This one is rated R for violence, pairings are Fraser/Thatcher (are   


This one is rated R for violence, pairings are Fraser/Thatcher (are  

you starting to see a pattern in my writing yet?)  

Oh, and this story takes place between Red, White, or Blue and	

Flashback. Spoiler warnings for ATQH, RWorB, WATE, and The Promise. 

(I think that's all, but if I find more, I'll stick them in) 

I want to thank my betas Lisa/Gypsy and Amanda. They were great  

betas. I also have to thank them separately--Lisa for giving me half  

of my title, and Amanda for being willing to answer any number of  

stupid questions at any time of the day or night. *bows* Thank you  

kindly, ladies, for your help. 

Disclaimers: Oh, Allianceall characters are thine, but the ideas are all
mine. 

Any comments can be made to me at tanya@klis.com . Please no otters. 

P.S. I also want to apologize for any typos. No matter how many times I
proofread, I always get them. 

Rage: The Thunder Rolls 

by Tanya Reed 

 "The flame rises but it soon descends, empty pages and a frozen  

pen..." 

 There was an Eagle's song playing somewhere. 

 He cocked his head to the side, listening. It sounded like it was  

coming from Constable Turnbull's office. It was quite loud and	

Constable Fraser wondered if it was disturbing the rest of the	

Consulate. Slowly rubbing a thumb over his eyebrow, he wondered if  

it would be impolite to ask Turnbull to turn it own. In the end, it  

was the Inspector who decided him, even though she wasn't even in the  

room. Today was her first day back after two days of sick leave, and  

she didn't need to be disturbed. 

 The decision made, Fraser got up from his desk, neatly placing his  

pen to the side of the file he'd been working on. Being in a hurry  

was no excuse to be messy. Diefenbaker's head rose as Ben did. 

 "It's all right, Dief. I'll be right back. Try not to eat anything  

while I'm gone." The wolf let out a low half whine of injured pride  

and the Mountie almost smiled. 

 Fraser didn't make it to Turnbull's office. He was about half way  

there when he saw Inspector Thatcher's secretary coming towards him,  

a determined look on his face.	

 "Constable Fraser?" 

 "Yes?" 

 "*She* wants to see you." 

 "Understood." 

 Then Fraser continued on his way, changing his destination. It was  

not a surprise that Inspector Thatcher wanted to see him. After all,  

she had been gone two days. She ran things with a fist of iron, and  

those two days probably had her imagining all kinds of disasters. In  

truth, no disasters had occurred, though there had been a...situation. 

 Reaching the Inspector's door, Fraser paused a moment, telling  

himself that he would *not* smell her from across the room. It was  

unprofessional and she would not want it--but sometimes it was hard.  

Before what had happened on the train, Fraser believed that the  

Inspector kept wild flowers in her office. Now he knew this was not  

the case. 

 Politely, he knocked. A cold voice told him to enter and he did so,  

removing his Stetson. 

 "You wanted to see me, sir?" 

 "Yes, Constable. Where is your report on the last two days?" 

 "I was just finishing it up, ma'am..." 

 "And what's this I hear about a goat?" 

 Fraser looked up, flushing. "Well, you see, it was like this...He  

didn't mean to eat Turnbull's hat, I'm sure, and Diefenbaker was only  

trying to protect your office, sir. I'm sure the Russian  

Consulate..." 

 "Fraser," she cut in sharply, "why was there a goat in my  

Consulate?" 

 He stopped in mid explanation, slowly turning his hat in his hands.  

"Constable Turnbull did a favor for the Russian Consulate. They  

decided to repay him with a goat." 

 "Ah." She lifted an eyebrow. "And the problem with the Russian  

Consulate now?" 

 "I was going to go offer them a formal apology this afternoon,  

ma'am." 

 "Good. I trust this incident will be covered completely in your  

report." Her tone clearly stated that she couldn't leave the  

children alone for one minute without them getting into trouble. 

 "Yes, sir," Fraser replied, looking directly into her face for the  

first time. She shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, yet he let his  

eyes wander over her features. They stopped their exploration under  

her right cheekbone. Was that a bruise? 

 Inspector Thatcher's voice rose again as she began to chastise him.  

He never heard a word of it, however--except sentry duty--as his mind  

began to pay attention to her body. Yes, that was a bruise, about two  

days old, he'd say, still black but light and fading to yellow. Of  

course, it was covered with make up, and if he hadn't been searching  

her face, he might not have seen it. 

 'Yes, ma'am' and 'no, sir' came from him automatically in all the  

right places as he continued to study her. His body remained at  

strict attention, as his eyes wandered lower to the exposed opening  

at her throat. He almost winced as he saw, peeking out from the  

fabric, another bruise. This one was darker, uglier than the first.  

It was about the same age, but its purple and black colors looked  

like a stain on her skin. A laceration, puckered at the edges, ran  

down one side of it. Had the Inspector been in an accident? That  

would account for her two days off. Inspector Thatcher *never* took  

time off. 

 "Is that understood, Constable?" 

 "Yes, sir." 

 "Good. Now is there any other news you want to tell me before I  

read it in your report?" 

 Fraser tore his thoughts from her injuries and thought about her  

question. 

 "Constable Turnbull fell down the stairs, but thankfully is  

uninjured." Did her mouth twitch? "The French Consulate dropped off  

some wine--which Turnbull drank, causing him to fall down the stairs.  

 Lt. Welsh wished to discuss a matter with you about a Canadian  

prisoner. I washed the curtains in the Queen's bedroom..." he  

trailed off.  

 "Is that all, Constable?" 

 "I believe so, sir." 

 She nodded absently, reaching up to tuck a stray dark strand behind  

her ear. Usually, such a simple gesture of humanity would have	

thrilled Fraser, but this time, his eyes were riveted to her forearm.  

 As her arm raised, the fabric of her blouse slipped down her wrist  

to reveal a mottling of bruises. Concern almost made Fraser break  

his pose. The only thing that stopped him was knowing that she would  

not welcome it and would probably scorn it. 

 "You are dismissed. I expect your report on my desk in an hour." 

 "Yes, sir." He gave a little nod and turned to go. He reached for  

the doorknob, but could not turn it. Images of her in a car as it  

crumpled in on her or of her falling off of someone's fire escape  

filled his head. He had to know. Was she in pain? Slowly, knowing  

if he said the wrong thing he'd get a tongue lashing and maybe	

another year of sentry duty, Fraser turned. 

 "Ma'am?" 

 "Yes, Fraser?" She sounded tired. 

 "Um...I was just wondering...By any chance did you...How did..." 

 "Just spit it out, Constable." Her voice was like ice, but he	

pressed on anyway.  

 "Are you all right?" 

 Her eyes widened. "Am I all right?" 

 "Yes, sir. Are you injured?" 

 Those same dark eyes now narrowed. "What do you mean?" 

 "Well, if you don't mind me saying so, I noticed that you have  

several bruises and abrasions. That led me to believe that you had  

in some way been injured." 

 "I'm fine, Constable." 

 He just looked at her. The room was silent for several moments, the  

only sound their breaths as they mingled in the air. 

 Finally, she replied, "If you must know, Fraser," Her annoyance was  

plain. "I fell. I was at home two days ago, got up and felt woozy.  

As you know, I just got over the flu. The dizziness caused me to  

fall against my coffee table. It's all very embarrassing and I would  

appreciate it if you didn't bring it up again." 

 "Yes, sir," he agreed. "Sorry, sir."  

