quickly escaped back up the stairs, file folders
forgotten.

 Fraser turned his gaze to Dief, who was still waiting expectantly for a
reward. "No more hotdogs for a month," he said.

 Dief slumped to the floor and sighed.

 * * *

 Trevor walked through the gates of a little park not far from the
consulate, licking doughnut glaze off his fingers. The weather was warm,
and the consulate windows had been open. His ear had been planted at the
screen nearest the supply closet. The results of this first attempt at
making a match weren't ideal, of course, but he was far from giving up.
The Canadians would obviously just require some more thinking.

 He sat at a concrete table that had a checkerboard painted on it. A short
while later, an man in his sixties wearing a beaver hat joined him and
shook twenty-four carved wooden checker pieces onto the table from a
deerskin bag. "Red or black?" he asked.

 "Red," Trevor replied, and they began setting the pieces on the board.

 Several moves into the game, the other man asked, "How did it go?"

 "Not as well as I thought it would," Trevor said, watching glumly as his
opponent jumped three of his pieces.

 "Well, perseverance is always the key in these situations," the older man
said sagely, echoing Trevor's own thoughts. "Your move."

 * Part 4 *

 It was five minutes to four on the following Monday when Trevor walked up
to Fraser, who was standing sentry outside the consulate.

 "Okay, I've been thinking about your problem, and I've got a solution for
you."

 Fraser continued to stand perfectly still, staring straight ahead.

 "Yoo-hoo. Anybody home?" Trevor waved a hand in front of Fraser's eyes.
Nothing. He gave the Mountie's head a gentle thump through the Stetson.
Still nothing. Quite intrigued now, Trevor peered behind him, and down at
his boots, and under his hat, trying to find something which indicated he
was a man and not a statue. He did not succeed. "You know, you really
wouldn't look out of place outside Granddad's temple on Olympus," he
commented.

 He waved his hand in front of Fraser's face once more, just in case.
Fraser didn't flinch. "Man, I have *gotta* try that on Claire sometime. I
could guard her potted plant or something."

 Trevor rocked back on his heels, content for the moment to talk to
someone who couldn't talk back. "Anyway, I was thinking, you know, as you
do when you're pretending to listen to your shrink, and I figured it out.
You and your inspector have a communication problem, a *big* one. You're
speaking different languages here. But because I'm just that nice of a
god, I'm going to be your medium, your conduit, the copper to your
electricity. Give me five minutes with her, and she'll be speaking your
language like a mother tongue." With a wide grin, Trevor turned and headed
for the entrance to the consulate.

 The clock struck four, and, like a coiled spring that had been released,
Fraser shot after him, placing a restraining hand on his shoulder. "Mr.
Hale," he said, "it would be inadvisable for you to speak of this to the
Inspector--"

 "If you won't talk to her, then how do you ever expect--"

 "It would make--"

 "Constable Fraser!" Both men paused and looked up at the owner of the
shocked voice. "Are you *preventing* someone from entering Canada?"

 It was Constable Turnbull, who had caught sight of them through the open
door and who was now standing completely aghast.

 Fraser briefly considered telling Turnbull that Trevor was wanted for
serious crimes in the States, and that to let him into the consulate would
give him asylum he certainly did not deserve. He didn't have time, though,
because Trevor, as he was wont to do, started talking again.

 "*Yes*, he's barring me from entering your fair nation!" Trevor shouted.
"Which, I might add, I always thought was bigger and colder than this, but
if a closet worked for Narnia, then I guess I can believe you've got a
whole country stashed in this--"

 "*What* is going on here?"

 Even Trevor shut up at the cut of that icy voice. Like a Fury contained
in a gray business suit, Margaret Thatcher stood at the top of the stairs,
regarding all three of them with a cold eye.

 "All of you, in my office, now," she said, and turned her back on them,
striding out of sight across the landing. Furiously.

 Fraser gulped. "Oh, dear."

 * * *

 The three men filed silently into her office. Fraser was the only one who
wasn't actively cringing. Even Trevor was faintly terrified at the
prospect of the wrath they were about to face.

 Meg was already seated behind her desk when they shuffled in. For a
moment, she just stared at them, and they were all soon squirming like
worms on the proverbial hook. "I trust one of you can provide an
explanation for why the Canadian consulate has suddenly been turned into a
children's playground."

