The Gales Of November
 Contains m/f sex
Caveats, TYKs, etc.:
 
1)  This story is rated R -- 'nuff said

2)  If you don't like the idea of Thatcher and Fraser 
together -- abandon ship now!

3)  This story takes place this coming October.

4)  The characters herein (with the obvious exceptions) are
not mine, and no copyright infringement of any sort is 
intended.  Please don't sue me.

5)  Having lived on the east coast my entire life, my knowledge
of the Great Lakes falls into the category of "A little knowledge is
a dangerous thing."  If any of the facts about the lakes, boats, or
anything
else of this genre is off, therefore, please just 
work with me and suspend your disbelief.

6)  Mild "We Are the Eggmen" and "All the Queen's Horses" 
spoilers.

7)  My gratitude goes out to my sister, Armida, for helping me
work out some of the details of this story and for, as always
(in her infinite patience), acting as my sounding board and 
eternally-supportive friend.

8)  Comments, as always, welcomed at 
GILBERTK@MTC.MID.TEC.SC.US

***************************************************************** 

The Gales of November
 by Katherine Gilbert

   There was no question about it; Henri Clouthier had it in for
her.  The call that morning had proven it.
   "But Meg," he had argued over the phone, "we need a good,
experienced officer to help out on this project.  Besides, you've worked
with these people before."
   "Yes, in *Toronto*," Inspector Margaret Thatcher had argued 
back to him, "but I'm in Chicago now -- at the consulate.  Surely, there's
someone who can handle this better, who is more 
appropriately posted?"

   "We're sending out some of our people from Alberta," Clouthier
continued,
"but the S.O.S. people trust you.  They'd like to see your input on this."

   "Let me get this straight, sir," Thatcher tried to keep her cool.
"You want me to go out on Lake Superior in the middle of October?"  She
paused before saying, "First, it's the height of stupidity.  Second,
we have no access to boats to get there.  Third . . . doesn't S.O.S.
stand for Save Ontario's Shipwrecks?  What are they doing in Lake
Superior?"

   "They're branching out.  Look," Clouthier replied, "these salvagers
are severely damaging the wreck sites in the Canadian parts of 
Superior. You're fairly close.	You're experienced. . . You're going."
He paused.  "You can take Constable Fraser along with you if you'd like,"
he added finally.

   Thatcher winced.  "I'll never live down that fake dinner invitation,"
she had thought.

**********************************************************************

   Margaret sighed.  Confronting Fraser to ask him hadn't been easy.
She hadn't wanted him to take the invitation the wrong way, but she had
known that she was going to need some help on this one, and 
she didn't even want to think about the possibility of being stuck on
a boat, possibly for several days, with Constable Turnbull, so she had
gone to Fraser's office.

   "Inspector!" he had said, slightly startled when she knocked on his
office door.

   "Constable, I have just received orders from Ottawa.  I'm to rent
a boat and go to the Canadian side of Lake Superior to help capture some
wreck salvagers who are damaging dive sites.  Apparently, the head office
believes that some of our fellow officers are involved, and, in trying
to keep this story quiet, they are using only the RCMP to investigate,
with the help of S.O.S."

   "Aren't they only in Lake Ontario, sir?" Fraser had interrupted her
but became silent quickly when he caught her warning look.

   Thatcher began pacing and staring at the floor.  "The reason I am
telling you this," she pressed on, "is because . . ." Thatcher stopped
walking and looked at Fraser.  "Constable, what I have been asked to
do could be dangerous at this time of year.  I cannot . . . I will not
order you to accompany me, but I am asking for your
assistance."

   Fraser had met her eyes with understanding.	"When do we leave, sir?"
he had asked.
 
