They aren't mine, I'm under no delusion that they are. Yadda yadda yadda.
The story's mine, though I'm not terribly attached to it so give me credit
and do with it what you will. If you like the story (or hate it) feel free
to tell me so at Ffand@hotmail.com  

Just in case your wondering the story happens after All the Queens Horses
but before Burning Down the House  

Forgiven 

 Bang! Ovits screamed. Turnbull blubbered. Fraser let out a sigh of
relief. Thatcher lowered the gun. 

 The consulate phone rang, Fraser glanced at his commanding officer to see
what she wanted him to do. She was gazing at the body on the floor,
watching the blood pool out. She had a lost-frightened expression on her
face, like a animal caught in a trap. "Sir?" He asked softly. She didn't
respond, he took a step towards her, she didn't look hurt but that didn't
necessarily mean anything. "Sir?" he asked again, louder. 

 The inspector snapped out of her trance suddenly. The gun dropped to the
floor. Her eyes were clear and her voice was steady. "Answer the phone,
Fraser!" She snapped. He watched her carefully as he picked up the
receiver. Something was different about her, but he wasn't sure what it
was. She was authoritative, composed, businesslike, but there was
something, ever so subtly, different. 

 "Hello, Canadian Consulate." Fraser said as he picked up the phone, his
eyes always on Thatcher. She turned to Ovits and Turnbull, cowering in the
corner. She opened her mouth to yell at the two idiots, but decided that
it wasn't worth her energies. 

 "Benny," Ray's voice sounded very relieved, almost happy. "Is everything
all right? We heard a gun go off."  

 "Yes Ray, we are all fine, the terrorist has been incapacitated." He
watched her walk over to the body on the floor. She kneeled down to check
his pulse, she was kneeling in a puddle of blood, Fraser had to wonder if
she knew that. 

 "He's dead." Thatcher said. Her voice was crisp and clear, but it still
sounded like she was speaking from a world away. 

 "Oh dear," Fraser said softly, but not softly enough, both Thatcher and
Ray heard it.  

 Meg looked at him defensively, "I had to, Constable." she said angrily. 

 "Oh dear?" Ray asked, "Oh dear what, Benny? Oh dear there are more
terrorists? I've got guys going in, is that going to be a problem? Should
I call them back!?" 

 "No, Ray, he's dead." Fraser was still looking into Thatcher's eyes,
trying to find what was different about them. He had a feeling that she
was looking into his eyes and trying to find something. If he could figure
out what she wanted he would have given it to her, but as always she was
too proud to ask.   

 Two days later Constable Benton Fraser walked into the 27th precinct and
instead of making a bee line for Ray Vecchio's desk, as he usually did, he
went over to talk to Jack Hewy. 

 "Detective Hewy." He said nervously, "I need to ask a favor of you. Now I
realize that this is bending procedure, and I admit that it could very
well be illegal, in which case I retract my request immediately. It is
also possible that this request violates the privacy of a person, a person
whom I hold in the highest regards, so if you feel that my request steeps
over the bounds of property, again I will retract it." 

 "Fraser," Jack interrupted. "What do you want?" 

 "Inspector Thatcher's statements from the incident at the consulate two
days ago." 

 "No problem." Jack said casually. He wasn't sure that it was totally
legal, however it wasn't like the case was open, and Fraser was the kind
of person who could be trusted. "It got filed with the rest of the
reports. Elaine should know where it is." 

 "Thank you kindly." Fraser said. By this time Ray had entered the Squad
room and was just a little curious about why his best friend was buzzing
around the precinct without him. He had no right to be annoyed by that
fact, and he knew it. So he tried not to sound too annoyed when he walked
up to the Mountie and said "Hey Benny," 

 "Ah, Ray, Good morning." 

 "Yes, isn't it." Ray smiled, a little too big. 

 "Is there something wrong, Ray?" 

 "No, no, no, why would you say that?" 

 "Oh, it's just you seem to be acting . . ." 

 "Yes?" 

 "Did I upset you some how?" 

 "Do I look upset? Am I acting upset?" 

 "Well, technically, no, but you do seem to be . . . putting on a good
front, as it were. Which would insinuate you were upset about something,
and for some reason, decided it would be best to appear as though you
weren't upset." 

 Ray shook his head in bewilderment. "You got me Benny, what are you doing
here?" 

 "You're upset because I'm here, Ray?" 

 "No, I'm upset because you didn't have the courtesy of calling me and
telling me you planed to stop by. Add to this, when you got here you
didn't think it was necessary to come and  

say hi to your good buddy, instead you go over to Hewy and talk about . .
. what did you talk about?" 

 "I just requested some information, which reminds me.." He walked away
from the detective and toward's the Civilian Aid's desk. Ray followed
grudgingly. "Elaine?" 

 A huge smile blossomed across the young woman's face. "Hey Fraser, can I
do something for you?" 

 "As a matter of fact Elaine you can, I would like to see Inspector
Thatcher's statement from the incident at the consulate the other day." 

 "Yha, sure." She looked just a little disappointed. "The file should be
on my desk somewhere, the statement will be in the file." 

