Acceptable Behavior	  Acceptable Behavior by Strwriter

 Author's disclaimer: If the Mountie were mine, I wouldn't be here writing
stories. Paul belongs to Martha. I don't know who Camilla belongs to. ALL
the characters belong to Alliance.

 Author's notes: This is dedicated to my good friends on the Red Suits You
list. It's my first ever Due South fic, so please be kind.

  

 "Acceptable Behavior" 

 Strwriter 

 PG-13 

 Fraser/Thatcher 

 Drama/Romance 

 Time: Early Third Season 

 *** 

 She hadn't thought it was possible, but it was. There was an entire
brigade of tap-dancing polar bears frolicking around in her skull to the
accompaniment of a large brass band. 

 Very slowly, very carefully, Inspector Margaret Thatcher opened her eyes.
It was an action she immediately regretted, as it sent the polar bears
into a frenzy. Moaning, she closed her eyes again, bringing her hands up
to cradle her tender head. However, that action caused a rather shocking
revelation. 

 The blanket covering her fell away from her upper body, and the rush of
cool air informed her that she was minus quite a bit of clothing. Her
headache was suddenly forgotten, and her eyes snapped open as she grabbed
the blanket and hoisted it up again. Tentatively, she peeked under the
covering, only to discover that she was wearing only her bra and panties.
Not exactly regulation attire. 

 Worse, the blanket she was clutching was not her own. Thatcher recognized
it as the thick Pendleton that belonged to Constable Fraser, and it was,
in matter of fact, his spartan cot she was lying on. In his
bedroom/office. 

 *Although,* she thought, *it looks like it was more bedroom than office
last night.* With growing horror, she looked around the tiny room. Her
shoes were neatly placed next to Fraser's boots in the corner, her suit
and stockings draped over the back of a chair. Clearly, Fraser had already
woken up, and he was apparently feeling better than she was if he had been
able to clean up. 

 Desperately, she tried to remember what had occured the night before. A
few vauge memories drifted back...giggling as she drank punch with the
French Ambassador...collecting her coat to return home...walking out to
the taxi.... Suddenly, her eyes flew wide as a few other memories asserted
themselves. 

 Running her fingers over Fraser's face. Throwing his Stetson haphazardly
across the room. Unbuttoning his tunic and getting her bracelet tangled in
his Sam Browne for a few moments. Kissing him full on the... *Oh, God,
Meg, what have you done?!* Moaning in horror, she buried her face in her
hands. *You actually did it! You got drunk, and you...you and Fraser..*.
She gave a brief snort of amusement. *Hell, Meg, you might as well think
of him as Benton now. Or even Ben! You certainly know each other well
enough!* 

 Thatcher jumped as she heard the door open, quickly jerking the blanket
up to her neck. Constable Benton Fraser peered cautiously around the edge
of the door, his fair-skinned face blushing crimson as he saw her. "Oh,
you're awake, sir! My apologies...I hadn't meant to disturb you. I was
just -" He had begun to babble, and realized that. Abruptly closing his
mouth as the blush deepened, he quickly began to retreat. 

 "Constable!" She called after him, sitting up a little, although she was
careful to keep the blanket tightly held. He reappeared, looking at her
with that innocent 'now what' expression that was simultaneously endearing
and maddening. Thatcher motioned him in. 

 As he stepped into the tiny room, she felt her breath catch. It was
Sunday, and he had traded in the customary red serge for civilian attire.
Blue jeans outlined the long, firm lines of his legs and encircled his
trim waist, the cut just tight enough to show off his physique without
being too snug. A simple black shirt emphasized his broad shoulders and
chest, the sleeves rolled up to show smooth, muscular forearms. The
darkness highlighted the contrasts in his coloring...skin like buttermilk,
hair like dark chocolate, with those startling blue eyes shining out of
the whole perfect package. 

 She blushed as she realized that her outlook on the previous night's
fiasco had changed somewhat. Now, she was actually more regretful for
being unable to remember it than she was for having done it in the first
place. 