 Heavy, dead, sweaty silence.

 "Constable?" she asked, looking at Fraser.

 Fraser reached to tug at his collar, then remembered that he was standing
at attention and quickly put his hand back at his side. "Ah, well, you
see, sir, there's a simple explanation for, ah..."

 He was almost grateful when Trevor interrupted him. "Yes, it's very
simple--we can help each other. I get one bead closer to home, and you and
him finally get into each other's pants. It's win-win."

 Meg's expression, if that were possible, turned even colder. "And what
makes you think that Constable Fraser and I are at all interested
in...'each other's pants'?"

 Trevor might have mentioned the tell-tale glance she shot at the trousers
in question when saying that, but wisely chose not to in the interests of
prolonging his life long enough to return to immortality. Instead, he
said, "What matters is that I can help you if you'll just let me, instead
of keeping up this stubborn denial of your desires. Hey, I know some
people get off on that, and believe me, I'm all for kink, but this kind of
kink isn't what gets me a bead!"

 The room was very quiet for a moment. Cars passed outside. A clock
ticked. No one breathed.

 Meg pursed her lips. "Constable Fraser, Turnbull, you're dismissed."

 Practically before the words had left her mouth, the two men were at the
door, scrabbling at the doorknob. Trevor had started to follow them, but
halted when a firm, "*Not* you, Mr. Hale," rang through the room.

 Like roaches caught in the light, Fraser and Turnbull escaped through the
door, shutting it firmly behind them. Both breathed large sighs of relief
once they were in the hall.

 Several minutes later, Trevor came out of Thatcher's office, looking
furtive and cowed. He shut the door quietly behind him and turned to face
Fraser and Turnbull, who were trying to loiter nonchalantly outside the
office and not doing a very good job of it.

 Trevor looked at Fraser and shook his head. "You have guts, I'll give you
that," he said. Just before he disappeared down the stairs, he was able to
hear Fraser murmured another, "Oh, dear."

 * * *

 Fraser spent much of the next three days avoiding both Thatcher and
Turnbull. Thatcher, for obvious reasons, kept away from him as well, for
which he was grateful. Turnbull, on the other hand, was intensely curious
about what little he had understood of the conversation in Thatcher's
office, and questioned both of them incessantly. She'd put him on sentry
duty for an indefinite period before he'd even finished the first, "Is it
true that you and Constable Fraser are--?" but even Turnbull had to eat at
some point, and then the questions came back.

 So it was with great relief that Fraser entered his office on the fourth
morning to find a handwritten note from Inspector Thatcher on his desk,
ordering him to go out into the city and find some really good tea--"not
that brown water the Americans call 'tea'"--for the British ambassador's
visit the following day. He set out immediately.

 He hadn't gotten far--in fact, only just a few streets away--when he
heard a voice call, "Constable Fraser! I need to talk to you!"

 Fraser wondered how on earth Trevor could have found him here, cutting
through a small park that wasn't even on most maps, on the way to his
favorite international goods store. Maybe the man *was* omniscient.

 "Mr. Hale! There is nothing more to talk about!"

 His father suddenly popped into thin air beside him, wearing a furry coat
and hat that were entirely inappropriate for the summer weather. It didn't
seem to bother him. "You should listen to the man, son," he said.

 "Dad, now is not the best time for a chat," Fraser said, exasperation
clearly apparent in his voice, just as Trevor exclaimed, "Come on! Even
your father agrees with me!"

 Ben stared at Trevor. "You can see him? He's dead."

 Trevor shrugged. "I'm a god, remember? Of course I can see him."

 The words "follie a deux" came unbidden to Ben's mind.

 "Benton, I've been listening to his arguments, and really, the man has a
point. You're not getting any younger, and I want grandchildren," his
father said.

 "Come on, how can you argue with that?" Trevor cried.

 "She is very attractive," the elder Fraser mused. "Might need some more
meat on her bones to survive in the north. Unless you plan on staying down
here?"

 Fraser cringed. "I'm not talking to either of you." He started to walk
away.

 "What do you think about Tuktoyuktuk for the wedding?" his father asked.

 Ben threw up his hands. "Not! Talking!" he shouted back.