 "Elaine!" Welsh called from across the squad room. 

 "Gotta go, boys," Elaine said with a sigh as she jogged across the room
and into the lieutenant's office.  

 "Thank you kindly," he called after her. Within five minutes Fraser had
found the file as well as organized Elaine's desk and sorted the files
still there by chronology. "Hum," Fraser said as he read over the
statement. 

 "Is something wrong?" Ray asked. 

 "No, It's just that the statement is not as . . . enlightening as I had
hoped it would be." 

 "How enlightening is that?" 

 "I was hoping it would give me insight regarding the inspector's mind set
during the incident, and specifically after she fired the gun." 

 "And it didn't." 

 "No it didn't." 

 "Why do you care?" 

 Benny shook his head, "She did save my life Ray. Had she not shot him, he
would have shot me." 

 "So, you want to know why she didn't let you die, considering she hates
you so much and all?" 

 "That's not funny, Ray." 

 "Could you please explain why you need the Dragon Lady's state of mind
after she shot someone, enlightened?" 

 "I don't know." 

 "Ah, I see." Ray's voice was horribly patronizing. 

 "I do have a reason." 

 "You just don't know what that reason is?" 

 "No, I just don't know how to explain the reason." 

 "Give it a try," Ray said, he meant to be encouraging, but Fraser gave
him a look that said you really don't care "Come on, Fraser, I'm trying to
help." 

 The Mountie took a deep breath, licked his lips, and leaned forward, "the
inspector worked late last night." 

 "Big deal, I bet that being held hostage by an insane political protestor
creates all sorts of fun paper work." 

 "I'm sure that it does, however, she could do it in the relative safety
of her apartment and she could pass some of it on to me, or to Ovits or
even Turnbull." 

 "So she doesn't like to work at home and she doesn't want to risk one of
you yutzes screwing up the paper work. I see nothing wrong with that." 

 "She came in early yesterday, and today as well. Add to this she works
through her lunch breaks." 

 "Again red tape. Not a big surprise." 

 "She doesn't order out lunch." 

 "So she's on a diet, Franny and Marie are always on a diet. Then Ma cooks
this health food for them that makes me gag." 

 "She does seem to be drinking a lot of coffee, however, eight cups a
day." 

 "She likes coffee." 

 "She usually has one cup in the morning." 

 "So what? This is not cause for concern." 

 "She yelled at Diefenbaker." 

 "She doesn't like the wolf. You knew this." 

 "She's not herself," The Mountie insisted.  

 "That may be, Benny, but is it worth investigation?" 

 "Possibly not, but . . ." 

 "But?" 

 "I'm concerned."  

 Meg was extremely on edge. She knew it. It was throwing the whole
consulate off kilter. They had finally taken the blood stained carpet out,
and despite Fraser's comments to the contrary, there was no longer the
smell of gunpowder in the hall. There were no physical signs to remind her
of what happened. Everything should have been better, she should have been
able to move on. Why couldn't she just move on?  

 Turnbull was avoiding her like the plague and every time she passed him
in the hallway she thought she heard him whimper in fear. Normally she
would have been amused, but she didn't want to be feared. At least not
after what had happened. Ovits was being over accommodating, trying not to
make her mad, which infuriated her. It was a cruel circle, she would get
mad at him, he would try to please her, so she would get even madder at
him, and then he would work twice as hard to please her. She had finally
just decided to avoid him, in the same way Turnbull had been avoiding her.
It was the only plan of actions she could conceive that would not end in
her shooting him as well. Fraser was the only one who had the courtesy to
pretend that she was not acting abnormally. But nevertheless she could
feel him watching her, trying to figure out just why she was so on edge.
The worst part of that is she wanted to tell him. 

 She wanted to talk to someone. Someone who wouldn't judge her, someone
who could understand what had happened. She knew Fraser had been in that
kind of position before, having to make a quick life or death decision. He
would understand the pressure, but at the same time she knew he wouldn't
have made the same choice. He would have come out of it with everyone
alive and well. She couldn't talk to him about it, he might be able to
understand, but he wouldn't be able to console her, only tell her how to
do it right the next time. Not for the first time Meg felt totally alone. 

 There was a gentle rapping her door. "What is it?" She asked, with a
little more venom than she meant too. 

 "Sir?" Fraser said as he popped his head into her office. "I was
wondering about your plans for tonight." 

 "Tonight?" If Fraser had finally gathered the courage to ask her out he
had chosen the most horrible time. 

 "The Russian Ballet, and the following reception?" 

 "That!" She said, realization washing over her face. "That's tonight?"
She was so overwhelmed with the fact that she had forgotten a Diplomatic
soiree (the best part of her job) that she didn't notice Fraser's look of
concern. 

 "Yes Ma'am." 

 "The Russian Ballet . . ." She said nervously. That was exactly what she
needed. To get away from everything, to lose herself in the music and the
movement. Maybe by the time she found herself her problems would have
found a perspective. "I need to get dressed," she said, glancing at her
business suit that was hardly acceptable for such an event. "Will you
drive me home, Constable?" 

 "Of course." 