 Quickly, she pushed those thoughts aside. Physical attractiveness was
irrelevant. Constable Fraser was her subordinate, and it was simply
against the rules to even think of sleeping with him. Much less thinking
of doing it again just so she could remember the experience. 

 Taking a deep breath, she looked him directly in those sapphire eyes and
began. "What happened last night did not happen...or rather, it happened,
but I didn't mean for it to happen the way it happened, so it would be
better if we just went on as though it hadn't really happened at all." 

 "Sir?" 

 "The..." She fumbled for words, trying to come up with a delicate way to
put it. Although Fraser was beet red by this time, his sympathy for her
situation was obvious. 

 "The additional contact, sir?" 

 "Yes! The additional contact. You and I both know that I most likely
wasn't quite myself..." 

 "You were somewhat intoxicated." 

 *No kidding*, she thought ruefully, reaching with one hand to gingerly
massage her throbbing temples. "I am aware of that. And for that reason, I
am hoping I can trust you not to say another word on this matter. It
simply did not occur. Is that understood?" 

 A pained look came over the boyish features, and she felt a twinge of
guilt. Maybe she had been a bit harsh. "Yes, sir. But perhaps if I could
explain..." 

 Thatcher held up a hand to cut him off. "No explanations are needed,
Constable. I'm a big girl, I don't need you apologizing for
the...additional contact, or going into a thirty minute Inuit legend to
explain why this isn' t as bad as it seems." 

 "But, sir! I -" 

 The look in Fraser's eyes made her heart stop. *Oh God, he's going to say
that he loves me or something, and I am not going to be able to do this!*
She had to head it off. "I said not another word, Constable. Are you
having difficulties hearing? Or should I repeat myself in another language
in case you aren't feeling up to English this morning? Will French do...my
Tshimshin is a bit rusty." 

 "As is mine, sir." 

 "That's not the point. The point is that this never happened, and that if
you breathe a single word about it to anyone, even that wolf of yours,
you' ll be shipped back up to the Territories before you know what hit
you. Do I make myself clear?" 

 "Perfectly." Damn! Why did he have to look at her that way? With those
big, melting blue eyes and that expression that said she was breaking his
heart! It wasn't fair! 

 Feeling like scum, Thatcher nevertheless forced herself to be the very
image of authority - even if she was sitting half-naked on her
subordinate's bed with the blankets clutched around her neck. "Good. Now,
if you'll please leave for a moment, I need to get dressed, and then I
want you back in uniform. We have some business to attend to, and I am
assuming that you will remember how an officer of the RCMP is *supposed*
to conduct himself." *Not to mention you're too distracting in that
outfit.* She added mentally. 

 He nodded subserviently as he shut the door. "Yes, sir." 

 As soon as the door closed, she climbed out of the bed, shivering in the
chilly room. Apparently, Fraser had decided to use the consulate's air
conditioner to re-create his own little corner of the Artic Circle.
Ignoring the goosebumps that had formed on her exposed flesh, she reached
for her clothing. Her hand was only a few centimeters away from the white
silk fabric of her blouse when she stopped, transfixed by the way Fraser
had laid everything out so neatly. 

 He was so considerate, so kind, and so polite that it was often easy to
forget that he had feelings. Feelings which she had undoubtedly hurt very
badly just now. Damn. 

 *** 

 *I hope she doesn't think I...that we...oh dear!* Fraser leaned heavily
against the wall outside his office. He had tried to explain to the
Inspector what had happened, but she hadn't given him a chance, having
apparently drawn precisely the conclusions he had feared she would. The
worst part about it, though, was that as she had ordered him to silence,
he couldn't set it right. 

 Fraser sighed. He seemed to have a lot of problem with explanations
lately. In fact, that problem was precisely what had gotten them into this
situation in the first place. 

