Dead *Again*???   
 
 Dead *Again*???
 by Chastity, chastity_daze@hotmail.com
 
 Warnings: Character death, angst
 
 Pairings: Fraser/Thatcher
 
 Spoilers: Minor for both Dead Men Don't Throw Rice and All the Queen's
Horses.
 
 Rated: PG
 
 I don't know, maybe it's just me, but after re-watching 'Dead Men Don't
Throw Rice' I can't help feeling that it's just a liiiiiiittle bit weird
how Fraser seems never to appraise Thatcher, his commanding officer, of
his activities. I mean, watching the funeral scene, it struck me that this
would be the second time Fraser had 'come back from the dead' without a
word of explanation to Meg - the first being, of course, in 'All the
Queen's Horses' after he's fallen off the train. So this is my attempt at
getting inside Meg's head and seeing how she feels about this...
 
 All the rest of the required stuff, as well as some notes I feel are
necessary, will follow the story.
 
 ***
 
 It's raining again, Fraser, or rather still. Hasn't stopped since...
well, it hasn't stopped for well over a week. I don't remember having seen
this much rain for a very long time, if ever - perhaps not even when I was
posted in B.C. In Victoria, it rains a lot... Oh, I'm sorry, Ben, I didn't
mean to bring her up, even indirectly. Let's just forget I said anything
and get back to the weather. That's always a safe topic for Canadians.
 
 Well, yes, it's been a week. It doesn't feel like so short a time. It
feels as if it's been much, much longer. I suppose that's because I
haven't been able to go back to the Consulate yet; I've been staying at
home, so my days have been stretching out, yet I don't seem to be able to
do anything constructive. Although I dread to think what I might find when
I head back to the Consulate after leaving it in Turnbull's care for a
week or more, I can't manage to force myself into it. My life has become
rather apathetic lately. I just don't care anymore.
 
 Not that many people would think these circumstances any different than
those I used to operate under. I know what both Rays used to call me;
Vecchio the "Dragon Lady", Kowalski the "Ice Queen". Vecchio thought I
breathed fire, while Kowalski thought I was made of ice. I can't really
say either was entirely wrong. I know I hide my feelings far too much;
I've always been too scared to reveal them, too uncertain of myself and of
the others I think I know to let the truth out. Icy, indeed. And when I do
let any feelings show, it's usually to snap out at someone for a minor
mistake, expending in anger the emotion I've bottled up from everything
else. Quite the fire-breather, aren't I. But that's something I'm trying
to change. It's hard, fixing the patterns of an entire lifetime; but after
the consequences of not revealing my feelings this time, I can't afford
not to any more.
 
 This is the third time, isn't it, Fraser? The third time you've been
dead, without any explanation. But this time, you're not coming back, are
you? Not going to appear out of thin air and tell me that the fact you
aren't dead 'isn't important'. Not going to pop up from out of your coffin
and scare *me* half to death.
 
 Hmm... that wasn't supposed to be funny, yet it was. I think that's the
first time I've fainted since well before I started training at Depot. I
certainly gave the detective a piece of my mind for just letting me fall,
spectacle though it must have been for him. I had a bruise on the back of
my head and a splitting headache for a week - although I suppose I
shouldn't be complaining to you, now should I.
 
 You know, this whole situation doesn't seem real, especially since I've
been through this twice before. Exposure has dulled my reactions. The
first time, on the train, I was absolutely livid with you! I'd thought I
killed you, knocking the man you were fighting off the train only to have
you pulled down with him! I couldn't believe I'd been so stupid. I did
grieve for you then, Fraser, and not at all briefly. I didn't understand
in the least what might have been starting between us when we were
handcuffed together. Then when I thought you were dead, I couldn't
comprehend what I might have lost. And when you appeared - well, I did
what I'd done best. I balled up all those conflicts roiling inside me and
lashed out, covering the truth of what I was feeling. You never explained
to me how you managed to survive that, not even after our... contact. And
that hurt. Why didn't you ever tell me? Did you truly think it
unimportant? Did you think I wouldn't care? You were wrong.
 
 I had all but forced myself to forget those feelings - until the next
time you turned up dead, when they all came rushing back. That time,
though, I wouldn't let myself believe you were really dead until I saw
your body. I told myself that you were Benton Fraser, that there was no
way you could be dead. But when I did see your body, it sent me into a
state of shock. Numb. I couldn't feel anything but disbelief. And then,
thank God, you woke up! I felt then - relief, then more shock - then, of
course, I fainted. And when I awoke, I was embarrassed - and you and the
detective were nowhere to be seen! Well. I headed back to the Consulate,
burning with all the emotions I felt, to simmer for a good half-hour. When
you finally walked in, I was steaming, yet after I'd heard your
explanation - convoluted, but it qualified - I couldn't manage to chew you
out. Yet what kept you from telling me your plans in that case? Time
limits? All it would have taken was a phone call from you or from someone
at the Precinct. Simple forgetfulness? Perhaps with others, but with you?
I don't think you've forgotten a thing in your life - except perhaps one
or two 10989-b reports. It simply didn't seem to occur to you that I'd
want to know - at least, that's how I see it.
 