 Satisfied, he turned and left the room. ********* 

Did he know? Could he tell? Meg sat in her chair staring into  

space. His face had betrayed nothing; he had seemed satisfied with  

her answer, but with Fraser, you never could be sure. What he knew  

was not always present in his eyes--those eyes that saw everything. 

 Her gaze wandered down to her arm. Slowly, and gently too because  

it was still tender, Meg drew her blouse down to expose the skin.  

Her face flushed as she regarded the blue and purple marks, impotent  

anger racing through her. When the test came, she had not been	

strong enough. It had been a hard, painful lesson. She caressed the  

skin, not flinching, then drew the fabric back over it. 

 Her mind went back to Fraser. He had seen them. After all the	

trouble she had taken to conceal them, some carelessness on her part  

had revealed them. She wondered which he had seen first, where he  

had been looking when concern made him take note. 

 Still, she told herself he *had* seemed satisfied with her answer.  

There was concern there, yes, but no overt interest. If he knew,  

surely...It was in Fraser's nature. That she did not want. How	

would she face him if he knew? How could he respect and take orders  

from someone who...This time, the burning in her cheeks was shame.  

Next time, she *would* be strong enough. ***** 

 As Fraser walked into the 27th Precinct, something was nagging at  

him. He didn't know what it was, just that something was...not	

right. His mind was so intent on puzzling out his feeling that he  

did not see any of the young--and not so young--ladies batting their  

eyelashes his way. Diefenbaker, however, took advantage of his	

distracted state to coax two donuts and a cookie from the station's  

occupants.  

 "Hi, Fraser!" Detective Ray Vecchio smiled, lighting up his eyes,  

as he saw his friend approach. 

 "Good morning, Ray." 

 "Something wrong, Benny?" Ray asked as Fraser sat. 

 "No, nothing." He pushed the sense of wrongness away, focusing on  

Ray and the wolf sitting on his foot. "What is on the agenda for  

today?" 

 Ray frowned. "It's not pretty. Someone murdered a hooker near that  

run down apartment building you live in." 

 "Did this prostitute have a name?" 

 "Aimee something." 

 Quickly, Fraser ran through the names of the young streetwalkers he  

knew. Aimee didn't seem to be among them. Still, somebody's  

daughter had died, someone with a mother, father, sisters, brothers. 

 "How?" 

 "Strangulation. She was found in an alley two blocks from your  

place." Ray took out some pictures and handed them across the desk. 

 Fraser took them and clinically searched for clues. The girl was  

about eighteen with long blond hair. From the angle of the bruises  

on her neck, the assailant had to be at least 6'3, or she had been  

sitting on a chair when she died. One of her white shoes was  

missing, the other lacked a heel; her dress was shredded and torn.  

Near the body was something in the dirt, but it was only in one  

photograph, and that was not very clear. 

 "What is that, Ray?" 

 "What's what?" 

 Fraser handed the picture back and pointed to it. "A blip on the  

camera?" 

 "I don't think so." 

 "Well, maybe a good look at the crime scene will clue us in. Ready,  

Benny?" 

 Fraser gave a nod and got to his feet. Diefenbaker stood up as  

well, vacating Fraser's shoe. Together, the three of them left the  

station, Fraser forgetting that something had been bothering him. ******* 

 The area was deserted when they got there. Yellow police tape	

blocked off the alley and there was a faint disturbance where they  

found the girl's body.	

 Fraser's eyes roamed the alley carefully, taking it in. The missing  

heel lay by a trashcan, but other than that --on the surface--it  

seemed as if nothing had happened there. He walked slowly around the  

alley, stopping occasionally to look at the dirt and broken pavement.  

 Most of the evidence had been obliterated by the feet of the Chicago  

PD. 

 "The body was found here, Ray?" 

 "Yup." 

 Fraser knelt and examined the ground. There, buried in the dirt, he  

found what he had seen in the picture. Triumphantly, he held it up  

for inspection. 

 "What's that?" 

 "It seems to be a piece of pen or automatic pencil." He licked it,  

ignoring Ray's gag face. "Traces of ink, not lead. The pieces are  

sharp so it was broken recently. There are traces of blood here, it  

was broken on flesh. Also, Ray, not the style. Not everyone would  

carry a pen like this." 

 "Fancy." 

 "Very." 

 "So, Benny, we find out who sells these things and it gives us a  

head start." 

 "If we cannot get any identifiable fingerprints, that would be the  

next logical step." 

 As the two of them headed towards the Riv, Ray remembered something  

he had heard through the grapevine. "Hey, I heard the Dragon Lady  

had a hot date the other night." 

 "Ray, I've asked you not to call her that." 

 "Yeah, well, Inspector Thatcher then. This big business man that  

Elaine knows was bragging about it to her. Guess it was the whole  

nine yards--dinner, dancing, and you know what comes next." 

 "Next?" 

 Ray just rolled his eyes. "Wonder what it took to thaw her out." 

 "Ray, I don't think it is appropriate to discuss..." 

 "Lighten up, Benny. Don't you even want to know his name?" 

 "No." 

 "Yes, you do." 

 "I most certainly do not." 

 "Oh, yes, you do. His name's Glen Burrell. He's a rich guy with  

enough dough to have apartments in three cities. He's also  

Canadian." Ray nudged Fraser. 

 "What the Inspector does in her spare time is none of my 

business. Now shall we find out who the vendor is for this  

particular pen?" 

 "Sure, Benny. Whatever you say." 

 Fraser followed Ray to the Riv feeling slightly annoyed. He wasn't  

sure if the annoyance came from Ray's teasing or from the fact that  

Ray had thought he would be interested in the details of Inspector  

Thatcher's date. He wasn't. Not at all. Well, not really.  

Um...maybe a little, but that was no reason for Ray to be talking  

about 'thawing out the Dragon Lady'. 

 They rode back to the station in silence, though Ray had a wide grin  

on his face. Fraser had turned his mind from the teasing and was  

ruminating on the murder. He was going over the few scarce clues.  

There had been a remaining scent in the alley along with the piece of  

pen. It was a brand of aftershave--also not cheap. It had a strong,  

musky odor, one that lingered long after the man wearing it was gone.  

 Obviously, they were looking for a very tall rich man with a  

distinctive smell. 

 Elaine smiled at them when they came from the lab, where the print  

tests had proved inconclusive, her eyes sparkling. 

 "Hey, guys." 

 "Hi, Elaine." Ray was all business once more. "Can you get me a  

list of stores that might sell a pen like...where's the pen, Benny?" 

 Fraser searched his pockets and came out with the fractured pen.  

This he gave to Elaine, who grinned at him and said to Ray, "It  

might take me awhile." 

 "Thank you kindly, Elaine." 

 "Anytime, Frase. Ray, you owe me one." 

 "Yeah, yeah. Add it to my tab. We'll be in the Riv. Call us if  

you find anything. 

 "Where are we going, Ray?" Fraser asked as they left the station  

once more. 

 "Lunch." Ray grinned. "We can't do anything until Elaine gets that  

list of stores, and I'm starving. Frannie was on the warpath this  

morning, so I slipped out without breakfast." 

 "Understood." Fraser had seen some of Ray and Frannie's fights, and  

a person would be crazy not to want to avoid one of them. It always  

amazed him how two people could love each other so much and be so  

vicious to each other. "Oh, and Ray?" 

 "Yeah?" 