 Trevor and Bob Fraser watched Ben's retreating back. Bob shook his head.
"He always was stubborn," he said.

 Trevor sighed. "You're telling me."

 * Part 5 *

 A week went by, and then another. No one at the Canadian consulate, nor
at the twenty-seventh district station house, saw hide nor hair of Trevor
Hale. Claire saw him, of course, but that was expected. He was remarkably
subdued during their sessions, and she had the feeling he was distracted
by something.

 This was worrisome.

 She tried to draw it out of him, but got nowhere. Trevor when he was
being secretive made mules look agreeable. She wondered whom she should be
warning.

 At the regular Tuesday night singles group meeting, just after she had
wrapped up the session, Trevor raced to the front and told all the men to
stay after for a few minutes. He ignored Claire's raised eyebrow, so she
had to resort to asking, "What is this about, Trevor?" One could never be
too cautious about these things.

 "Guy stuff. Cars, beer, armpit farts. Jockstraps."

 Claire winced and held up a hand. "I want to see you at the bar in ten
minutes or less," she said.

 Trevor looked interested. "Will that be with or without my clothes?"
Claire rolled her eyes and decided not to dignify the remark with an
answer. She and the women wandered slowly out of the coffee house, Claire
continually tossing backwards glances at the men they were leaving behind.

 Trevor had gathered them into a huddled group, and was...miming a hat?
Really, she didn't want to know. She ducked out of the door and caught up
with the crowd heading to Taggarty's.

 * * *

 Later that night, Claire pulled Trevor aside, dragging him to a seat
beside her. "Just for the record, if whatever it is you're planning lands
you in jail, I am not bailing you out again."

 "Who says I'm planning anything?" Trevor asked, all innocence.

 Claire looked at him.

 "Okay, who says I'm planning anything illegal?"

 Claire raised one perfectly-formed eyebrow.

 "All right, if I do happen to be contemplating an action that falls into
a gray area between misdemeanor and performance art, then at least it's in
service of something far more noble than the Illinois criminal code."

 "And that would be?" She actually looked interested in his answer,
although she had a pretty good idea of what it was going to be.

 "Getting two people to look beyond obligations to their country and see
that they owe themselves some happiness as well."

 Claire nodded; she had expected nothing less from her patient. But then
her expression became shuttered, and she glanced down at the table. "But
Trevor, sometimes your duty requires you give up something that might make
you happy. Sometimes you can't have both."

 He stood his ground. "Trust me, there's nothing official preventing them
from being together; it's only their own stubbornness. I checked. I can
point you to relevant paragraph numbers if you like..."

 Claire shook her head. "You know, if you put this kind of research and
thought into other things, you could really get somewhere."

 "Only place I want to get is back home," he assured her. "Now, there is
one thing about this plan that you could..."

 She held up her hand. "Stop right there. When they haul you away to
prison, I don't want to be brought up on charges of aiding and abetting
you."

 He mimed zipping his lips.

 "But I do hope it works out for them," she went on to say.

 Trevor looked shocked. "You *do*? Miss Rules and Regulations actually
wants to see two people defy years of ingrained behavioral conditioning to
grab the brass ring of happily ever after?"

 "I do have eyes, Trevor," she said, rolling them. "I saw exactly what you
saw when they were here. Well, maybe not exactly. But enough."

 "What eyes hath love put in my head,'" he quoted softly, looking at her
while trying to appear as if he weren't, a small smile perched upon his
lips.

 Claire couldn't decide between a sarcastic remark or an answering smile.
Instead, she began to gather her purse and jacket.

 "Going so soon?" Trevor asked, all snark once again. "What, your shoes
turn into pumpkins at..." he made a show of checking his watch,
"nine-thirty?"

 She returned his serve. "Oh, you know, tomorrow's a big day; a successful
practice to run, boards of directors to impress..."

 "Heads to shrink down to pins," Trevor finished for her. "Have fun,
Goldilocks."

 She rolled her eyes. "Good night, Trevor."

 * Part 6 *

 With a squeal and a shudder, the L train pulled into the station and
stopped, the many carriage doors hissing open and disgorging a few
late-night passengers. Benton Fraser helped an elderly lady down the step
to the station floor, then got onto the nearly-empty train himself.