****************************************************************** 

   The next step that day had been to acquire a boat.  They had 
soon found that renting a boat to go out on Lake Superior to an 
undisclosed location for an unspecified amount of time, especially as
winter was pressing in on the Great Lakes, was not an easy task. Clouthier
had specified that they could not involve the Coast Guard in this effort,
since they might wish to become involved.  Fraser's best inspiration,
after the rentals had failed, therefore, was to ask Ray.  Thatcher groaned
and put her head in her hands thinking about it.

   "Let me see if I've got this straight," Ray had said, when they had
interrupted him, as he was trying to avoid working.  "You need a boat
to go out on the lake in the middle of winter.	You won't tell me where
you're going or when you're coming back."  Thatcher and Fraser nodded
their heads.  "Pleasure trip?" Ray asked with a 
slightly lascivious grin.

   Thatcher had groaned quietly and rolled her eyes.  "Detective," she
had said coldly, "I have official orders I need to carry out." Ray seemed
about to interrupt.  "I cannot explain the details or answer any specific
questions about this trip.  Now, as a long-time resident of this city,
do you know of any way to gain access to a boat? If not, we'll be on
our way."
   When Ray had still seemed disinclined to answer, Fraser had 
taken him aside to talk to him privately, although they had still been
within Thatcher's earshot.

   "So, what's with you and the dragon lady going out on a cruise?" Ray
had asked.
   Thatcher began to grind her teeth.
   "Ray, please, her name is Inspector Thatcher," Fraser had 
responded, "and it is not a cruise.  There is official business we must
attend to."

   "`Official business,' right," Ray continued.  "C'mon, Benny -- you
going to do a little necking with your lady officer?"
   Fraser looked confused.  "I don't see how our necks will be 
particularly involved," he answered.

   Thatcher was glad she wasn't wearing her red serge; she hated matching
the color of her clothes.

   Ray was laughing slightly.  "Alright, Ben.  I've got this cousin who
got a yacht in one of those government auctions where they 
buy things the used to belong to drug dealers.	I'll give him a call."

********************************************************************

   Quite a few hours later, after giving some man, who stared at her
in an even less appealing manner than Detective Vecchio, much 
more money than the boat was probably worth to rent and listening to
Fraser give Diefenbaker a long speech about how to behave with the
Vecchios
("Why would you lecture a deaf wolf?" she had thought), Thatcher had
been on her way, with Fraser accompanying.  The yacht was mid-sized,
with a couple of bedrooms and a small kitchen.	
Fortunately, it had been mostly enclosed, so the cold hadn't seemed
particularly
bad.  They were out a fair way onto Lake Superior when night fell, and
they had decided to stop rather than risk going on and possibly hitting
something.  "I'm sure there will be clear
weather tomorrow to help us reach our destination," Fraser had said,
before they both retired to their quarters.  Meg hadn't been so sure;
the temperature seemed to be dropping fast.

**********************************************************************

   Meg sighed and sat down on her bed.	She had been pacing 
about in her bedroom on the yacht, pondering the events which 
had brought her here.  She was wearing her long silken nightgown, but
she had her robe on over it.  She couldn't believe she was here, with
Fraser just a few feet away in his room.  He was so close; 
they were alone; no one would know if . . .

   "Stop it, Meg," she said aloud to herself.  "You can't very well just
go offer yourself to him.  You're on duty here -- both of you. Act like
a professional."  She pulled her robe around her more 
tightly; she felt the need to keep it on, just in case she should have
to go into the hall, and he saw her.   She sat with her arms folded and
began to take in her surroundings for the first time; she had only noticed
that they were ugly before. Everything seemed to be done in a pink the
shade of Pepto Bismol. She shook her head.  It was a room it was hard
not to clash with.

   "Meg, what on earth are you doing here?" she heard from behind her.
She spun around.
   "God, mother.  Would you stop doing that?" she asked.

   "Just trying to keep you on your toes," Mrs. Thatcher responded. 
   "Mother," Thatcher replied, annoyed, "you've been `keeping me on my
toes' for 35 years, . . . and five of those were after you were dead."