 "Can we drop by the Consulate on the way? I forgot something this  

morning." 

 "What? Hair gel?" At Fraser's level look, he laughed and answered,  

"Sure, Benny. Whatever you want." ********* 

 It was turning into a long day. Every time either Turnbull or Ovitz  

looked at her, she cringed. She almost believed that there was a  

difference in the way they acted towards her, thought she knew that  

was unlikely. Turnbull was too dim to know anything that wasn't told  

to him outright and Ovitz--well, if Ovitz saw weakness, he attacked  

it, and not very subtly either. So, Meg kept telling herself that  

she was paranoid. No one else knew of her weakness. That at least  

was a relief. 

 Tiredly, she ran fingers over her temples. It was hard being here,  

almost too hard. She didn't feel like the self sufficient, rock  

solid Inspector. Instead, she felt like a broken woman who twitched  

in fear at every sound. Angrily, she grit her teeth. If she had  

anything to say about it, no one would know of her shame. She would  

pretend to be the woman deserving of their respect that she was mere  

days ago. 

 Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. Meg didn't  

know if it frightened her or if it relieved her. Carefully, she put  

on her 'Inspector face'. It wasn't always easy to maintain such a  

face--like when she wanted to take Fraser into her arms and kiss him  

for finding her mother's brooch, or when she wanted to thank him  

profusely for rescuing her from the clutches of Henri Cloutier--and  

now would be one of the hardest times she'd ever experienced. 

 "Yes?" 

 Fraser came in, his hat in his hands. "Ma'am?" 

 "What is it, Fraser?" 

 She thought he'd be gone with that Vecchio friend of his for at  

least several hours. What was he doing back at the Consulate?  

Turnbull she could keep things from and Ovitz she could lie to, but  

Fraser's clear eyed gaze seemed to see through everything. He seemed  

to accept her story that morning but every time he looked into her  

face, there was a chance... 

 *Hold on to your mask, Meg,* she told herself firmly. 

 "I was just wondering how you were feeling, sir. First days back  

after being sick can be somewhat of a drain." 

 Meg felt the color go from her face as she peered at him. She	

cleared her throat. 

 *If I hadn't been drinking...I will *never* drink again. Ever.* 

 "I think I'll live, Fraser. Aren't you supposed to be out saving  

Chicago or something?" 

 "Yes, sir," he replied smoothly, ignoring her sarcasm. "Detective  

Vecchio is waiting for me. I just forgot my..." 

 "Nevermind, Fraser." 

 What was going on behind those eyes of his? His mask was easily as  

good as hers, and probably hid a lot more. In a way, she felt a  

certain kinship with Fraser. Not only did they share all those	

things she had pointed out on the train, they also shared a need to  

keep their thoughts and feelings private. Each of them donned a  

protective face when they got up in the morning, though Fraser seemed  

to reach through his to touch people more easily than she could.  

Someday, maybe he would show her what lay beneath his 'Mountie	

face'. Who knew, she might even let him see under hers--if there was  

anything left. 

 "You are dismissed," she added when he showed no signs of moving. 

 Did he look at her a little more closely than usual? 

 "Yes, sir." With a slight nod, he was gone from her office and, in  

a sudden perversity, Meg wished he would come back and... 

 *And what, Meg?* she asked herself harshly. *Comfort you? Oh,	

yeah. That would be great--watching the respect he has for you turn  

to pity. That's all you need. At least this way you can pretend to  

deserve his respect. Are you prepared to accept his pity?* 

 She knew she was not. It would just hurt way too much. She just  

hoped her mask was good enough to keep it from him. ********* 

 Fraser and Ray were driving in the Riv after a most satisfying meal  

when the call came from Elaine. The feeling of wrongness Fraser had  

experienced earlier had come back to him during the meal and he was  

absently trying to place it. It was forgotten again as soon as he  

heard Elaine's voice. 

 "I've found what you were looking for." 

 "What did you find, Elaine?" 

 "Is Fraser there?" 

 "Yes, Elaine. Now, what did you find?" 

 "Well." There was a shuffling of papers. "There are only two stores  

in Chicago that sell this pen. They go for $200 a pop. One is  

Stationary Blues at 28 SouthWest and the other is Bells, Bows, and  

Ribbons at 57 Park. Both of them have none in stock. They order  

them on demand." 

 Ray and Fraser shared a look and the latter said, "Thank you,	

kindly, Elaine." 

 "No problem, Fraser." 

 "Now, Ray, all we have to do is find out who bought one of these  

pens from either of these stores in the past six months." 

 "Six months? Why six months?" 

 "This is a relatively new style of pen, made in Germany. Thought  

they've been in Canada for the past year, they've only been imported  

to the United States for the past six months." 

 "Why would Canada get them first?" 

 "Well, believe it or not, Ray, there are some things that Canada  

imports that the United States does not, some examples are Kinder  

Surprise Eggs and chocolate Smarties." 

 "Yeah, okay Fraser, I get it. What were those addresses again?" 

 "28 South West Street and 57 Park Street." 

 Ray suddenly realized he was going the wrong way. Without a word to  

Fraser, he turned the wheel savagely, throwing his partner against  

the door. Fraser didn't even want to think about how many laws had  

just been broken, but Ray was Ray. 

 The first store they went to was Stationary Blues, where they	

discovered that both sales of the pen had been to women. Since the  

cologne Fraser had smelled was a man's fragrance, it was doubtful  

either of them was the killer. They took down their names and  

descriptions anyway, on the off chance one of them was the culprit,  

and headed to Bells, Bows, and Ribbons. There, they had more  

luck--four pen buyers. Three of these were men, and two were taller  

than six feet. Fraser and Ray took down their names--Tom Norton and  

Max Riker--sketchy descriptions and addresses. Their money was	

apparently good enough for the store, but not enough to keep the  

clerk's lips closed. Fraser and Ray didn't really mind. 

 "Now, what?" Ray asked as they got back in the car. "Interview the  

suspects?" 

 Fraser thought a moment and shook his head. "I'd like to look at  

the body, Ray. It will give me more information than the  

photographs--I should be able to pin point the man's height and  

weight more accurately." 

 "How?" 

 "The angle of the bruises," Fraser answered, giving a thoughtful  

frown. Something...something...He reached for the thought that was  

forming in his mind, but it slipped away like water through his  

fingers. 

 "You all right, Fraser?" 

 "Just thinking." 

 Ray accepted this and started the car. Fraser gave a mental shrug.  

If it was important, the thought would come back to him. ******* 

 Ray had already seen the body. He had stared at her pretty young  

face and thought he must be getting old. Instead of finding her  

desirable, despite the multitude of bruises at her throat and the few  

scattered abrasions on her skin, he couldn't help seeing a dead  

child. They knew her to be eighteen, but to Ray she looked about  

twelve.  

 Since he had seen all he wanted to the first time, he hung back,  

letting Fraser clinically examine the body. The Mountie made several  

'hmn' and 'Ah' sounds to himself. It never ceased to amaze Ray how  

something as simple as a piece of fabric could tell Fraser everything  

he wanted to know about a victim or a perp. Ray had a sneaking	

suspicion that Benny was a genius but he kept that to himself. It  

wouldn't do to give him a swelled head. Look what happened the last  

time! Firmly, Ray turned his mind from thoughts of being strapped  

to a bomb.	 

 Fraser was licking the fingers of the body. Ray shuddered all over,  

wondering how Benny could taste things that were so repulsive. If  

that's what it took to be a genius, Ray would stay a dim wit, thank  

you. 