 And now, once again, I'm the last person to know. I'm the last person
anyone thought to tell. *Turnbull* heard before I did - dammit, I heard it
*from* Turnbull! Again, I didn't believe it until I saw your body. Even
then I had my doubts, but the autopsy report finally set those to rest.
And then we laid you to rest. I made sure you were buried with the fullest
honors possible, and here in Chicago. I hope I wasn't wrong to fight the
force, who wanted you buried at home in Canada; but I know that your life
was here so much more than there. It seemed more fitting.
 
 I miss you, Ben. It's too late now, but I wanted to apologize for the way
I've treated you. I never knew how to treat someone I loved, like I loved
you. That's the only excuse I have, and even it isn't enough. But I hope I
can apologize sometime, in the future.
 
 ~~~
 
 Meg rose from where she had been kneeling on the wet earth, brushing dirt
from her knees absently. She leaned down to trace the letters on Ben's
tombstone with her finger; it was a simple memorial, with his name, rank,
and dates of birth and death, and the single other line of text emblazoned
on it nearly hidden in the earth. She placed a small bouquet of fresh-cut
daisies on the grave and walked out of the grounds, her head held high.
Behind her, the daisies waved gently in a wind and a disembodied voice
spoke the half-concealed words: "I miss you..."
 
 Meg turned around.
 
 The colour drained from her face until she was as white as the tundra.
Her mouth opened, then closed wordlessly; her legs gave out on her, and
she dropped to her knees on the muddy ground. "Fray... Fraser?" she
stuttered finally, looking at the tombstone, then back to the man in front
of her, then back to the tombstone again.
 
 "Hello, Inspector," Fraser's ghost said.
 
 Meg's eyes rolled back in her head and she slumped backwards,
unconscious.
 
 "Oh dear," said Fraser, twisting his Stetson in his hands. Fraser Sr.
appeared beside his son, looking down on the prostrate Inspector.
 
 "Well, what are you waiting for, son?" he asked. "Wake her up and
reassure her that you *are* dead!"
 
 Directing a bright blue glare at his father, Fraser knelt down beside
Meg; his knees made no dent in the rivulets of mud, nor did his uniform
pants get dirty (death being the ultimate answer to Scotch-guarding).
"Inspector?" he said, trying to slap her cheek gently, only to have his
hand pass right through it. "Oh my," he said. "Inspector," he called
again, then louder, "Margaret!"
 
 She stirred and opened her eyes. They focussed immediately on Fraser and
she sat up quickly. "Constable!" she said. "I thought you were..." she
gestured at the tombstone, "dead. You *are* dead!"
 
 "Well, yes, I am," he replied.
 
 "Oh, that's good," she said without thinking, then did a quick
double-take. "I mean... hold on. You're dead?" Fraser nodded in
confirmation. Confused, Meg reacted in the way she was most used to; she
snapped into 'command mode'. "An explanation would be appreciated,
Constable," she said sharply, then drew back from the sound of her own
voice. "Wait... um," she hesitated, remembering what she'd just finished
saying at the grave of the man who was kneeling next to her. "Why... why
can I see you?" 
 
 Visions filled her head. 'Maybe I'm dead too. Maybe I drank too much of
Turnbull's coffee and it finally killed me. Maybe Fraser is just here to
hand in that 10989-b report and make sure that his files are in order
before I send them to Ottawa.'
 
 "Well, sir," Fraser said, scratching at his forehead with the back of his
thumb, "it's rather a complicated story, and you might wish to," he
gestured at the mud, "go somewhere more comfortable."
 
 "Oh, smooth move, son," said Fraser Sr., "how come you couldn't say
something like that while you were alive? Ruined any chance I have for
grandkids, you did."
 
 "You can't have grandchildren anyway; you're dead!" Fraser hissed,
turning away from Meg.
 
 "You say that as if it were a bad thing, son. Don't forget that I'm not
the only dead one here," Fraser Sr. replied tartly.
 
 By this time Meg, ignorant of the ghostly exchange, had taken stock of
her surroundings. "Yes," she agreed, "perhaps my apartment would be a
better place to talk." She stood up shakily, exposing a large smear of mud
down the back of her rain slicker. Gesturing towards the cemetery gates,
she said, "My car is out there... do you need a ride?"
 
 "Ah... yes," Fraser said. Although he could materialise in Meg's
apartment just by concentrating on her location, he thought it best not to
frighten her any more than necessary. As they walked together towards the
car, however, he was wondering how he was going to manage getting into the
car without her seeing him sliding *through* the door...
 
 That dilemma was solved when she stripped her muddy slicker off and
popped the trunk to put it in. He quickly moved into the passenger seat
and was waiting for her when she got in.
 
 The drive to her apartment was silent, Fraser trying to think of a good
explanation when he himself hadn't been completely sure that Meg would be
able to see him, and Meg trying not to let the fact that she was sitting
next to a self-admitted dead man affect her driving. They made it all the
way into her apartment without another word. Meg closed the door, dropped