   "It hardly matters," her mother's ghost responded.  "You hardly ever
listen to me, anyway, dear.  If you did, you would have married that
nice Reagan boy instead of going into the police."
   Meg sighed.	"Mother, Robert was a heroin dealer."

   "But he was such a nice boy," her mother replied.  "He could have
provided such nice things for you."
   "Drug dealers frequently can, mother," Thatcher responded.
   "Oh, those were just rumors, dear," her mother pressed on.

   "Five arrests and four convictions were rumors, mother?" Thatcher
insisted.

   "Police persecution!" her mother cried.  "Why did you want to join
them anyway?"
   "I wonder," Thatcher muttered.

   Mrs. Thatcher sighed, looking slightly vexed.  "You really should
try to be more like your sister Elizabeth, Margaret.  Now there's a girl
who knows how to live properly."

   "Mother," Thatcher said, trying to keep her patience, "four rugrats,
a dimwitted husband, and a bunch of small dogs running at my heels isn't
the life I want.  Besides, her entire house seems to have plastic
coverings
on it.	She won't even let me sit down, when I'm there." 
   "She's probably just afraid you'd make a mess," her mother 
responded.

   Meg closed her eyes and counted to twenty.  "If I scream," she thought,
"Fraser will come running, and he'll think I've lost my mind, when I
seem to be sitting here talking to myself."   

   "Don't close your eyes on me, little girl," her mother continued on,
as Thatcher reluctantly opened them and looked at her.	"Now, since you've
missed your best chance, why not take that nice young man
across the hall?  He seems to like you."

   "Mother," Thatcher tried to say in measured tones, "I'm his superior
officer.  I *cannot* get personal with him."
   "I'm not telling you to get personal," her mother responded.
"I'm telling you to marry him!"

   Thatcher got up, exasperated, took off her robe, and turned out the
light.	"I'm going to bed now, mother," she said, climbing into the
badly-colored
bed.  "You can keep talking, but I'm not going to be listening."
   "No sense of respect," her mother's ghost sighed, before she 
disappeared.

   Margaret lay in bed, shaking her head.  "At least she got me into
bed," she thought, "but sleep is unlikely."  After all, Fraser was *so*
close.

**********************************************************************

   Across the hall, Benton was pacing.	He knew that Thatcher had asked
him along, because he was reliable.  He knew, or he told
himself, that he needed to stay professional, but her sheer proximity
was driving him crazy.	To have her just across the hall, to feel her
so close -- the tension of it was working on him.
   "Why don't you go see her, son?  Her room's got to be better 
decorated than yours."

   Fraser stopped pacing.  His father had appeared behind him again.
"Dad, do you think you could manage to appear in front of me for once?"
he asked.

   "Takes all the fun out of it," his father's ghost responded.  "Now,
why would anyone decorate a room in zebra stripes?"
   "Maybe he needed it for camouflage," Fraser answered.

   Fraser, Sr. looked at the walls and bedspread of the room and then
back to his son.  "Do they take zebras on yachts much these days?" he
asked him.

   Fraser sighed and leaned against an unfortunately-colored wall with
his arms crossed.

   "C'mon, son," his father's ghost encouraged, "go see her.  You know
she likes you.	You should have heard her on that train when she thought
you were dead, . . . and Frobisher told me what 
happened later."

   Fraser looked annoyed.  "Those were very different circumstances,
Dad . . . she . . . we . . . never mind.  Look," he said, when his father
seemed about to interrupt, "we've had this conversation before.  Anything
romantic between myself and Inspector Thatcher would be improper. . .Now,
I'm going to bed," he continued, as he made his way to the
tragically-stripped
resting place, "so I suggest you leave." 
   "No appreciation," Fraser, Sr. muttered, as he disappeared.