 Finally, Fraser was done looking at the dead hooker. He thanked the  

mortician politely before leading Ray out of the morgue. 

 "Did you learn anything?" the detective asked when the Mountie  

didn't volunteer any information. 

 "Yes, Ray. Several things. They had some red wine and pasta early  

in the evening. The lack of bruises on the rest of the body suggests  

that she was comfortable with him and was taken by surprise. The pen  

punctured the flesh of her stomach, and quite severely, but I don't  

think it was done purposely." 

 Ray listened, nodding, as they walked towards his desk. 

 "And, obviously, looking at the bruises on the body..." Suddenly,  

the thoughtful look on Benny's face turned to something else. His  

skin went completely white, and if he'd been a woman, Ray would have  

reached out to catch him. His voice came out in a strangled whisper  

as he repeated, "...the bruises on the body..." 

 Ray's eyes went over his best friend's face. Something had either  

scared the hell out of him or shocked the breath out of his body. 

 "Are you all right?" he asked in concern. 

 Fraser wasn't paying any attention to him. Instead, he was talking  

to himself. "To have bruises like that, someone would have to fall  

repeatedly, or...." 

 "Benny, what are you talking about? The woman was strangled." 

 Puzzlement made the detective want to shake the Mountie. Maybe  

Benny was finally losing it. Had he licked one to many disgusting  

substances? 

 The far away look that had come to Fraser's face when the color  

drained from it slipped away, and he focused on Ray once more. He  

looked almost surprised to see the detective there, even though he'd  

been talking to him moments before. The paleness of his face was  

slowly receding and a faint flush was staining his cheeks in its  

place. 

 There was a tightness in his voice as he said, "I have to go, Ray." 

 "Now? We haven't even captured the killer yet..." Ray's  

exasperated voice trailed off as he finally looked into his friend's  

eyes. 

 Ray's breath caught as he saw something hard and cold there,  

something he had never seen there before. And there was something  

else, something that caused the skin along the detective's backbone  

to prickle. A storm was growing there, rolling and burning. He	

could almost hear thunder, see lightening. Was that the beginning of  

rage? It was a look so foreign to Benny's eyes that he couldn't be  

certain. All he knew was that it was something more dangerous than  

he could even imagine. What exactly happened when a person who	

suppressed his emotions cracked? 

 In fascination, he heard Benny say calmly, "Yes, Ray. You must  

excuse me. I'm confident that you can catch the assailant on your  

own." 

 As Ray, still reeling, watched Fraser walk away, he remembered the  

feeling that had seared through him when he had come upon that snake  

attacking his sister. And he remembered what happened afterward.  

With this memory, a stone-like certainty settled in his gut. 

 Fraser was going to kill somebody. **************** 

How could he have been so stupid? It had been there all along and  

he had missed it--overlooked it because he wanted to believe the lie.  

 It was easier and safer to believe the lie. 

 As Fraser moved through the streets, barely noticing people or  

places as he went, his mind went back to the station. One moment, he  

was talking to Ray, explaining what he had learned from that poor  

child's body, and the next his mind was focusing on the prostitute's  

bruises. He had a moment of total clarity as something clicked. It  

came to him, like a slap, what had been bothering him all day.	

Bruises...It was the bruises...Just thinking of it rolled Fraser's  

stomach. 

 Yes, he had had an epiphany, and it was an ugly one. It stole his  

breath and froze his blood as the pictures started racing through his  

mind. Her bruises. It was not the prostitute's bruises that  

tortured him, as disturbing as they were, but the ones that he had  

wanted to kiss away just that morning. If only he had paid more  

attention or looked beyond her words...He had seen three. How many  

were there that he didn't see? Had she been moving stiffly? Was she  

in pain? Fraser grit his teeth. Blind fool. 

 She said she had fallen once--against a coffee table. He had  

accepted this because she said it, and he trusted her more than  

anyone else--with the possible exceptions of Ray and Dief. Somehow  

he had forgotten her fear of being weak and her tendency of  

doing anything to protect her inner self, that sweet inner self that  

was so rarely glimpsed and so greatly cherished. She had hid her  

vulnerability, afraid that Fraser would see it, and he fell for her  

blind like any innocent duck. 

 Fraser thought the fire inside of him might eat him alive as he  

thought about what he now knew. It all made sense. Inspector  

Thatcher had gone on a date, called in sick for two days with bruises  

so varied and scattered that each one must have been caused by a  

separate blow. How could he have done it? Anyone who knew the  

Inspector knew how much she valued her pride and self control. For  

her, dignity was everything. Her sense of self revolved around her  

dignity and ability to control her surroundings. For someone to rip  

that dignity away, tearing at the tenderness beneath... 

 She must be shattered. 

 This thought echoed over and over in his mind as he pictured it.  

His heart cried out, trying to make his mind stop the torture, but it  

mercilessly continued. It was his punishment for allowing this to  

happen. 

 The stairs in his apartment seemed to echo his steps with thunder as  

he raced up to his apartment. How could that Burrell person have  

taken it all from her? That is what angered him the most. How could  

he have looked at that sweet face--adorable even in strict  

reprimand--and hit her? That he could knowingly rip away a person's  

self respect, especially someone like Meg's... 

 He had to get out of his uniform. The red serge, even the weight of  

his Stetson, burned his skin right through his underclothes. They  

were holding him, trying to soothe him. Fraser didn't want to be  

calm. He didn't want to be strapped in by duty and ideals and his  

country. He wanted to...he wanted to...*And for once, God dammit,*  

he thought, *I'm going to chose what I want over what's right!* 

 The uniform slid off like butter. ************ 

 The shaking began when she got in the car. It started with her  

body, and she was helpless to stop it. With horror, Meg took her  

hands off the wheel and stared at them. 

 It had all seemed so nice. About a month ago, she had run into Glen  

in the supermarket. Shocked to see someone from her hometown in  

Chicago, she had gone up to him. He had surprised her by picking her  

up right there in the frozen foods section and giving her a  

tremendous bear hug. Meg hadn't seen him since high school and she  

was pleased to note he was even more handsome than ever. 

 He had asked her out and she had gone. They had a wonderful time,  

so a couple of weeks later, they did it again. Glen was rich  

and treated her wonderfully. She felt like a princess when she was  

out with him. 

 *Yeah, right, a princess.* Meg leaned forward, placing her warm  

forehead on the steering wheel. *Some princess. Well, it could have  

been worse, Meg. He could have forced himself on you instead of  

using you for a punching bag.* 

 Everything had changed the other night. It had started out the  

same, but instead of dinner or a play, they had gone out dancing. It  

was grand while it lasted and both of them had a little too much to  

drink. They went to her apartment by cab for a nightcap... 

 Flashes of remembered pain went through Meg and she clenched her  

hands into fists. 

 *"Bitch." 

 "What?" She turned a little unsteadily, surprise furrowing her brow. 

 His backhand caught her by surprise, and she could not keep on her  

wobbly feet. A shot of pain went through her as the tender flesh  

below her ribs connected with the corner of her coffee table. She  

cried out as his shoe bit violently into her back. 

 "Get up, woman! You're supposed to be a Mountie!"* 

 Meg tried to push the images from her mind, but they would not go  

away. She could still feel the hard cruelty of his hands on her  

skin. Of course, she had tried to fight back, but it seemed that  

alcohol had severely limited her responses. Instead of defending  

herself, she ended up hitting firm objects--the walls, the  

entertainment centre, the coffee table, his knuckles--over and over  

again. 