 "And I'll need your services all night." 

 "Understood." That seemed to please him, which made her just a little bit
uncomfortable. But there was no one else she could ask. She would have to
ignore him and his concerned glances, she would have to do what she'd been
doing the last two days. Staying focused, concentrating on the details.
Not letting her mind wander.  

 "How do I look?" Meg asked as Fraser helped her out of the car. 

 "Wonderful." 

 She looked at him skeptically, she could see in her little compact the
bags under her eyes that the makeup couldn't quite cover. She knew that
she was pale, and her eyes were bloodshot. But Fraser didn't retract his
comment, he even managed to give her a rueful smile. His assurances gave
her the strength she needed to go into the building filled with people and
keep a stiff upper lip, as it were. "Thank you, Fraser," she said tartly.
"The Ballet ends at nine thirty, and after that is the reception, I should
be done around midnight." 

 "I'll be here." The constable assured her. 

 "You don't have to be." 

 "Nevertheless sir, I will remain." 

 Thank you, "Suit yourself, Constable." She turned around and quickly
walked away, before his soft eyes could bore holes of guilt into her. 

 Benny watched the inspector walk up the stairs and into the theater.
Satisfied that she was safely in the theater, he locked up the car and
started searching for a pay phone. Ray had invited him over for dinner
over a week ago, and Fraser had excepted. However, considering the given
circumstances he had thought it better to keep an eye on the inspector,
Ray would understand. The only problem was that he hadn't had a chance to
call the Vecchio's and cancel. He felt just awful about it, knowing Ma
Vecchio she was in a panic, and he was sure that Franny was not helping
her mother calm down. Ray probably was playing it cool, but the fact that
his friend was two hours late would eat him up on the inside. That was the
horrible thing about being so dependable, the few times that circumstances
inhibited you from being dependable people automatically assumed the
worse. 

 He found a phone in a Coffee Bar right next to the Theater. He ordered a
cup of bark tea, to be polite, and sipped on it as he waited patiently for
the Vecchio's to quit arguing about who would answer the phone and finally
answer it. 

 Franny must have lost the argument, "Yha, what do you want?" She said
testily. 

 "Francesca?" Benny said politely. "This is . . ." 

 "Fraser!" She recognized his voice, and hers became much more chipper. "I
thought . . . I thought you were going to come to dinner." 

 "Ah, yes." He had wanted to explain to Ray why he had gone back on his
word, but Franny deserved an explanation too, "I had some unforseen duties
at the consulate that held me back. I'm sorry that I didn't call earlier,
but I was unable to reach a phone. Could I talk to Ray please?" 

 "Yeah, sure," she said dismissively. "He told me that a terrorist took
the consulate hostage on Monday." 

 Benny had no idea why that was relevant, or why she wanted to talk about
it. "I'm not sure that I would call him a terrorist." 

 "Well, what would you call him?" 

 "The word psychopath springs to mind." 

 "So were you scared?" 

 "Well, there were some tense moments." 

 "I know exactly what you mean. When I was held hostage by those bank
robbers I was so nervus I could barely talk." 

 "Francesca, I think you might be exaggerating." 

 "I heard that the guy had a gun on you." 

 "Well, yes he did." 

 "I bet your heart was pounding." 

 "I'll admit I was nervous." 

 "Did you disarm him in one fell swoop?" 

 "No, actually I didn't disarm him at all." 

 "That's right, he was shot, wasn't he. Did you shoot him, like in an old
western, a stand off." 

 "No, Inspector Thatcher shot him." 

 "The Dragon Lady." The disbelief was apparent in her voice. "She shot
him?" 

 "Yes she did."  

 "Where did she get a gun? I thought you Canadians couldn't have guns." 

 "Well, we can't, except for when we're in Canada." 

 "But you weren't in Canada." 

 "Yes, we were." 

 "No," Franny laughed. "The consulate is in Chicago." 

 "It may, technically be in Chicago, but it is Canada." 

 "Whatever," Franny scoffed. "So, Thatcher killed the guy, huh?" 

 "She saved my life," Benny said soberly. 

 "Well, I guess she's good for something." 

 "Could I please talk to Ray?"	

 The Ballet had been beautiful, or at least the five minutes that she had
seen. Unfortunately she discovered that trying to get lost in a
distraction didn't work. She couldn't keep her mind off of what had
happened. Every time she heard the timpani bang she heard a gun fire, and
the memory was triggered. She had wanted to leave after the first act, but
had made herself sit through it. She needed to relax. However, the
performance had only made her more tense. By the time the performance was
over Meg could feel herself shaking. She took a deep breath and all but
ran to the bathroom. She felt like she was going to be sick, but she knew
full well that she didn't have anything in her stomach. She had long ago
lost her appetite. 

 She was already splashing her face with water when other women started to
flood into the room. Everyone seemed to agree that the ballet was
wonderful with the exception of the ballerina who played the nurse-maid's
daughter, she was too fat for the part. Meg hadn't even noticed that there
was a nurse-maid, not to mention a nurse-maid's daughter. She wiped he
face off, and glanced in the mirror. She still looked tired and nerve
racked. She tried to smile, thinking that it might improve her appearance.
It didn't. With a sigh she walked into the sitting room to reapply her
makeup. 