 There had been a reception at the French Embassy the previous night, to
which both himself and Inspector Thatcher had been invited. All had seemed
well until he had sampled the punch, which, although quite good, contained
a deceptively high alcohol content. The characteristic 'bite' of the
inebriating liquid was dulled by the fruit juices, and by the fact that a
good portion of it was in the form of flavored liquors, leading one to
believe that the mixture was far less intoxicating than was actually the
case. He had tried to warn the Inspector of this fact, but she had been in
deep discussion at the time, and had instructed him to save his commentary
for a later time. 

 When she finally declaired herself free for conversation one hour (and
four glasses of punch) later, it was rather beside the point. What had
happened next was still clear in his mind. 

 *** 

 "Perhaps, Constable, you might wish to escort the lady home. She appears
to be quite intoxicated." The French liason officer's voice was
sympathetic and Fraser nodded. 

 "Of course. Thank you kindly for the lovely evening." 

 "Oui, and thank you for attending. Should I call a cab?" 

 Fraser looked over at his superior officer. She was far more relaxed than
he had ever seen her, leaning casually against the banister of the
staircase as she conversed with a staff member from the Italian consulate.
Thatcher was giggling freely as she sipped at her fifth glass of punch,
blissfully oblivious to her condition. "Yes," Fraser agreed, "perhaps you
should. I'll get the Inspector." 

 Winding his way through the crowd, he soon reached her side. "Excuse me,
sir." 

 She jumped a bit in surprise at the sound of his voice, then smiled when
she saw him standing there. Taking his arm, she gestured at the man she
had been speaking to. "Constable Fraser, I'd like you to meet Roberto.
He's Italian." Her voice was decidedly slurred. 

 Fraser looked at the man. Had the clearly Mediterranean features not
given him away, the finely tailored Italian suit, the Italian footware, or
perhaps the Italian flag above his nametag surely would have provided
clues. "I see." 

 The Inspector's smile deepened, and she winked at Roberto before running
her fingers up Fraser's arm in a way that was decidedly suggestive. "So,
Ben...is there something you wanted?" 

 Desperately, he attempted to keep his composure despite the tone of that
last query. "It's, well, it's getting rather late, sir, and I was
wondering if we shouldn't be taking our leave." 

 She seemed to consider this for a moment, then nodded. "Good idea, Ben.
Back to the consulate." 

 The appropriate thanks and goodbyes were quickly made, and the
Inspector's coat was retrieved from the coat room, along with Fraser's
Stetson. He was began to believe that this could end with nothing worse
than a bit of a hangover on Thatcher's part. Then they got to the
consulate. 

 Fraser began to give the driver direction's to Thatcher's apartment,
along with instructions to see her all the way to her door, when Thatcher
interrupted. "Thank you, but I will be getting out here with Ben." 

 He frowned quizzically, "Is there something you need here?" 

 She didn't answer until the large wooden doors of the consulate had
closed ominously behind them. Locking them securely, she turned to face
Fraser. The next thing he knew, the Inspector was draped over him like a
pelt, her arms laced around his neck in an iron grip, her eyes staring
straight into his. "Yes, Ben," she informed him, "I need you." 

 Fraser's mouth dropped open in shock as he ducked out from under her,
tripping over his own feet as he tried to hurry backwards away from her
onslaught. "Inspector!" 

 Advancing on him like a wolf, she kept her eyes locked with his, her
expression a disquieting mixture of sadness and blatant lust. "I'm not
getting any younger, Ben, and neither are you. We're both mature adults,
old enough to know when we're attracted to someone. We're also both very
far from home, aren't we, Ben? Not many people understand us." 

 Her voice dropped to something quite like a purr. Fraser's heartrate went
through the roof, and he began to wonder if there was a history of heart
attacks in his family. His pulse had to be pushing 200, and even though he
was in good physical condition, that was a bit high. "I understand you,
Ben," she murmured, "do you understand me?" 