her purse on the side table, kicked her shoes in the general direction of
the closet, and sat down on her sofa.
 
 "OK," she said, drawing a deep breath, "talk."
 
 Fraser sat down in the armchair across from her, leaning forward with his
arms on his knees. "It seems to be a family trait - the ability to appear
after death, I mean, Inspector."
 
 Meg narrowed her eyes. "Do you mean you used to see dead people?" 'No
wonder he used to talk to himself...;' Another thought occurred to her.
"How come I can see you now, but I couldn't see... the other people you
could talk to?"
 
 "It was my father who used to appear to me, and apparently only family
members could see him - Constable Maggie MacKenzie, for example, was able
to see him when she was here. However, he was also able to appear to Buck
Frobisher, although it took a conscious effort. He usually appeared to me
when I was thinking about him - reading his case files or the like -
although he had an annoying habit of turning up exactly when I *didn't*
want him to. He kept an office in my closet at the new Consulate."
 
 "What on earth did a dead man do with an office?" Meg asked, curious.
 
 "Taxes, he said, sir," Fraser answered.
 
 "Look, Fraser," Meg said, "Technically, you're no longer under my command
- please, don't call me 'sir' anymore."
 
 "Of course, si - ah, Margaret," Fraser said nervously.
 
 "Oh, come on, son, you're dead, what do you think she's going to do to
you?" Fraser Sr. was suddenly sitting on the couch beside Meg. 
 
 Exasperated, Fraser snapped, "Go *away*!"
 
 "What?" Meg said.
 
 "No, not you... my father has decided to put in an appearance," Fraser
explained.
 
 Meg blinked. Two dead Frasers in her apartment? This was a bit much.
"Would you ask him to, um..." She made shooing motions with her hands.
 
 "I have asked him," Fraser said in annoyance, "He just doesn't seem
willing to listen."
 
 "Well!" Fraser Sr. huffed, "I know when I'm not wanted!" He disappeared.
 
 "He's gone," Fraser said, relieved.
 
 "Good," Meg said. "It's a little unsettling not to be able to see the
people in the room with me." Pausing, she thought over what Fraser had
told her so far. "You said that your father appeared to you when you
thought about him?" Fraser nodded. "Is that... why you were at the
cemetery? Because I was thinking about you?" Another silent nod. She
gulped. "Did you hear everything I said?" she asked worriedly. It wasn't
that she hadn't meant what she'd said, only that she hadn't actually
expected it to be heard.
 
 "Yes," Fraser confirmed, "everything." He hesitated. "I'm sorry,
M-Margaret, that I've hurt you so much. I never meant you to think that
your feelings meant nothing to me, for they did - they do, or I wouldn't
be here now. I think that, underneath the tough exterior you project, you
are a very sweet person, and I think that anyone who knows you could tell
you that. I'm sorry that you feel guilty over how you treated me, for I
never gave it a second thought." He wavered for a moment, then said
quickly, "And... Meg... I'm very sorry that I never told you I loved
you... while I was alive."
 
 ***
 
 The next morning, the sun was peeking out from behind the cloud cover for
the first time in over a week. Turnbull was pleased to see Inspector
Thatcher walk into the Consulate at seven a.m. as if she had never been
gone. She took the time to greet him nicely, leaving him staring
slack-jawed after her, and walked into her office. She slipped her shoes
off under her desk and shrugged out of her coat, carrying it to her
closet. She looked around furtively, then opened the door and slipped
inside.
 
 "How are you doing, Ben?" she asked.
 
 "Your closet makes a wonderful home base, Meg," he replied from behind an
oakwood desk. "I was thinking about having my parents over for dinner
tonight, in fact."
 
 "Do you still eat?" Meg asked, confused.
 
 "Well, no, but I thought it would be a nice touch," Fraser admitted.
 
 "Well," Meg smiled, "while I have you here where I can keep an eye on
you... I believe you have a few overdue 10989-b reports you could work
on?"
 
 ***
 
 Well, as I said, this story was originally going to be a look at how Meg
felt about Ben's two 'deaths'. I never had a third one in mind until I
actually started the thing. I'm not sure exactly what I wanted to, or
managed to, evoke - but I like the results. I hope you do too. I was
originally going to end it before Ben's ghost even entered the picture,
but got urged for a sequel.
 
 Disclaimer: Alliance's. Not mine. Not dead, although it was fun while it
lasted.
 
 Thanks: Thanks to KL for being the first to read this - even though it
*was* one in the morning when it was finished.... Thanks also to the RSY
list for feedback and sequel requests. :)
 
 Any questions, feedback, archival requests? chastity_daze@hotmail.com
Please do remember that this is my first attempt at any kind of character
death, at angst, and at an interior monologue. Constructive criticism is
very welcome, while flames will be used to make a campfire on which I
shall proceed to cook spaghetti. 
 P.S. This story has appeared in part on my personal website, which I ran
under the nickname of Meg Fraser. Therefore, you may have already read
part of this story under another name. Please rest assured that it has
*not* been plagarised. :) TYK! 
 
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