 "Meg Thatcher?" A familiar voice said. Meg turned around to see one of
the women she knew from the International Commerce Association.  

 "June," Meg said smiling. "It's so nice to see you." 

 "Yes, it's been what, a month?" 

 "At least. Wasn't it at the Swahili Cultural night over at the Drake?" 

 "Yes," Meg said, smiling ever so slightly as she remembered the night.
"The Ambassador from Nigeria had a few too many drinks and started singing
show tunes." 

 "I thought I would die laughing!" 

 The two women chuckled, This is good, Meg though, to relax, to talk to
people, to not have to think too hard. 

 "Do you know Sue?" June asked, indicating another woman who had been
hovering around the conversation. "She works for the ICA up in Milwaukee."


 "No, I don't think I've had the pleasure." 

 "Oh, well Meg, this is Susanna Hoffter, Sue this is . . ." 

 "Margaret Thatcher, I know." Sue said as she reached out to shake hands.
"I read the papers." 

 "The papers?" Meg said nervously. 

 "Oh, yes, what you did made news, even up in Wisconsin." Sue laughed. 

 "What I did?" Meg prayed they were talking about her work with uplinking
all banks with current Canadian/American exchange rates via the Internet. 


 "It must have been terrifying, being held hostage in your own consulate."
June said putting her arm on Meg's shoulder. 

 Meg could feel herself start to tremble again, she clasped her hands
behind her back and hoped the two other women didn't notice it. "It was a
very tense situation." 

 "But at least it wasn't the first time that sort of thing happened to
you." Sue pointed out. "There was the affair with the train." 

 Meg smiled and nodded. Unbidden the memory of what Fraser had told her on
the train came back to her. She had asked him, "You think I could be that
cold-hearted?" And he had answered, "Well, forgive me, Ma'am, but I would
have thought you more than up to the challenge." Fraser had more or less
retracted the comment, and she had tried to forget it. But in light of
what had happened she wondered if he was right, if she had been "more than
up to the challenge." 

 "Is that why you didn't hesitate to shoot?" June asked, pulling Meg back
into the present. 

 "What?" 

 "Because of that affair with the train, you knew that you couldn't give
into those people." 

 She saw Fraser standing there, looking the terrorist in the eyes totally
unafraid to die. "The affair on the train definitely influenced my course
of action."  

 "How did it feel?" 

 "What?" Meg's heart rate doubled she was having trouble breathing, she
was sure that Sue and June could see her trembling. 

 "Knowing you saved the day." 

 "Saved the day?" 

 "It must have been wonderful, being the hero and all." 

 "Hero? I killed a man." 

 "Simply thrilling." Sue said, smiling like a fool. 

 "I . . . I have to go." Meg stuttered. 

 "Aren't you going to go to the reception?" June asked, "You will be the
talk of the party." 

 That was the last thing she wanted. "No, I'm afraid I have to much work
to do." 

 "Work, it's to late to work." 

 "You would be surprised how much paper work such an incident creates." 

 "Meg, you could put it off." June said good naturedly. 

 "No, I'm afraid that I can't stay." She said hastily as she shoved her
makeup into her little hand bag. "It was a pleasure to meet you." She
said, offering Sue a false smile. 

 "Same here," Sue said kindly. 

 After Meg took her hasty exit, Sue turned to her friend. "She's very
jittery isn't she?" 

 "Well, you know Canadians." 

 "Oh, yes,"  

 "Fraser!" Meg called into the night. She had found her car, but she
couldn't find her Constable. She wasn't surprised, she had left two hours
early. She knew that Fraser would not wait with the car. Knowing him he
was probably helping some old lady across the street or climbing up a tree
to save a kitten. She didn't want to begrudge the city of Chicago a
dedicated civil servant. Not that Fraser was supposed to be Chicago's
civil servant. He was supposed to be serving Canada, and her. But where
was he when she needed him? She had never been good at sharing. In
kindergarten she had been sent to the principle once for not sharing with
an insolent young man. It was the only time in her academic career that
she had needed to be reprimanded. Now she was grown up, sharing a person
with an entire city of needy people shouldn't have been that hard. Of
course if she was going to examine her selfishness concerning Fraser she
should remind herself that he worked under her. She didn't own him, she
didn't even employ him. She had no rights to his time or his life . . . or
his affections. 

 Suddenly a cold gust of wind came off the lake. It cut through her cote
and stabbed her flesh like a million little pins. "Fraser!" She called
again.	

 "Yes sir?" A soft voice said from behind her. Meg was so startled that
she almost screamed. 

 "Don't do that!" 

 "Do what?" 

 "Sneak up behind me!" She was trembling again, she told herself it was
because of the cold. 

 "I'm sorry sir. I didn't mean . . ." 

 "Never mind!" She said, drawing her cote more tightly around her. "Drive
me home." 

 "But the reception?" 

 "Take me home, Constable!" 