 He saw a head of dark hair from the corner of his eye and turned to face
it as the person it belonged to stepped onto the train. To his great
surprise, he found Meg Thatcher, appearing just as surprised to find him
there.

 "Fraser," she said, sounding almost pleased, "what...is that?" Her voice
dropped noticeably into the low, accusatory register he had come to know
so well as she looked to the far end of the carriage.

 Dreading what he might find, Fraser looked behind him. In the last two
rows of seats, he saw seven...Mounties?

 Well, no. They weren't Mounties. The men were wearing assorted red coats,
and a Stetson perched on each head, but that was where the similarity
ended.

 Interestingly enough, all seven appeared to be...asleep. Some were
snoring loudly; others had made pillows of their hands or their seatmates'
shoulders. Fraser was certain they were all pretending, particularly when
he heard the tall black man in front mutter, "You're drooling on my arm,"
to his seatmate.

 Thatcher was still expecting an answer. He wished he could give her one.
"I have no idea, sir," Fraser said, helplessly. "But I'm guessing Ray
didn't really leave me a note asking me to meet him on the 9:55 train."

 "And Ovitz probably never actually penciled it into my datebook," Meg
agreed.

 Something clinked against his boot. Fraser looked down and saw an empty
bottle that he could tell from the shape had once contained beer, even
though the label had been washed off. It now contained a rolled-up piece
of paper. He reached down and picked it up.

 "What is it?" Thatcher asked. Fraser reached two fingers into the
bottle's opening and snagged the paper between them. He pulled it out and,
after setting the bottle down in the nearby seat, unrolled it, holding it
so that they could both read.

 The paper was a map of the L routes that could be found at any station in
the city. However, on this one, someone had circled the Jackson/State stop
with black marker and written, "You are here." Further down the Red Line,
the Garfield stop had also been circled, and underneath was written, "You
are headed here." Something vaguely mushroom-shaped was drawn above the
words.

 "What does that mean?" Thatcher asked. "Are we supposed to get off
there?"

 Fraser was beginning to have a very bad feeling about this. "Sir," he
began, "I'm not sure if you're aware of this, but at the Garfield stop one
can connect to a bus going to the University of Chicago."

 "Actually, I did know that, but what does it have to do with our
situation?"

 "In September 1942, a group of scientists at the university who were
involved with the Manhattan Project isolated and measured a trace quantity
of plutonium, which of course was one of the steps along the way to the
development of the atomic bomb."

 Meg was eyeing the "Mounties" with new recognition. "The nuclear
catastrophe," she said. "That just leaves the terrorists."

 "And the explosives," Fraser pointed out. At that, one of the Mounties
snorted and rolled something toward them. Thatcher picked this one up. It
was a metal can--by the smell of it, it had once held spaghetti
sauce--that was covered in red paper, to which were attached yellow
construction-paper letters spelling out "dynamite." A "fuse" of string
dangled from one end.

 "Ah."

 The loudspeaker crackled to life. A voice that was entirely, *unwantedly*
familiar to them both began to speak, "Attention all passengers, but
mainly the Mounties: terrorists from the Association for Getting Laid have
just taken over the train. But they're nice, friendly terrorists, so you
can take your time getting up here to subdue them. Take half an hour, take
to the end of the line...just remember that this country does have public
indecency laws, more's the pity."

 "I'm going to kill him," Meg said, sounding both calm and deadly. Fuming,
she strode to the front of the car. Fraser followed close behind, ready to
offer her any assistance she might need in accomplishing her task--as much
because everything "Cupid" had done seemed to have caused her so much
distress as because it was embarrassing to him as well.

 She grabbed the handle of the door leading out of the car and gave it a
vicious downward twist.

 It remained resolutely in place.

 Jiggling the handle didn't help. Attempting to glare it open didn't
either. It was well and truly locked, and they were trapped, at least
until the next station, when the platform doors would open. Meg turned and
sagged against the door, closing her eyes and sighing, attempting to mask
a sound that might have been a moan.

 Fraser was very concerned now. "Sir?" he asked cautiously.

 She opened one eye and started to glare at him, then seemed to think
better of it. Instead, she stared glumly at her feet. "I've tried so hard
to forget what happened between us, but I can't seem to make myself do it.
This...this isn't helping."