 Biting her lip, Meg attempted to ignore the voice in her head. *You  

should have been able to subdue him anyway. You're a Mountie,  

dammit! You should be stripped of that uniform!* 

 Between the voice and the memories, she hadn't been able to relax  

for days. If anyone found out...She could just imagine the smirks  

behind her back, the knowing glances, the false sympathy. 

 With a groan, Meg managed to start her car. She got control of her  

trembling, looking furtively around to see if anyone had seen her  

moment of weakness. 

 The word 'weakness' echoed in her head like thunder as she pulled  

out of her parking space and headed home. 

 It would be another long night. ****** 

 For the first time, not wearing the uniform made him feel free.  

Constable Benton Fraser was so much of who he was that when he wasn't  

wearing the uniform, he usually felt incomplete. Now, he didn't want  

to be The Mountie, he wanted to be just Ben Fraser--a man trying to  

protect someone he cared about. 

 As he approached Glen Burrell's apartment, the scenes continued to  

torment him. He saw flesh hitting flesh, a delicate face etched in  

pain. The sounds filled his ears, loud and insistent. They blocked  

out the physical world around him, flooding him with anger.  

Clenching his fists, he fought to control it. He just wanted the  

pictures to stop.  

 Taking a deep breath, finally mastering himself, Ben knocked on the  

door. It was opened almost immediately by a tall, good looking man  

with a pleasant smile. Fraser was grateful for his training, it was  

all that kept him from busting in without finding out if he was in  

the right place. 

 "Mr. Glen Burrell?" 

 "Yes," the handsome man answered, the smile remaining on his face.  

He looked so friendly, so benign. Ben could have trusted this man,  

he could have taken him for a friend. It wasn't right. Someone who  

hurt people shouldn't look so...so normal. "May I help you?" 

 Ben nodded politely, offering his hand. "My name is Benton Fraser.  

May I talk to you a moment?" 

 Glen shook it, then gestured for him to enter. "Certainly, come  

in." 

 Ben walked in casually, looking around the man's apartment. It was  

neat and nicely furnished, a touch Spartan but at the same time open  

and welcoming . There were pictures of children on the coffee table. 

 "I've wanted to talk to you for several days," Ben lied smoothly,  

forcing his own face to remain pleasant. 

 "Really?...Now that you mention it, your name sounds familiar. Do  

we have a mutual friend?" 

 "Yes, we do," Ben admitted, turning from him. "You have a nice  

apartment." 

 "Thank you. Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Fraser? 

 Ben wasn't listening to him, he was watching the scenes in his head.  

 Was she here? Is this where it happened--this seemingly benign and  

cheerful room? Was it that coffee table that she sliced her  

collarbone on? Had her face hit that wall? Rage, more rage than he  

had ever felt before stirred in his belly, releasing his tenuous  

grip on control. Once it ignited, it blazed outwards, quickly  

claiming his veins. From there, it raced through his entire body,  

enflaming him right to his core. This man had hurt Meg. His Meg.  

The woman whose greatest fear was loss of control or dignity. He had  

stolen both from her and given her bruises as some sort of trophy.  

He had enjoyed mastering her, taking away everything she valued about  

herself. He had hurt her body, and something that would not heal as  

quickly--her soul. This man...This man... 

 Fraser was shaking. He slowly looked down at his hands, releasing  

his remaining thread of control. *He will never hurt her again.*  

With this thought, he whirled and put his fist firmly in Glen's  

stomach. 

 The man let out a satisfying grunt as Ben demanded, "So, you like to  

hit women, eh?" 

 Glen doubled over, and Fraser didn't give him the chance to  

straighten. He hit him again. 

 "How does it feel?" 

 Ben reveled in the feel of his knuckles striking the other man's  

cheek. Glen fell heavily, the look on his face one of surprise and  

fear. 

 "Who *are* you?" 

 "I told you. My name is Ben Fraser, and I don't like men who hit  

women." 

 Glen ducked Ben's next swing, rolling away from him on the rug.  

"What are you talking about?" 

 His next punch didn't miss. It landed squarely in Burrell's eye,  

throwing him against the side of the coffee table. The pictures fell  

unnoticed to the floor.  

 "Meg Thatcher." 

 As the businessman tried unsteadily to rise, he asked, "Are you the  

reason she hasn't returned my calls? I thought there was someone  

else. Our last date ended..." 

 The rest of his sentence was cut off as his breath whooshed out of  

him in response to a boot to his diaphragm. Fraser grabbed a hold of  

his gasping body and dragged him to his feet. He shook him violently  

then pushed him onto the couch.  

 "Tell me what happened." Ben's voice was steel. 

 "What...what do you mean?" 

 "What did you do to her?" 

 "Nothing," Glen protested. "Did she tell you some bull story about  

me? I know our date was bad, but..." 

 Fraser reached forward and gripped the man's chin in his hand. He  

could feel the man's jaw through his fingers and wondered if it was  

possible to break it just by squeezing. 

 "Tell me." 

 "I never hit her." 

 Ben's eyes narrowed as he observed Glen's face. The man was lying.  

It was written there plainly. That lie made what he had done all the  

worse. To take away all that a person was and then lie about it... 

 With a swift flash of his fist, Glen's head lashed back. Blood, red  

as Ben's serge, poured from his nose, running down his face. 

 Finally deciding to fight back, Glen rose and threw a punch of his  

own. Fraser ducked it easily, elbowing the man in the sensitive area  

below his ribs. The time for questions was over. As Glen doubled  

over, Ben used the same elbow on the side of his head. 

 "What's going on?" 

 The voice behind Benton startled him and allowed Glen to hit him  

with a tackle. The two of them fell to the floor, Burrell's blood  

dripping on Ben's face. They grappled for a moment, while Ben tried  

to ignore the figure of his father standing nearby. 

 "What are you doing, son?" 

 "Nice of you to drop by, Dad," Ben gasped, managing to throw  

Burrell off of him. When the millionaire tried to come back, he  

kicked him in the groin. 

 "Is this the man that..." 

 "Shut up," he told his father, getting to his knees. Glen was	

curled in a little ball, groaning. The blood flow from his nose was  

starting to slow. 

 Using a chair, Ben pulled himself to his feet. Shaking his head as  

if for clarity, he went over and kicked Glen in the ribs. 

 "I didn't teach you to kick a man when he's down. Honour, son,  

honour." 

 Glen Grabbed Fraser's boot, trying to pull him down. Fraser  

tottered but didn't fall. As soon as he was sure of his footing, he  

kicked the man again, with his other foot. 

 "Get up!" 

 When he didn't, Ben took his arm and pulled him to his feet once  

more. Then, he hit him with his fist again, depositing him in the  

chair recently used for leverage. 

 "Stop it." Bob Fraser's voice was firm. "You'll kill him." 

 Fraser hissed. "So what if I do?" 

 "Are you prepared to live with the consequences?" 

 With a rough backhand, Ben gave Burrell's lip a cut to match his  

broken nose. 

 "He hurt her." 

 "I know that, son. He hurt her body. He hurt her pride. That's no  

excuse for murder." 

 "He deserves to pay." 

 Ben was standing over Glen, who was blinking blearily. He clenched  

and unclenched his hands several times, wondering if he would indeed  

kill this man. 

 "But vigilante justice?" 

 "The only justice. She will never report him. She's too ashamed.  