 "Yes sir." He sounded so sympathetic, and when he opened the door for her
he looked so worried. It was all Meg could do to keep from bursting into
tears. She just wanted to get home and get some sleep, but deep down she
knew that that wouldn't happen. 

 Fraser didn't say a word on the drive home. He didn't politely ask about
the ballet, or inquire why she had decided to go home early. She wanted
him to talk, so she could have something to listen to as she stared out
the window. The only catch was she didn't want to talk, she didn't trust
the integrity of her voice. 

 "Do you want me to pick you up in the morning, Sir?" Fraser asked as he
pulled up to her apartment building. 

 "That won't be necessary, Constable." 

 "It's no trouble?" 

 "I said no, Fraser." 

 "Understood. Shall I walk you to your door?" 

 "I can walk twenty paces alone," she said defensively as she got out of
the car. Under her breath she muttered, "If I can kill a man I should be
able to make it to my front door." She was sure Fraser couldn't hear her,
she was wrong. 

 "Goodnight, Sir." His concern had transferred from his expressions to his
voice, Meg was not at all happy about this. 

 "Goodnight, Fraser," she said once she was safely inside her apartment
and watching him drive away.   

 Meg exited her office. Ovits had been completely incomprehensible,
muttering something about Constable Turnbull and a gun. She had asked him
to clarify, but that didn't help. When, out of pure frustration, she
entered the receiving area her heart stopped. Some insane man had a gun to
Turnbull's head. He had pulled the constable off of guard duty. He wanted
Meg to call the Canadian government and demand the release of Tom Marllow,
a convicted arsonist who had set fire to over twenty churches in the
grater Toronto area. Meg called the Canadian government, and they in turn
called the Chicago P.D., who quickly surrounded the building. She could
hear the sirens and the choppers. Ray Vecchio had called, to make sure
that everything was alright there. He pretended it was a casual call,
checking up on the Consulate and his friends when the kidnapper got the
phone but once it was handed over to Meg his tone was very different. 

 "Inspector?" he asked. 

 "Yes, Detective." 

 "Is this line secure?" 

 Meg looked at the terrorist. He was watching her, but he wasn't on
another extension, and he hadn't turned on the speaker phone. "Yes."  

 "The place is surrounded. We got three swat teams out here as well as a
hostage negotiator, but we aren't going to move until we know what it's
like in there." 

 "We're all fine." 

 "We being?" 

 "Ovits, Turnbull, and myself." 

 "Fraser's not around?" 

 "I thought he was with you." 

 "I'll try and find him. In the mean time, stay cool." 

 "Stay cool?" 

 "We're working on the situation, as soon as we have a plan I'll let you
know." 

 "Thank you Detective." The line went dead, she hung up the phone slowly.
They were just going to have to sit tight and wait. And were was Fraser?
He had a tendency to maneuver such situations, to make everything come out
all right. 

 "What did he say?" 

 "He said that if you give up now, before anyone is hurt, it will go
easier for you." 

 "I want Tom Marllow out!" 

 "Why?" 

 "He was a great man, he had vision." 

 "He burned down churches." 

 "He purified religion." 

 "You're both nuts." Meg muttered under her breath. She didn't want him to
get mad at her, he had a 22 caliber rifle aimed, more or less, at her, but
on the other hand she wasn't the type of person to keep her opinions to
herself. 

 "We'll just wait for a while. They'll come around." He said looking
tentatively out the window. As he was looking out the window Meg noticed
something moving in the hall. She recognized the movement immediately as
Benton Fraser sneaking up on the situation. For the briefest second they
made eye contact. Meg instantly understood what Fraser was planing to do
and what she had to do. 

 "Once you free Marllow, what are you going to do?" She demanded, trying
to get the terrorist's attention. 

 "We're going to Rome." He said wistfully, he was still looking out the
window.  

 "Rome . . ."Meg tried to think of what to say to get his attention.
"Italy is beautiful in early spring." 

 The terrorist turned away from the window with a look of disgust on his
face. "I'm not going to go to the Italian country side. We're going to the
Vatican." Fraser was coming closer, he would be in the room within
seconds, she only had to hold his attention for a little longer. 

 "What will you do there?" 

 The terrorist gave her a devious smile. "You see, organized religion has
taken people away from God! The Catholic church has become the god for
most people. Their missionaries have taken peoples natural religion away.
Tom Marllow was freeing them, I want to be part of that!" 

 Fraser was in the door now, Ovits and Turnbull could see him. That proved
to be their downfall. Turnbull practically screamed, "Constable Fraser,
thank God!" Which of course gave Fraser's position away. Meg jumped at the
terrorist in hopes of distracting him that much longer. He kicked her away
without a second thought and quickly turned to Fraser. There was a
scuffle, nothing long enough to be called a fight. An RCMP issue
Smith-and-Weston slid across the floor, Without thinking Meg reached out
and grabbed it. There was too much confusion to shoot. She pushed herself
to her feet and waited, maybe she wouldn't need to use it, maybe Fraser
would win. She wasn't that lucky, the dust settled and Fraser was looking
up two rifle barrels.  