 He tried to back up further, to become one with the woodwork of the hall,
but he was rapidly finding that impossible. His throat turned to dust, and
he felt his face flame as her fingers began to unbutton his tunic, one
torturous button at a time. "I...uh..." He attempted to clear his throat,
as his voice had taken on an odd rasping quality. "I understand that you
are perhaps not yourself at the moment. Your judgment has quite likely
suffered from the effects of the punch, not to mention -" 

 "Shut up, Ben." A split second later, he had no choice. Her lips crushed
against his, and she kissed him with a fierceness that made their previous
'contact' on the train look like a friendly peck on the cheek. Her
forehead bumped against his Stetson, and she responded by simply grabbing
it and hurling it Frisbee-style down the hall so that she could continue
her assault unimpeded. Without thinking, he began to return the kiss, but
then the taste of the punch on her lips reminded him why she was acting
this way in the first place. He forced himself to pull away, turning his
head and stretching up on his toes to take advantage of his superior
height. 

 Unfortunately, this maneuver only served to change the focus of her
attentions back to his chest. Slowly, he began to inch sideways down the
hall, hoping he could get to a door and escape. The tunic was all the way
unbuttoned now, and she was grappling with the Sam Browne. *Great Scott! I
do believe she's GROWLING now! Oh dear.* 

 There was a sudden cry of frustration, and Fraser looked down, something
he had been trying not to do, as it placed his face in great jeopardy of
another oral assault. Thatcher's bracelet had become entangled in the
buckle of his belt. Taking a deep breath and hoping she would be too busy
with the entrapment to notice his new proximity, he reached down to help,
afraid she would damage the jewelry or belt in her efforts. The bracelet
was soon released, but that proved to be a mixed blessing, as the buckle
of his belt was released with it. 

 With remarkable speed and singularity of purpose, she disposed of the
belt, then took hold of both sides of his black collar and pushed
backwards. Fraser was once again pinned firmly to the wall, and despite
his struggles, soon found himself divested of his tunic. She took hold of
one strap of his suspenders next, and the Constable saw his opportunity.
Twisting down and away, he managed to free himself, although the strap
came down off his shoulder in the process. 

 Thatcher stood between him and his office, but there were plenty of other
rooms in the big house. Rooms he could lock himself into until the
Inspector calmed down. It was the only logical course of action, but
somehow, his feet refused to obey the dictates of logic. He just stood
there, paralyzed as Thatcher began to walk towards him again, a leisurely
sway to her hips and a lascivious gleam to her eyes. 

 "Playing hard to get, Ben?" She chastized. "I know that game. But the
game's over...this game of pretending we aren't attracted to one another,
that we don't want each other. I know you want this, Ben...I know I'm an
attractive woman. And you..." Thatcher grinned and ran the tip of her
tongue over her teeth. Fraser felt both his knees and his resolve begin to
weaken. "You are one damn attractive man, Benton Fraser, and I know you
have feelings for me, just the same as I have them for you. How long are
you going to do this, Ben?" Her tone softened to something akin to a purr.
"How long are you going to let damned protocol rule your life? How long do
you want to be lonely?" 

 Now her arms were around his neck again, pulling him to her, the strap
falling from his other shoulder as her fingers teased it away. Fraser felt
as though he were standing outside himself, watching his body respond,
even as his mind screamed that this was Not A Good Thing. He knew that
everything Thatcher was saying wasn't really her, no matter how much he
wished it was. What's worse, even if it was real, he couldn't allow
himself to act on it. 

 So why was he kissing her in return? Why were his hands coming up behind
her to run through that silky, fragrant hair? Why wasn't he fighting as
her hands slipped up under his shirt and undershirt to do wicked things to
his chest? Why was he finding it extremely difficult to retain any
cognizant thought? 

 "Stop it, son!" Robert Fraser's voice snapped in Benton's ear, and though
he jumped slightly, he didn't look up. He also didn't obey. 