He knew that, damn him." 

 "It's still wrong, Benton." 

 Drawing in a shaking breath, Fraser softly asked, "What would you  

have done if it were Mom?" 

 The older Fraser frowned in puzzlement. "I don't see what that has  

to do with...Oh." 

 Ben saw the understanding come to his eyes. 

 "Go away, Dad." 

 With a sigh, he nodded. "Understood." 

 Turning his attention back to Burrell, Ben noticed that the man had  

slipped into unconsciousness. Looking at him this way, the anger  

slowly started to drain from Ben. His father was right, this was  

wrong. But he was sure Glen Burrell would never hurt Meg again. 

 Taking several more deep breaths, Ben slowly pulled the tattered  

remains of his control inward. As they settled into place, his hands  

ceased their trembling and his face resumed its mask. The pictures  

continued to play in his head. 

 He walked unsteadily towards the door, noting for the first time the  

sting in his cheek. Burrell had managed to cut him slightly as they  

grappled on the floor. 

 Ray was waiting for him in the hallway. Somehow, Ben knew he would  

be, though why this was so he couldn't say. 

 "Are you all right, Benny? What happened?" 

 "I'm perfectly fine, Ray. Have you found the prostitute's killer?" 

 "Not yet. I was waiting for you." 

 "Then let's head back to the station, shall we?" 

 Ray said something in the affirmative, but Fraser wasn't sure what.  

He headed to the Riv, lost in his thoughts, and so he didn't realize  

his face was full of blood or notice Ray go forward to look wide-eyed  

into Glen Burrell's apartment. *********** 

 Meg sat huddled at the end of her couch. Slowly, she sipped her  

tea--boiled, not steeped, just the way her mom used to make  

it--trying not to look at the room around her. She should have	

stayed at work. At least there, the furniture didn't mock her and  

remind her of remembered pain. She could not look at her coffee  

table without thinking of the way it bit into her flesh. Just the  

sight of the entertainment centre seemed to make her shoulder throb. 

 Her hands tightened on her cup. The voice in her head began chiding  

her again, and Meg closed her eyes. That only seemed to make things  

worse. In her mind, she could see him looming over her, his face  

completely changed by drink.  

 "A bath," she told herself softly, "A nice hot bath will make you  

feel better." 

 She got up slowly, because her body still ached, and placed her cup  

on the floor. Meg refused to touch the coffee table. 

 Moving to the back of the apartment, the band around her chest  

seemed to loosen slightly. *He* had never been this far. It became  

almost easy to breathe, and Meg gave a sigh of relief as she dug in  

her drawers for some comfortable clothes.  

 Finding these, and a towel and facecloth, Meg moved to the bathroom  

just down the hall. She closed the door firmly, a knot suddenly  

forming in her stomach. Just when she had been starting to  

unclench--it couldn't be called relaxing because she found it  

impossible to relax--she remembered the mirror. 

 Meg had always loved the floor length mirror that came with her  

apartment. It allowed her to model new outfits and admire all parts  

of a male companion's form--in the rare times she actually had one  

with her in the bathroom--but now it seemed like a device set there  

to torture her. She hadn't been brave enough to look in it yet,  

knowing what she would see there. Tonight, though, tonight she would  

force herself to do it. 

 "You have to face this sometime," she whispered, ignoring the voice  

that was telling her what a wimp she was. 

 Meg turned and faced the mirror, then slowly and deliberately began  

to undress. She winced as the first bruise at her collarbone was  

uncovered but kept on, purposefully undoing the rest of the buttons  

on her shirt. She bit her lip as the fabric slid away, revealing her  

mottled skin. She examined it closely, noting the purple, black,  

blue, and yellow marks. There were so many. Gently, she touched the  

tender spot where her ribs joined. 

 "Look what he did to you." 

 The rest of the clothes came off more easily, though what was	

uncovered was no more pleasant. Again the impotent anger burned  

inside of her and her eyes began to sting. She refused to cry. 

 Once naked, her brown eyes took in the whole of her body,  

investigating every bruise as if it were an important clue in a case.  

 Some of them were fading. Some were mingled with cuts and  

scratches. Some looked like her skin could never possibly turn white  

again. 

 *What a fright you are,* the voice said, and she wondered idly if it  

was Henri Cloutier speaking to her from so far away. She realized  

that that's who the voice sounded like--the voice that haunted her  

every minute of the day, pointing out her weakness. 

 Meg reached nearby to the small shelf that held her hairbrush. She  

picked it up, feeling her hands began to tremble once more. Letting  

the anger come, she felt it well up, burning through her limbs. She  

lashed out violently, her hairbrush smashing into the glass of the  

mirror. Three times, she pounded, ignoring the shards of glass that  

pierced her skin. 

 "You make me sick," she hissed. "I never want to see you again!" 

 The mirror destroyed, Meg backed away, sitting on the floor by the  

tub. Like a turtle going into its shell, she pulled herself into a  

tight little ball, forgetting all about her bath. ******** 

 He had called 911 while Fraser was waiting in the car. How could he  

not? It almost seemed like a betrayal of his best friend, but seeing  

the broken apartment and the unconscious, bleeding man, he could do  

nothing else. He told them that his name was Detective Ray Vecchio  

and, when going to see a friend of a friend, he had come across the  

badly beaten man. There was no mention of Fraser. 

 As he rode the elevator back to the posh lobby, Ray wondered what  

had happened. He knew this was something he could never ask Fraser.  

Pondering, he thought about what he knew. It was something about  

bruises that made Benny go ballistic on this guy, which led Ray to  

believe that Burrell had inflicted bruises on someone Fraser knew.  

Since Ray only know of two people Fraser and Burrell both knew, and  

Elaine had seemed perfectly fine... 

 "The Dragon Lady," he whispered. 

 With a nod, the detective accepted this. He knew more about Benny's  

feelings for Thatcher than his friend would ever give him credit for.  

 So, the scum had hurt the Dragon Lady. What Ray couldn't figure out  

was why *she* didn't kill him. 

 Pushing all knowledge from his face, Ray approached his car. He  

looked at his friend sitting in the front seat, ignoring the wolf who  

had traveled with Ray. For the first time Ray could remember,  

Fraser was a mess. His usually immaculate hair was standing in	

several different directions and his clothes were ripped and  

wrinkled. There was dried blood on his face. Most of it wasn't his. 

 "You know, Benny," Ray said, sliding into the driver's seat. "It's  

after hours. What d'you say we call off the man hunt until tomorrow?  

 I'm tired, you're tired, Dief's tired..." 

 "What do you mean, Ray? I feel fine." 

 *Like hell,* Ray thought, saying, "Maybe so, but you look like  

crap." 

 With a frown, Fraser turned the review mirror so he could look in  

it. "Maybe you're right." 

 "I know I am. Besides, Dief's stomach's growling so loud I can't  

concentrate anyway." ********** 

She looked so fragile, almost like a lost child, as she walked in.  

Her eyes were downcast and the bruise on her cheek showed sharply  

against her pale skin. 

 Fraser was surprised to see her there. He hadn't known she would  

come. Quickly, his eyes roamed her form, searching for all of her  

visible hurts. He purposely avoided her eyes, knowing what he'd find  

there, but eventually they were all he had left. 

 Taking a breath, hoping Meg couldn't hear it, he raised his eyes to  

hers. Immediately, he wanted to look away, but he couldn't. Broken.  