 "You don't want to do this," Fraser said. "The place is surrounded by
police officers. As soon as they hear that rifle go off they will come
charging in here. They will not hesitate to shoot you. But there is
something you should keep in mind on the off chance you survive, the city
of Chicago will not hesitate to exact punishment in like manor." 

 "Then I see God that much sooner." The man took aim . . . 

 Meg woke up with a start. "Nightmare," she muttered. "It was only a
nightmare." But it wasn't. It was real.  

 She glanced at the clock. It was four thirty, a.m. She had been asleep
twenty minutes, at best. She didn't even contemplate going back to sleep.
She would only have the nightmare again. She decided to take a shower,
wash off the cold sweat, and go to work. 

  

 Fraser got to the Consulate early, around six, so that he could get some
paper work done before he went on sentry duty at seven. He was slightly
worried to discover the Consulate open when he got there, but Diefenbaker
didn't seem to be concerned, so he assumed that Turnbull had just
forgotten to lock the door. *It wouldn't be the first time*, he mused.
However when he entered the Consulate he found all the lights on as well
as a pot of coffee already made. Fraser knew what it meant but he hoped he
was wrong. Slowly he walked through the Consulate, past Ovits' and
Turnbull's desks, which were both empty. He walked up to Thatcher's office
and tapped lightly on the door. 

 "What?" 

 "Inspector?" Fraser didn't open the door. He had a feeling that she
didn't want to be interrupted. 

 "Fraser, what do you want?" 

 "Do you need anything, Sir?" 

 "No." 

 "Are you certain, Sir?" 

 "Yes." 

 "Then should I . . ." 

 "Get to work?" 

 "Yes Sir, get to work." 

 "Yes." 

 Benny started to walk away but paused before he took two steps. "If you
do need anything, you will tell me?" 

 "Of course, Constable." 

 "Very good, Sir." Benny nodded, even though she couldn't see him, and
walked away. 

 He did his paper work and stood on duty. Around noon Ray stopped by. "You
up for lunch, Benny?" He asked the frozen Mountie. "I thought we could go
to that new Deli over on Warren, Hewy said that it was pretty good. There
supposed to have this phenomenal pastrami." Ray glanced at his watch, to
see just how much longer he would have to wait for his friends response.
"Are you up for it?" 

 The chimes tolled. 

 "Yes, Ray that sounds good." Benny responded. "I just need to check on
something inside, I'll be right back." 

 Fraser took the stairs two at a time and brushed past Turnbull and Ovits
who both had something urgent to tell him. He didn't stop until he reached
Inspector Thatcher's office. Again the door was closed, and he didn't want
to intrude by opening it. Instead he knocked lightly on the door.
"Inspector?" 

 "What do you want, Constable?" 

 "I'm going to lunch, Sir." 

 "That's fine. Leave." 

 "I was wondering if you wanted me to get you anything?" 

 "No." 

 "It would be no trouble, Sir." 

 "I'm not hungry." 

 "Perhaps by the time I get back . . ." 

 "Are you questioning my judgement, Constable?" 

 "No, sir, of course not." 

 "Then leave. Have lunch with your friend. Go save some helpless widow or
orphan, just make sure that the Thompson Immigration report is on my desk
by three." 

 "Of course, Sir." Fraser said sadly. In her office Meg could hear how
disappointed he was. She wondered if his disappointment sprang from the
fact that he knew she hadn't really eaten anything for over three days.
Knowing that he knew bothered her more than the fact itself. He was one of
the few people in her life who's opinions mattered to her. She cared about
how he thought of her, stupid as it was, and every time he looked at her
with concerned eyes it seemed to her like he was telling her she was week.
She couldn't be weak, not in front of him.  

 "Will you give this report to the Inspector?" Fraser asked Ovits twenty
minutes before three. 

 "I would really rather not." The inspector's assistant said without
looking up. 

 "Constable Fraser!" The over exited voice of Turnbull said. The young man
seemed to be in a near panic. "There are people at the front desk who
claim to be Canadian and have lost their . . ." 

 With extreme patience Fraser turned to his 'aid' "I'll assist you in a
moment." He returned his attention's to Ovits. "I really must insist
because, it is your job to do so," 

 "Have you seen her today?" Ovits asked accusingly. 

 "No, our only conversations have been through the door." 

 "Consider yourself lucky. She's in a murderous rage!" 

 "I heard that!" said the unmistakable voice of Margaret Thatcher. All
three men looked up at her nervously. She was even paler than she had been
last night, and her entire appearance projected a feeling of weariness,
even though she seemed to be totally put together. Fraser was reminded of
a Cariboo that had died on a mountain side when he was thirteen. "You
would do well to keep you comments to yourself." 

 "Of course, Sir." Ovits didn't look like a person in fear of losing his
job, rather like a person in fear of losing his life. 

 Meg then turned her anger towards Fraser. "What are you doing,
Constable?" 

 "Delivering my report Ma'am." 

 "Oh," her expression didn't soften, she was just as mad at him for having
a legitimate excuse as she would have been if he hadn't. "Well, I'll take
those." She took a step forward, and collapsed. 