************************************************************************

   The next morning, Fraser and Thatcher met on the deck dressed in the
jeans and sweaters Thatcher had insisted on (uniforms and dresses were
of little use on the water) and discovered a bright, beautiful day, 
which helped reveal the lake to them.  A sudden 
cold snap had iced it over as far as they could see.
   "Oh dear," Fraser murmered.

   Thatcher looked at the horizon of ice.  "Well, I suppose they won't
be doing much salvaging in this," she said.
   "No, I suppose not," Fraser returned.
   They continued to stare out at the ice, until Fraser recited:
       Day after day, day after day;
       We stuck, nor breath nor motion;
       As idle as a painted ship 
       Upon a painted ocean.

   Thatcher finally looked at him.  "Coleridge," she said, "`The Rime
of the Ancient Mariner.'  Does that mean we'll have to stop wedding guests
to tell them about this in the future?"  She looked away 
quickly, realizing this was the wrong thing to say, just as Fraser looked
at her.  "I was thinking more of the beginning of *Frankenstein* myself,"
she went on to cover up her gaffe, "the novel, not the movie," she
specified.
As she thought about how long the characters in 
*Frankenstein* had sat trapped in the ice, a thought dawned on her, "I
think we need to call for help," she said, as she turned to go find the
ship's radio.

**********************************************************************

   Most of the next few hours were spent calling both the other RCMP
officers involved in the assignment and the U.S. Coast Guard, as they
had yet to reach Canadian waters, trying not to alert the latter to their
plans.	Their Canadian companions, however, were just as stuck as they
were, and the U.S. Coast Guard simply laughed and 
said, "So, wait a few days.  It'll thaw."

   Thatcher decided that they should stay on watch for the rest of the
daylight hours, in case the temperature should go up enough to cause
a thaw.  They sat in silence and watched, both of them unable to think
of polite conversation and knowing that it was an inappropriate time
for anything deeper.  Their uncomfortable situation, however, wasn't
made any more pleasant by the fact that Fraser apparently had "The Wreck
of the Edmund Fitzgerald" stuck in his head and 
was humming it repeatedly.  He seemed especially stuck on the line "When
the gales of November blow early," and he kept singing it softly to
himself.
Thatcher's patience wore thin about noon, and she sent him to make them
both lunch.
 
**********************************************************************

   The ice never broke that day, either literally or figuratively. Except
for Fraser's incessant humming, all was disturbingly quiet. When night
fell, Fraser made them both dinner.  To Thatcher's 
delight, all his cooking proved excellent.  After the meal was over and
the dishes were cleared, they sat quietly at the small table, which
functioned
as a dining room, for some time.  Finally, Meg 
spoke.

   "Fraser," she said, "I want to apologize for getting you into this.
You didn't have to come with me. . . I just wanted you to know 
that I appreciate it."	She stared at her hand on the loud tablecloth,
as she spoke.

   "I don't mind, ma'am," Fraser replied.  "I appreciate you asking me."

   Thatcher looked up at him.  "Why?" she asked.

   "Because it shows that you appreciate my work and feel that I can
be of some help," he replied.

   "Oh," she said looking back down.  "I just didn't want you to get
the wrong idea about this . . . assignment."

   "Ah, understood," Fraser responded, looking a little saddened. He
looked down to where their hands lay inches apart on the table. 
   Thatcher looked up enough to follow his gaze and drew back her hand
slightly, looking up at him.  "Fraser, I . . .," she began, then paused.
"Perhaps we should speak freely," she said.

   "Ah . . . It would be a break from the rest of the day," Fraser said
but, looking up at her, saw the slightly hurt look in her eyes. "I'm
sorry, sir.  That wasn't meant to sound like . . . Ma'am, Meg . . .
speaking
freely, today has been rather tense.  That's not your fault -- or mine,
but . . ." he trailed off.

   "I know," she replied.  "I'm sorry, Fraser.	I shouldn't have asked
you to come; I didn't mean to make this awkward for you.  
I was hoping that we would be able to handle this situation quickly and
return to Chicago without having time for so much . . . tension." 
   "I know," Fraser said, looking into her eyes.  "I know that you never
meant to make me uncomfortable, and you haven't -- not in 
any sense that's your, or anyone's, fault."  He reached across the table
and gently touched her hand.   