She was broken. Shattered pieces of her self respect mingled with a  

pain so profound it tore his heart to shreds. She wasn't the  

Inspector as she stood there--not that strong, proud woman whose  

sarcasm could cut deeper than a sword. Instead, she was his Meg,  

hurt and frightened and longing for what little comfort he could  

give. He loved her then, loved her more than at any other time he  

could remember. 

 He reached for her, not speaking, drawing her into his arms. She  

shuddered there, stiffening, before gradually relaxing into his  

embrace. Fraser held her, stroking her hair, trying to will all that  

had happened away. This was one lesson she should never have had to  

learn. 

 After a moment, she spoke. "I'm not...I'm not who you think." 

 "It's all right," he soothed, his arms tightening. "I know what he  

did to you." 

 "I couldn't stop him," she said softly into his shoulder. "I...I  

couldn't stop him." 

 "Let it go." He loosed her, his hand tracing her cheek. When she  

would not look at him, he led her -- unresisting -- to the bed.  

Propriety, rank, protocol, they were all nothing here as he sat and  

drew her into his lap. 

 "What kind of officer am I?" she demanded harshly, allowing his  

arms to circle her again. "What kind of woman?" 

 A tear slipped from her control and slid slowly down her cheek.  

Fraser brushed it away with gentle fingertips, feeling the shaking of  

her delicate form through her clothes. He pulled her closer, tucking  

her dark head under his chin. Carefully, he began to rock. 

 "It was not your fault..." 

 "I should have been stronger. I just wasn't strong enough." 

 "He hurt you," Ben said softly, continuing to rock. "Being hurt is  

not a crime, Meg. I've been there. Victoria.." 

 At his mention of the woman who had almost destroyed him, Meg's arms  

wrapped around him tightly. He didn't know if she responded to the  

hurt in his voice or if she just needed something to hold on to.  

Fraser wanted to fill her face with tender kisses, wiping away all  

memories of rough hands and cruel words. 

 "Let me..." His voice failed him and he paused before starting  

again. "Let me love your pain away." 

 Ben awoke with a start, finding himself alone in a dark, silent  

apartment. The shock of the transition made him reach for her in the  

darkness. A dream. It had been a dream. The other side of his small  

cot was as cold as death. She had never been there. 

 It was hard to let go of the dream, to realize that she had not come  

to him to help her through her pain. Something squeezed his heart  

and an aching for her settled around him. If he was alone, then so  

was she. 

 What was she thinking? What was she feeling? Had she been able to  

sleep? Ben had a feeling that she hadn't. Her insecurity would be  

tormenting her even more than those pictures haunted him. It was a  

horrible, gnawing feeling to know that she was so far away. He	

couldn't take her in his arms and hold her like he longed to, and  

love every memory of that Burrell man from her mind. 

 Ben hugged himself, the longing to act in real life as he had in his  

dream becoming almost unbearable. He could see her, bruised and  

battered, needed someone but too proud to ask for comfort. Damn her  

pride, and damn his own! If he could just show her how much respect  

and lo...His mind pushed the latter thought away and began again. If  

he could just show her how much respect he still had for her, maybe  

she would be all right. Instead, here he was--alone--dreaming of  

doing what he wanted but afraid of her violent reaction if he did;  

and there she was--alone--telling herself over and over again that  

she had failed some sort of test and proven herself unworthy.  

Nothing he could do would bridge the gap between and allow him to  

comfort her, and that was the saddest thing of all. 

 A big, gusty sigh escaped him. Two things had been taken from him  

as well--his control and now his sleep. Somehow, they seemed like a  

little enough price to pay for her. Carefully, he took out the	

knowledge that had been forced with his loss of control and examined  

it again. One good thing had come out of this, and though she may  

never know it, he knew it. That was enough. The memory of Victoria  

could no longer hurt him. She had been replaced. *************** 

 Ray sat at his desk, staring at the files in his hands. One was for  

Tom Norton and the other was for Max Riker. He had picked Fraser up  

and the two of them had arrived at the station just minutes before.  

Fraser had gone to the cafeteria to get some milk and Ray had headed  

to his desk, where he found the files Elaine had laid out for him.  

Since Fraser didn't have to be at the Consulate until after dinner,  

they decided to get right to their suspects, with Fraser finally  

letting Ray know what the bruises had told him--besides the fact that  

some slime bucket had given his boss a once over. 

 As Ray sat waiting for Fraser, Elaine approached. There was a frown  

on her pretty features, and he could tell there was something on her  

mind. 

 "Morning, Elaine." 

 "I heard you found Glen Burrell beaten in his apartment last night,  

Ray. Is he going to be okay?" 

 Ray shrugged. "I don't know." 

 "I'm going to drop by to see him in the hospital after work. I  

wonder who did it." 

 Carefully, Ray put down his files, mentally forming his next  

question. "You're not involved with him, are you?" 

 "Not that it's any of your business, but no." she said with disgust.  

 "He's just a friend of my brother's. Besides, he's seeing that  

Dragon Lady of Fraser's. He's kind of cute though." 

 Ray mumbled, "He wasn't last night." 

 "What?" 

 "Nothing, Elaine. Who's assigned to the case? Do they have any  

leads?" 

 "Huey and Dewey. Ask them." She gestured with her thumb. 

 "Thank you kindly, Elaine," Ray said in his best Fraser imitation.  

This elicited a snort from her as she turned and walked away. 

 Ray was going to get up and approach the Duck Boys, but he saw  

Fraser coming in with his carton of milk. Ray could not help but  

notice, for the second time that morning, the smudges of black	

underneath his friend's eyes. He also looked paler than normal, but  

other than that, there were no indications that he had lost it the  

day before. 

 "Ready, Fraser? Got your calcium intake for the day?" 

 "Ready, Ray," he replied, settling into his usual chair. 

 "We got files on both of these guys, though not long ones. Norton  

got into a bit of trouble when he was a kid, just little stuff. He  

grew up poor but fought his way up. Riker was suspected in a fraud  

scam a little while back, but he was found innocent. A couple of  

Norton's offenses involved violence." 

 Fraser ran a knuckle over his eyebrow before asking, "Which one is  

left handed?" 

 "Left handed?" Ray was startled for a moment, but quickly covered  

it. He opened the files and searched the information, wondering if  

it would be there. 

 "Oh, here it is. Riker." 

 "He's..." Fraser paused, tilting his head as he converted for Ray's  

benefit. "Six foot three." 

 "Yup." 

 "230 pounds?" 

 "Right again." 

 "He's our man." 

 Ray snapped the files shut and rose, knowing Fraser was rarely  

wrong. It was time to pay Max Riker a visit. ********* 

Meg was at her desk trying to work when her phone buzzed. She put  

down her paperwork, which concerned...Meg realized she didn't know  

*what* it concerned. She had just been staring at it for the past  

half hour. Tiredly, she rubbed her eyes with one hand, reaching for  

the phone with the other. 

 "What is it, Turnbull?" 

 "There's a call for you, sir. A nice young woman." 

 "All right," she sighed. At least she could forget paperwork for a  

minute. "Put her through." After an audible click, she continued,  

"Inspector Meg Thatcher, Canadian Consulate, may I help you?" 

 "Hi," The voice was soft and hesitant, "My name is Elaine Besbriss.  

 I'm not sure if you've heard of me or not." 

 Meg frowned. "Your name does sound rather familiar. How may I help  

you?" 