 For a second the three men didn't know what to do. It had happened so
naturally, so gracefully that they almost wondered if she had meant to
fall. After a second it occurred to them all that this was not at all
intentional, or healthy. 

 "She's dead!" Turnbull practically screamed.  

 "She's not dead!" Fraser said hastily as he knelt down to examine her.
Her skin was clammy and her breathing was shallow. "Ovits I need a damp
cloth, Tunbull stop blithering." 

 "Yes, Sir." They both said excepting Fraser's authority without question.


 Gently Fraser picked up his commanding officer, and was surprised by how
light she was. "I'm going to lie her down on the couch in her office. Get
the door Turnbull." 

 "Yes Sir, should I call an ambulance?" 

 "No need, she's just tired."  

 Meg opened her eyes too the see the crisp wight ceiling of the office.
She could feel the pleasant coolness of a damp cloth on her forehead and
hear Fraser holding a one sided conversation in the background. She lay
still and listened to his deep voice. "What do you mean I should add salt?
. . . They make chicken broth for a living. . . . Fine, they make food for
a living. . . . It's a moot point, I have no salt. . . . She hasn't eaten
for quite some time. . . . That could account for her fainting spell. . .
. I'll keep my suspicions to myself, thank you very much." 

 Fainting spell? She couldn't remember what had happened that would lead
up to her lying on the couch in her office. The last thing she could
remember was Ovits calling her a murderer. She started to sit up, but when
she had lifted her head about four inches of the pillow she started to
fell dizzy. She closed her eyes and took in a sharp breath. 

 "I wouldn't sit up just yet, Sir," Fraser's soft voice said. She could
feel him gently push her back down into a reclining position and take the
cloth off of her forehead. She opened her eyes to see him looking down at
her, the hint of a smile on his lips but concern in his eyes. 

 "What happened?" She asked, her voice was scratchy and she couldn't speak
much louder than a whisper. 

 "You fainted, Sir." 

 "Fainted?" 

 "Yes, Sir," the constable paused. Meg could see that he was gathering
courage to ask a question. She waited patiently. "When was the last time
you ate?" He finally asked. 

 "I don't see why that is relevant, Constable." 

 "Sir?" His voice was low, she knew she couldn't avoid him, and he would
know if she was lying. 

 "At least three days." She was looking down, but nevertheless she could
feel his eyes on her. "I've had no appetite." 

 "And the last time you slept?" 

 "I slept last night," 

 "Hum," 

 "For about twenty minutes." 

 "Ah," 

 "I keep having nightmares." 

 "What about?" 

 She took a deep breath and pushed herself up. Fraser didn't restrain her
this time, he helped her into a sitting position. From nowhere he pulled a
mug with steaming yellowish fluid in it and handed it to her. "What is
this?" She asked after she cleared her throat. 

 "Chicken broth." 

 "Where did you get chicken broth?" 

 "Thompson's Deli, on Warren Ave. I suspected that you would want
something to eat sometime today." 

 He had known. He had known that she hadn't been able to sleep, and he had
known that she had stopped eating. Add to that he had known, or at least
suspected, that she wouldn't be able to handle it. "Thank you, Constable,"
she said softly, taking the broth from him. "Where are Turnbull and
Ovits?" 

 "Constable Turnbull is out on duty," Fraser explained as Meg sipped her
broth. "And Ovits is helping a couple ." 

 "Did you have to bring your wolf in here?" She asked sharply as she
noticed Diefenbaker sitting in the corner.  

 "He was concerned." 

 "Were you concerned, Constable?" 

 "What were your nightmares about?" 

 Meg sighed and took another drink of chicken broth, and then set the mug
on the floor. "Carl Jung." 

 "The terrorist?" 

 "Yes," she said softly. Fraser sat down next to her on the couch. She
could feel his eyes on her. She knew that he wanted to help her, he wanted
to help everybody. But she couldn't help but think that his concern went
deeper. She stared into the broth. "Every time I close my eyes I see his
face, right after he was shot. He was alive for about two seconds, he
looked at me and he knew I had killed him." 

 "You saved my life." 

 "I took a life. Did you know he had two children, daughters, up in Moose
Jaw." 

 "Yes, he abandoned them. They haven't seen him for five years. When their
mother heard that he was killed she said 'Thank God.'" 

 "That doesn't make it better, Constable. I took a life, I killed
someone." 

 "With reason." 

 "Do you think I haven't told myself that. Do you think I haven't
rationalized. I've tried so hard to let it roll off my back like so many
things. And I can't." 

 "You didn't do anything wrong." 

 "You can't say that Fraser!" She said snapping her head up. She caught
his eyes and held them. "You wouldn't have killed him. You would have
found a way to disarmed him, or talk him out of the situation. You would
have found a way . . ." There was something in his eyes that made her
stop.  

 "There are three things you forget, sir." He said softly, yet forcefully.
"First you forget that I came in with the intention of disarming the
terrorist, and failed. I then tried to make him realize the severity of
his situation. Again I failed. He would have killed me had you not fired,
I'm sure that he would have. And finally I ask you to remember that I
brought a loaded gun into the situation. Had I been faced with the
situation you were faced with, I would have fired." 