   Thatcher felt the sort of energy she had once before.  She took
Fraser's
hand in hers, as they continued to look at each other.	Then, Meg looked
away and said, "Fraser, if I continue to hold your hand much longer,
I'm not sure that I'll be able to continue acting like your superior
officer."

   Fraser's grip tightened slightly, although he was still gently
caressing
her hand, "Meg," he said slowly, "I won't be upset if that happens."
She looked back up at him.  "We're alone," he continued, "in the middle
of a frozen lake.  There's no one around to know . . . or to question
it."

   "Fraser," Thatcher responded, "I can't promise more than one night,
more than the duration of a cold snap.	At most, this could only be a
frozen second of time."

   "I'm willing to risk that," Fraser responded.  When he saw consent
in her eyes, he stood up from the table slowly and helped draw her up
to him.  They continued to simply look at each other for a minute, their
hands still entwined, until Thatcher brought her other hand up and gently
stroked Fraser's cheek.  Fraser then put his hand on her back and slowly
drew her closer to him.  As they kissed, very
delicately at first, they let go of each other's hands and embraced.

   Their kiss deepened, still with an almost aching gentleness.  They
allowed their hands to roam over each other.  Thatcher felt the 
breadth of Fraser's shoulders and gently traced down his back with one
hand, while caressing the back of his neck and head with the other.
Fraser,
meanwhile, ran one hand down Thatcher's spine to the small of her back,
while holding her head with the other, letting her silken hair play
against
his fingers.  When he moved one hand to run it gently down her side,
he felt her sigh against his lips, and his desire threatened to overwhelm
him.

   Thatcher felt Fraser pulsating against her and was unsure whether
she could continue to control her passion.  She broke off their kiss
and, barely managing to find her voice, said, "Maybe we should go
somewhere
other than the kitchen for this?"

   Fraser was still holding her tightly; he wasn't sure whether he would
ever be able to let her go again.  "My bedroom seems to have been
decorated
by a zebra enthusiast," he responded.  "Is yours any better?"
   "No," she said, "but let's go there anyway."
   "Understood," he responded.

   They managed to let go of each other long enough to get to her bedroom.
When Fraser saw the coloration, however, he let out a 
small "Oh dear," before he looked back at her again.

   "I think their decorator was a bit taste-impaired," Thatcher agreed,
before she and Fraser resumed their embrace and deep kiss.

   After a few minutes, Fraser's hands began to pull up Thatcher's sweater
slightly.  The touch of her skin was incredible, and they quickly took
off the unnecessary garment and her bra.  They also
took a moment to remove their shoes and socks, realizing that they would
become extremely cumbersome soon.

   Fraser then worked his way down the side of Thatcher's neck with his
lips until he had reached her breasts.	He opened his mouth in order
to take one in and fully taste it, playing with the stiffened nipple
with his tongue, while his hands caressed her back.  Thatcher groaned,
as Fraser continued to work his way down her stomach with his tongue,
before returning to give her other breast the same loving attention.
By the time he returned up his path on the opposite side of her neck,
Thatcher was pulling off Fraser's sweater, and, then, still kissing him,
she pushed him down onto the bed.  Fraser 
groaned, fortunately in pleasure instead of pain.
   Meg allowed her hands to fully feel Fraser's chest, enjoying
the sculpture of it.  She began to work her way down his body in
much the same way he had done with her, wondering, as she went,
whether he was one of the men who was able to receive much pleasure from
his own nipples.  When he groaned more loudly as she drew her tongue
lightly across one, she realized that she had her answer.