 "Well..." The voice hesitated again, as if she wasn't sure how to  

begin. "I didn't know if anyone bothered to tell you. I thought you  

might be worried." 

 Meg straightened, her tiredness draining away. "What happened?" 

 Was it Fraser? He hadn't arrived yet and there were so many dangers  

out there in the Chicago streets. Every day, though she'd never tell  

them, she was afraid that either Fraser or Turnbull would leave the  

Consulate and never come back to her. 

 "It's Glen. I know you've been dating him..." 

 "Glen," Meg breathed, a shiver going through her whole body. 

 "Glen Burrell. You are dating him, aren't you?" 

 Meg tried to speak and failed. Clearing her throat, she tried	

again. "We...we went out a couple of times." 

 "Well, someone attacked him yesterday." 

 Meg's mind was wrenched from the mental images brought on by the  

mention of his name. "Attacked?" 

 "Yes. In his own apartment too. He's in the hospital now, still  

unconscious, but they think he's going to make it." 

 "Oh." She wasn't sure how she felt about that. Disappointed? No,  

she couldn't be disappointed that someone hadn't died--even him. She  

could not bring herself to feel sorry for him, however. In fact, it  

was almost a form of elation to know that someone had treated him the  

same way he had treated her. 

 "So, anyway," Elaine was saying, "I thought you should know. I work  

at the police station with Ray--you know, Ray Vecchio?--if you decide  

you want his room number. They are allowing him a few visitors." 

 "Do they...do they know who did it?" 

 "Not yet, but they're working on it. Huey and Dewey are checking  

out his apartment right now." 

 There were so many questions she wanted to ask, but instead she  

said, "Thank you for calling," and hung up.  

 She sat in thoughtful silence for a few minutes, wondering whose  

father, brother, boyfriend, son, or sister had finally decided to  

give him a taste of his own medicine. Meg wished that she could have  

been there to see the look on Glen's face as someone hit him over and  

over. Just imagining it gave her a feeling of profound satisfaction.  

 Knowing that he'd hurt no one else for awhile was nice too. 

 She picked up her pen, chewing her lip. Would the memories never go  

away? Firmly, she pushed them aside for what seemed like the  

millionth time that day--and it was what, nine thirty?--and started  

to fill in the forms. 

 Meg had filled in a whole three lines when a thought struck her so  

hard she dropped her pen. 

 "Fraser," a voice whispered in her mind, and she froze. 

 Fraser? Could it have been Fraser? What if he had seen through her  

lies, and...Meg shook her head sharply. No. It couldn't have been  

Fraser. She closed her eyes and carefully replayed her conversations  

with him. He had been his usual calm, charming, and unemotional  

self. His face and eyes had shown no sense of knowledge, and his  

concern seemed completely neutral. Besides, she chided herself,  

Fraser was not the type to go around busting heads. Even the thought  

made her blush. What was she, some damsel in distress and Fraser  

some red knight rescuer? Had she fallen *that* far? 

 Admitting that she was being ridiculous, Meg picked up her pen,  

which seemed to be broken. Had she squeezed it? With a frown, she  

studied the ink running over her fingers. 

 *Meg,* she thought, *Lately, you have worse luck than a moose in a  

nick knack store. Think you can at least hold it together to get  

through the day?* 

 She got up to put the pen in the garbage can, trying not to notice  

that the ink on her fingers was the color of bruised flesh. *Will  

everything remind me of him until the day I die?* Once it was  

deposited, she kept going to the door. There she paused before	

opening it and peeking outside.  

 "Turnbull?" 

 "Yes, ma'am?" 

 "Can you tell Fraser I'd like to see him when he gets in?" 

 "Certainly, sir." He sounded too damn cheerful. 

 Turning to go back into her office, Meg had only one thought for  

herself. 

 *Fool.* ********** 

 The knock on her door startled her. Meg had finally been able to  

submerge herself in her work, and the outside world had faded for  

awhile.  

 She blinked, putting down the report she was reading, and barely  

remembered to snatch the glasses off of her nose. 

 Securing these in her desk, she said crisply, "Come in." 

 It was Fraser. Of course, she knew it would be, but the knowledge  

of Fraser and the reality of Fraser were two different things.	

Somehow, she always seemed to be surprised that he was exactly as she  

remembered him.  

 "You wanted to see me, sir?" 

 Meg studied him carefully, starting with his face. Nothing seemed  

out of the ordinary there. His 'Mountie face' was perfectly  

controlled, no hint of any emotion present at all. Those beautiful  

eyes of his were intense, as if the whole universe merged in their  

depths, but that was not unusual. His posture was respectful, his  

appearance immaculate. There were no hints of worry or change in  

attitude. He was just Fraser. 

 "Yes, Fraser. Come in." She wondered if he could see her bruise  

now. The ones on her torso and arms and legs she could cover, but  

the one on her face was there for anyone with eyes to see. "How are  

your plans for entertaining Mr. Rouleau's son coming along? He will  

be here in less than a week." 

 She saw puzzlement pass over his features, but he replied, "I have  

asked Ray to think of some entertaining places for children in the  

city. He has agreed to have them in my hands by Friday. I will be  

better able to make my plans at that juncture, ma'am." 

 "Yes, I'm sure you will, Constable," she said absently, wondering  

how to work a certain something into the conversation. 

 "Is there anything else, sir?" 

 Her eyes searched his face once more as she decided to just take the  

plunge. "Yes, actually. I wanted to inform you that I may be away  

for awhile this afternoon. You see, someone I know was badly beaten  

yesterday and I may go to see him in the hospital." 

 She carefully continued to watch Fraser's face, but nothing there  

changed. "I was informed that he will recover, but as yet he is  

unconscious and so has not identified his attacker." 

 Fraser didn't even look faintly interested. "You would like me to  

remain at the Consulate this afternoon, Ma'am." 

 "That would be nice, Fraser." She bit her lip as she realized that  

came out sounding very sarcastic. Sarcastic was not the way she  

wanted to go with this. "Um...I can't get over how strange it is for  

someone to have gone into Glen's home," It was hard to say his name.  

 She almost choked hearing it come from her own lips, but she  

continued, "and beat him like that. I mean, what reason could they  

have?" 

 Fraser shrugged. "I don't know, ma'am." 

 With an inward sigh, Meg gave up. There was no way she was going to  

get Fraser to have any reaction to her words. She felt slightly  

disappointed at that, though she tried to tell herself she didn't.  

No matter how self sufficient she was--which was not much right  

now--Fraser always seemed to bring out her buried longing to be  

cherished. Closing the subject in her mind, calling herself a fool  

again, she waited for Fraser to ask her if he could be dismissed. 

 He didn't, of course. Instead, he just stood there studying her  

frankly, making a flush come to her face. 

 Flustered, she waved her hand. "Of course not. You are dismissed,  

Constable." 

 He nodded and walked to the door. She was still watching him  

closely, so she saw him put his hand on the knob, hesitate, then  

begin to turn back towards her. Meg looked down, pretending to be  

absorbed in her work. She even peered at it as if she were trying  

to see it without her glasses. 

 "Excuse me, ma'am." 

 "Yes, Fraser?" 

 She raised her eyes and a stillness went through her body. For one  

instant there was nothing hidden, nothing concealed. For the first  

time since they'd been on the train, she saw the real Fraser. 

 "No one should steal another person's dignity." 

 Then it was gone, and so was he. 

The End....At least until I get around to writing the sequel where  

Ben and Meg both have to deal with the consequences of his actions.