 "Would you have killed him?" 

 Fraser liked his lips nervously. "No," he said at length. "But only
because I would not have had to. I don't believe you had any other
option." 

 "Fraser, I fail to see how . . ." 

 "I've been trained as a master sharp shooter, and have received
accommodations for that ability, you have not. It is quite possible that
had you aimed for anything other than his torso you would have missed,
which would have drawn his fire to you, and you would have been killed."
His expression seemed extremely sad. He didn't say that he would have
blamed himself for her death, had that happened, nor did he say how her
death would have affected him, he didn't say that the loss would shake him
deeply, at least not in words. 

 "It doesn't change the fact that I killed him." 

 "No sir, you did kill him. You took his life and you can never give it
back," Fraser said almost harshly. "You may have had good reason, but that
doesn't excuse you. You are guilty, Meg Thatcher, and there is only one
thing to do." He paused, tears were forming in her bloodshot eyes. He was
supposed to understand, not accuse. "You have to do what everyone else has
already done. You have to forgive yourself." 

 "What?" 

 "You need to forgive yourself." He said calmly. 

 "Forgive . . ." 

 "Yourself." 

 "I . . . I" she found herself stuttering, for some reason the concept of
forgiving herself seemed ridiculous and trite. It was the sort of thing
that sentimental fools who believed self help books would make them new
people would say. "I didn't do anything wrong, I didn't have a choice,"
she insisted. Her voice cracked and she suddenly realized that she wasn't
going to be able to hold back her tears. 

 "You killed a man, you feel horrible about it, you need to be forgiven.
Now the man you've killed *can't* forgive you, and I'm fairly certain that
God *has* forgiven you, the only thing left is to forgive yourself." 

 Tears were running down her cheeks now, oddly she didn't care. "I don't
know how." 

 Ever so gently Benton brushed her tears away. "Move on," he said softly. 

 Meg took a deep breath, and tried to stop crying, but for some reason
that seemed to trigger all the tears she had held back for three days. She
started to bawl, and she couldn't stop. She could fell Fraser put his arm
around her, and soon he was literally giving her a shoulder to cry on. Meg
sobbed and sobbed, Fraser sat quietly and let her cry. He had the
slightest hint of a smile on his face. She had needed to cry, to let all
that emotion out. Now that she had done that he had a feeling she would be
able to sleep and eat. He let her cry on him. He smelled her intoxicating
scent and stroked her soft hair. 

 She was a strong Queen, and he was her knight Errant. But unlike all the
romantic legends, the queen didn't need him to save her, she was capable
of saving herself, and him nine out of ten times. She was brave and strong
and beautiful and she wasn't going to lose herself or lessen herself for
him, like so many women seemed willing to do.  

 Her sobs died down, and eventually ended. Fraser could feel her breathing
slow into a steady pattern. "Sir?" he asked softly. He gently pushed her
away from his shoulder. She was asleep. 

 "Ah," he said rather nervously. He wasn't quite sure what to do. He
didn't think it would be best for him to wake her up. But on the other
hand he doubted she would want to go sleep in her office if she could go
home. Diefenbaker whimpered a suggestion. "She would wake up." Fraser
whispered. The wolf whimpered agin, "No, people work differently than
wolves, there is an understanding between Inspector Thatcher and myself." 

 Dief growled softly and lied down, resigned. Which left Fraser to make
the decision for himself. Finally he decided that the Inspector needed her
sleep more than anything else. He lowered her onto the couch. The
Inspector moaned softly but didn't wake. Once he had her situated in a
position that looked comfortable and absolutly angelic, he took off his
serge and laid it over her. He smiled slightly at the thought of her in
her serge, but he wasn't quite sure that was appropriate or respectful. He
picked up her disregarded mug and motioned Dief to follow him as he walked
out. 

 As silently as he could he shut the door. Ovits was sitting at his desk
meekly. "Is she alright, should I call the doctors?" 

 "No," Ben said softly. "Just don't disturb her, under any circumstances."


 "But she told me . . ." 

 "Under any circumstances." Fraser said with uncharacteristic
forcefulness. 

 "Yes, Sir." Ovits said, somewhat mockingly. But Fraser knew the clerk
wouldn't dare disobey the constable. "Did you spill something on
yourself?" 

 "Excuse me?" 

 "Where is your tunic?" 

 "Inspector Thatcher has it." Fraser said, not even noticing the
expression on Ovits' face that was partially jealous and partially
curious.  

 "Did you sort those files?" 

 "Alphabetically, just like you asked." 

 "Thank you kindly." 

 Fraser thought he heard Ovits mutter something disrespectful as he left
but decided to ignore it. He went into his office and got to work. He
would stay there until the Inspector would wake up. She would tell him to
drive her home. There might be a small conversation about what had
transpired. She might even swallow her pride and say thank you. He would
drop her off at her house and the events of the day would not be discussed
ever again. But that didn't mean it hadn't happened. He had learned that
she was not as cold hearted as she wanted to appear. And from now on she
would know that he cared that he thought she was strong and that he owed
her his life. He hoped she would know that he loved her.