   Thatcher continued to work her way down Fraser's body, taking off
his clothes from the waist down, as she went.  When he was finally
revealed
to her, she looked at him in appreciation before taking
him into her mouth.  Fraser let out another deep groan.
   After a few minutes, Thatcher worked her way slowly back up 
Fraser's body.	When she was face to face with him again, he took her
face in his hands and kissed her passionately, rolling them 
both back over as he did so.

   Fraser continued the pattern they had set up, running his hands and
mouth back down along her body, stopping to glory again in the feel of
her breasts in his mouth.  He then continued down to remove the rest
of her clothes and, parting her gently with his tongue,
allowed himself to taste her depths.  He heard her cry out softly, deeply,
as he did.
   When he had worked his way back up and returned to face her,
several minutes later, and had kissed her deeply again, he found
his voice long enough to say, "Meg, I believe we . . . um . . ."

   Thatcher pulled herself into reality long enough to be able to say,
"my purse, by the bed."  Fraser handed it to her and, in one of the only
disorganized things he'd ever seen her do, watched 
her toss out its contents onto the floor, until she found the
condom.  She stopped for a second before handing it to him and
said, "Fraser, I hope you don't think that I brought these *for*
you. . . I try to be prepared, well . . . I didn't bring them . . ."

   Fraser nodded.  "Understood, sir." 
   When she had helped him put it on, Fraser brought her up to
him and kissed her again before laying her back down on the bed.
   He entered her gently and heard her say his first name.  They
continued to lose themselves in their shared rhythm for what seemed like
a blissful eternity, continuing to kiss and touch each other. As they
neared a climax, Benton took Meg's fingers delicately into his mouth
before allowing their hands to entwine.  When they came, Meg cried out,
holding the back of Fraser's head tightly and
pressing her cheek up against his, while Fraser whispered her name, his
free arm wrapped tightly around her back holding her to him.

   When they faced each other once again, they kissed deeply once more
and then continued to look into each other's eyes, but 
Thatcher felt a sudden, unbearable sadness at knowing that she
could not continue to feel this love all the time from Fraser, that
tonight
would be an end.  Fraser immediately picked up on her 
feelings and whispered, "No!  Don't think about that -- not now.  Stay
with me completely tonight.  We'll face tomorrow together, 
when it comes."
   "Understood," Meg replied.

*********************************************************************

   They awoke the next day in each other's arms, having repeated
their pattern twice more in the night ("No wonder every woman he
sees goes crazy over him," Thatcher had thought, at one point.
"They pick up on his stamina.").  They held each other gently for a half
hour past the time they were supposed to be out of bed.

   Thatcher finally decided, however, that it could be put off no longer,
and they arose reluctantly.  They dressed in their separate rooms but
with the doors open.

   When they went upstairs, they could see that the ice had melted. "Oh
dear," Fraser said sadly.

   "I know," Thatcher responded.  "I was hoping that it would have
continued
as well."

*********************************************************************

   Several hours later, after having received word that the salvagers
had been caught earlier that morning, mounties and all, they had been
told that they were no longer of use and were now close to 
Chicago again.	When they could start to see the city clearly, 
Thatcher slowed down and stopped the boat's engines.
   "What is it, sir?" Fraser asked.

   "Fraser," Thatcher said sadly, "last night has to stay out here, .
. . so I thought that we should say goodbye before we reach shore."

   "Understood," Fraser said, before gently taking her face in one of
his hands and kissing her again.  They embraced one final time, sharing
a final kiss, before they reluctantly pulled themselves
apart.

**********************************************************************

   "I'll see you at the consulate tomorrow," Thatcher said, as they pulled
the yacht into its proper place.  "I'll take care of returning the keys
to Detective Vecchio's cousin."
   "No, sir," Fraser responded.  "I'll see to it."  He seemed 
determined, so she nodded.  He paused before adding, "Sir, do you think
it's possible that we could become, . . . well, stranded again next year?"

   Thatcher smiled warmly.  "We'll see, Constable," she responded. "We'll
see."

The End