 "I know, I know...you've got a beautiful woman in your arms. She's
willing, you're lonely, this looks like a dream come true," he continued
sternly, not caring that his son was ignoring him. "But it's only an
illusion. If you do this, she'll hate you for it. Trust me, I know....why,
your mother once gave me permission to invite the entire Yukon detachment
of the RCMP up for dinner. Forty-seven of them! Now, I knew she was a
little loopy after inhaling the fumes of rendering seal blubber all day,
but I took her yes as a yes anyway. Slept outside for a month." 

 Fraser pulled back, but only long enough to let out a short sigh of
frustration. His father was dead...what business did he have nosing in on
the love lives of the living just because his spectral status gave him the
ability to waft in and out at will! "Your point?" Fraser asked tersely.
His hands continued to stroke over the Inspector's back, as she nibbled in
a truly maddening fashion along the line of his jaw. 

 "My point," Thatcher mumbled through a mouthful of Constable, "Is I want
you, Fraser! How dense...mmm, that feels good...how dense are you?" 

 "My point," Fraser Sr. clarified, "Is that this may or may not be the
punch talking. If it is, she'll kill you. If it isn't, she'll just hate
you, because you let her do it when it could have been." 

 His father was right. Damn it, but his father was right about this one.
He couldn't let her do this. He cared about her too much to do this. It
simply wasn't worth it to have one night of granted wishes if it meant he
had to lose his friendship with her, that close and precious thing that
held the promise of being more someday. But not today. 

 With a deep, burning feel of regret, Fraser slipped his arms between the
two of them and pushed her away. She looked at him in disbelief, and he
took advantage of her shock to slip past her and into his office. There,
he locked the door behind him, trying to block out the sounds of her
calling him. Begging him. Threatening him. Declaring both love and hate,
ordering him to come out, to let her in...anything. 

 He couldn't. 

 Fraser buried his head in his hands. He felt like the dregs of humanity.
Thatcher was right...how long would he sacrifice everything for duty? At
thirty-five years old, he had planned on having a wife, a family, on
living happily in the Yukon amongst his Inuit friends. Instead he was a
lonely bachelor in a far-off American city, locking the woman he loved out
of his room and his life. Why? Because it was his duty. 

 "You did well, son." Hearing his father's voice, he looked up, not caring
if the ghost could see the tears beggining to glisten in his eyes. 

 "Dad?" His voice was tighter than he had expected, but he made no effort
to hide it. 

 "What?" 

 "Go away, please." 

 *** 

 The tirade went on for another ten minutes, but was then suddenly
replaced by an odd silence. After five minutes, Fraser nervously cracked
the door just enough to peek out. To make sure she was all right. She
wasn't. 

 Thatcher was on her knees in the hall, swaying slightly, with a rather
nauseous expression on her pale face. The Constable recognized the signs
of imminent alcohol-induced regurgitation, and he quickly grabbed the
trash can. He was at her side in a matter of seconds, but it was too late.
In a very undignified, un-Inspectorlike fashion, Thatcher proceeded to
throw up rather violently. Some of it landed in the trash can, but a good
deal more wound up on the front of her suit and blouse. 

 She looked up at him plaintively, all the lust that had been in her eyes
before now gone. No longer was she the dangerous vixen or the demanding
boss. Now, she was just a woman who had drank a heck of a lot more than
she was accustomed to, and was pretty darned sick as a result. Fraser
smiled gently, trying to show her that all was forgiven and understood. 

 Reaching around her waist and putting one of her arms across his broad
shoulders, Fraser carefully helped her to her feet. Moving like a seasick
two-year-old, she eventually made it to the bathroom, where the Constable
waited patiently as he listened to the water run in the sink. Next, he
heard the shower activate, but instead of the subtle splashing sounds of
someone bathing, there was a soft thud. 

 His smooth brow furrowed in worry, and he knocked on the door.
"Inspector? Are you all right, sir?" The only response was a low moan. 

 Putting aside thoughts of impropriety at the Inspector's likely state of
undress, Fraser stepped back and kicked open the door, careful not to kick
so strongly as to send it crashing inward too hard. The lock gave way
easily, revealing Thatcher lying passed-out near the shower. Thankfully,
she was still clad in her bra and panties. 