 His heart skipped a beat, then began to pound a tattoo against his ribs.
It had never crossed his mind that she could have the same trouble putting
their kiss out of her mind as he did. The memory of it still flooded his
senses unexpectedly in so many places--in bed, while he tried to fall
asleep; while writing a report; while talking to Ray or tying his shoes or
any other random situation. "Do you...want to forget?"

 She pressed her lips together so hard they disappeared. Finally, she
shook her head. "That's the worst part," she said, so softly he could
barely hear her. "I don't ever want to forget."

 His heart leaping like a caged bird, he daringly took a step closer to
her, putting them toe to toe. "Then perhaps we should stop trying so hard
to do just that."

 Her head shot up, and he saw that her eyes were wide, her mouth a perfect
"o" of surprise. "You mean we should...?"

 Ben put his firm belief that actions spoke louder than words into motion
and leaned in to kiss her.

 She wasn't shy about responding, and soon the stale, too-warm air of the
subway car was replaced in his mind by the crispness of a winter day;
instead of buzzing fluorescent lights, there was a bright sun smiling down
on them. The only things that remained the same were the rocking of the
train and the glorious feeling of his inspector in his arms.

 When eventually they had to part (having missed the next stop entirely),
they found seven decidedly awake "Mounties" whistling, winking, and giving
them thumbs-up from the rear of the car. Both real Mounties turned a color
that would have matched their uniform coats, had they been wearing them.

 Meg couldn't resist kissing Ben's flushed cheek, marvelling that the
impulse was for once one she didn't have to hide. "I think we can let
our...colleagues...deal with the terrorists this time, don't you?"

 "With the...oh, of course," he said. "I'm sure they'll do a commendable
job."

 The train had been slowing, and as he spoke, it came to a stop. The doors
squealed open, and, hand-in-hand, they walked out into the night.

 * * *

 "And that was how it happened, huh?" Claire asked, looking skeptical.

 "Would I lie to you?" Trevor responded, looking wounded. Claire merely
raised her eyebrow. "Look for yourself, then." He indicated a table in a
dim corner of the Taggarty's.

 Sure enough, two dark-haired figures were nestled in the booth, their
hands deliberately brushing against each other's whenever one picked up
his or her drink. Claire could tell that large, goofy smiles graced both
of their faces.

 "All right, you win," she conceded.

 Trevor puffed with pride. "Yep. Definitely got a bead for that one."

 They passed a few minutes in small talk before being approached by the
couple in question. "Mr. Hale," Fraser said. "We owe you a debt of
gratitude." By the way he gently squeezed Thatcher's hand, there was no
question of what for.

 "All part of the service," Trevor replied. "Now, if you're looking for
tips on how to--"

 "In fact," Thatcher interrupted, "knowing your...predicament, we thought
you'd appreciate the opportunity to hone your skills. A commission, you
might say."

 "A commission?" Trevor was starting to get an uneasy feeling about this.

 "I think that's your next subject now," Thatcher said, and sure enough,
the door opened, admitting street noise and two figures, one of whom was
Ray Vecchio. The other was a short woman who was very definitely his
sister

 They were talking--well, arguing, really--as they walked. The woman was
saying, "And for the last time, I don't need a...hi." She had caught sight
of Trevor, and apparently whatever she didn't need was long forgotten.
"You must be Trevor. I'm Frannie." She preened briefly, smoothing
nonexistent wrinkles in her miniskirt, which only served to draw attention
to exactly how short it was. Trevor gave Claire a panicked look.

 Fraser leaned down to murmur in Trevor's ear. "If I may make a
suggestion, I think Miss Vecchio and Constable Turnbull would make an
excellent match." Before Trevor could respond, Thatcher had dragged him
away and out of the bar.

 "Claire?" Trevor squeaked.

 She patted him on the shoulder, smiling none too sympathetically. "This
one's all yours," she said, and made a hasty exit herself. Ray had long
ago made tracks to the bar.

 Frannie wasted no time in occupying Claire's vacated seat. "I hear you're
the god of love," she said, batting her eyelashes. "What's it like on
Mount Olympics?"

 Trevor quickly drained the rest of his drink.

 20

  
  

End Lovers and Madmen (and also Canadians) by Icepixie 

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