 Fraser had gathered her up in his arms and carried her to his own
bedroom, tucking her in gently on the sparse cot, and covering her with
only the very softest blankets. He had taken her soiled clothing to an
all-night laundry, then scrubbed the hall and bathroom. His intent was
that there be nothing remaining to cause Thatcher to regret the evening.
And more importantly, that there be nothing to make her regret their
friendship. 

 Unfortunately, that effort seemed to have failed. 

 *** 

 Inside Fraser's room, Thatcher was almost finished getting dressed, but
as she went to put her bracelet on her wrist, she found the clasp oddly
bent. Holding it in place, she stepped out into the corridor to look for
Fraser. 

 She didn't have to look far. The Constable was leaning against the wall
less than a meter from the door. The Inspector began to ask him for
assistance, then stopped, her mouth falling open in surprise. Fraser had
apparently not heard her come out, for he was standing there with his eyes
closed and an expression on his face that she knew he would never let her
see willingly. 

 Her heart twisted, and she felt her throat tighten. *How could you, Meg?*
She berated herself. *You make love to a man one night, then treat him
like dirt the next morning! Is that supposed to prove something? Are you
supposed to make up for losing control by just hurting him as hard and as
fast as you can?* She watched in morbid fascination as he took a deep,
shuddering breath - clearly only his prodigious self-control stood between
him and tears. 

 Quietly, never letting him know she had been there, she slipped back into
his office/bedroom. Opening the top drawer of the desk, she located
writing paper and a ballpoint pen. Sitting down, she began to write. 

 *Dear Constable Fraser:* 

 Thatcher paused, then crossed out the line. Too formal. 

 *Dear Ben:* 

 She began to write, and as she did so, she found that the stiffness that
was so hard to bypass in person was ever so easy to ignore on paper. Her
words, her thoughts, her feelings flowed through the cheap pen in a
virtual flood for twenty minutes, then she stopped. With a self-satisfied
flourish, she signed her name at the bottom, then re-read the letter. As
she read, the thought of giving such a thing to Fraser took on a
frightening degree of intimacy. She couldn't do it. 

 Feeling hopelessly lost and confused, Thatcher quickly reduced the letter
to shreds, wadding up the shreds and shoving them in her pocket. A letter,
she convinced herself, was a cop-out. She had to look him in the face and
tell the truth. 

 *** 

 Fraser jumped as he heard the door open, instantly composing himself into
the picture-perfect image of a Mountie that the Inspector expected. He
nodded pleasantly to her, "If it's all right with you, Sir, I'll go change
into my uniform now." 

 To his surprise, she reached out and grabbed his arm, stopping him. "No."


 "No?" 

 She tossed her head like a nervous filly, forcing herself to look him
right in the eyes. "Today is Sunday. The consulate's closed, so there's no
reason for you to wear your uniform, is there?" 

 He looked at her in utter confusion. "Sir? But you said...." 

 "I know what I said, Constab - Ben. It doesn't matter anymore. I
was...disconcerted by my...situation, and I said a number of things that,
in retrospect, were perhaps not in the best judgment." Fraser knew that he
probably looked as shell-shocked as he felt, but he didn't matter.
Thatcher seemed to preoccupied with her own nervousness to notice his
elation as she continued. "I was thinking that it might be possible to go
someplace for lunch together, as there are...things...that I believe would
benefit from discussion. Would that be acceptable?" 

 "Yes, I...I think it would be...acceptable, that is." His heart was doing
cartwheels in his chest, giddy with the prospect of not having ruined
everything after all. Perhaps last night's restraint would pay off in a
continued friendship, and maybe, just maybe, that friendship might someday
have a chance at something more. He smiled, a smile that just barely
quirked his lips and dimpled his cheek, but that made his eyes shine like
twin gemstones. "Very acceptable." 

 THE END