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luzulaTitle: In Your Boots
Pairing: Fraser/Thatcher + ensemble
Rating: PG
Length: 3650 words
Summary: Fraser wakes up in a woman's body.
Notes: Note, this is an ABANDONED WIP. It's maybe five years old or so, though I rather like it on reread--it's a casefic with some fun ensemble elements and Fraser/Thatcher bonding. Set in S2. There are notes at the end about where I imagined the story going after this (as far as I remember).
I roll onto my side, half awake, and pull my arms up to my chest. My hands encounter something soft and yielding, curving flesh warm with body heat. I startle, fully awake at the inexplicably terrifying thought that there is a woman in my bed.
No, there isn't. Or rather, there is. But I'm alone, and those are my breasts.
I lie down on my back, breathing slowly to calm my racing pulse. Tentatively, I move a hand down to my groin, and feel not a penis under my long johns, but only a curly thatch of hair. I take a deep breath, and rational thought returns. I can deal with this.
After all, stranger things have happened to me.
I glance at the clock, which stands at 05:56. Since I'm awake, I might as well get up. I stand, looking down at myself. The long johns don't fit me very well--they are too long, hanging loose on my arms and legs, and too tight in other places. Diefenbaker raises his head from his mat over by the window, then whuffs in confusion. He pads over to me.
"Diefenbaker. It's still me." My voice is higher than before, and the pitch drops as I try to adjust. He whines, then sticks his nose between my legs. "Dief! Stop that! Honestly, you have no sense of propriety."
I kneel down and take his head between my hands, making sure he can see my mouth. "Dief. I'm still me. I'm the same person you met in the bear trap, and the same person you saved from drowning."
He seems to accept it then, although he lowers his tail in confusion. I don't blame him. "No, I don't know what happened, either. We'll find out, though." My voice has found its proper range now. If I were to sing, I would probably be a mezzo-soprano.
Well. One thing at a time. I fetch my towel and head for the bathroom to take a shower. I strip down, looking more closely at myself. I am shorter, of course, and more...curvaceous. I tentatively cup one of my breasts. It feels heavy and warm in my hand. They seem a bit impractical, and I wish they weren't quite so ample. My muscle mass is reduced, although I still seem to be reasonably fit, and my layer of subcutaneous fat is still there, although distributed somewhat differently.
In the bathroom mirror, the face looking back at me is recognizably my own, although the features are more delicate, my jaw and chin less wide, my cheeks smooth. My hair is still short, messy and a little curly after sleep. I smooth it down reflexively.
I shower quickly, trying to decide what on Earth I should do. I can't shirk my duties at the Consulate, of course, but how can I turn up like this? Perhaps I could call Ray for advice--but no, he's away on some internal education of the CPD that he complained volubly about yesterday. I reluctantly conclude that I will have to confide in my superior officer. This is hardly something I can hide.
When I begin to dress, I realize that I can't possibly wear my uniform. It would fit me extremely ill, and I can't bring myself to represent the RCMP in such a way. I didn’t keep the clothes I wore when I was undercover as a woman--I gave them away to charity, not anticipating that I might need them again. Instead, I pull a flannel shirt over my head, along with a sweater, hoping that my breasts will be obscured underneath the layers. Obviously I have no brassiere, and I feel positively indecent without one. I can't pull my jeans over my hips at all; they are too narrow. I sigh and take on the sweatpants I use for going running.
"Great Scott. What on Earth has happened to you, son?"
Of all moments, he has to pick this one to turn up. Although I suppose it could have been worse--I could have been naked still. "I don't know, Dad. But I intend to find out."
"I should hope so. Hunt them to the ends of the earth, you should."
"Dad, it's not like I was shot dead. I'm still alive and well."
"Yes, well, can't be stranger than being a ghost, I suppose. Good child-bearing hips, that looks like. Perhaps I can get some grandchildren after all."
"I wouldn't count on it if I were you," I say drily. "If you have nothing to contribute on the subject of how to change back into a man, I need to go to work."
"That's good, son," he says approvingly. "A little trifle like this shouldn't keep you from your duty. I'll let you leave, then." He tips his hat at me.
I should go. I feel strangely reluctant to leave the safety of my apartment, but I begin work in 45 minutes, and the walk takes about half an hour. I take my leather jacket on to further hide my breasts from view, although I don't feel very successful. Dief nudges his nose into my hand, and I stroke my hand over his head, pathetically grateful for the comfort.
"All right, let's go," I say to Dief. I sneak out, hoping to avoid the neighbors and feeling like a thief in my own house.
Out on the street, I feel grateful for the first time for the anonymity of the city. No one knows me, no one sees that I've changed, and I only get a few glances for my ill-fitting clothes. I must look like a bag lady, I realize, someone who scrounges for throwaway clothes in containers.
At the entrance to the Consulate, I hesitate, then begin to unlock the door. I am not the first to arrive, though--there is a light under Inspector Thatcher's door, although Turnbull is nowhere in sight. Best to get this over with. I take a deep breath and knock firmly on her door.
"Yes?" she replies.
"Sir. I respectfully request to speak with you."
"Who is this?" The door opens, and she stares at me. I am no longer taller than her, I realize--I'd instinctively looked down, but her eyes meet mine at the same height. She's impeccably dressed, as always. "Who are you?"
I straighten my spine. "I'm Constable Fraser, sir. I'm afraid I woke up like this. Or, not exactly like this, but, well. As a woman, sir. I apologize for being out of uniform."
Her eyes widen. I don't think I've seen her lost for words before. Finally she pinches her hand, presumably to see if she's dreaming, and then shakes her head. "In my office, Constable."
Behind her desk, she regains her considerable poise. "How did this happen?"
"I'm afraid I don't know, sir. But I intend to find out."
"I certainly hope so. In the meantime, I expect you to do your duties."
"Of course, sir. Although I'm afraid my uniform doesn't fit."
She taps a pen against her lips. "Perhaps you could borrow one of mine. We do seem to be much the same size. Although--Constable, you do realize that you need a, well..." She gestures helplessly toward my chest.
"The proper sort of underwear, sir?" My cheeks are hot.
"Yes, that." I hear the front door opening, and she turns away with visible relief. "Turnbull!"
"Sir? Yes, sir?" He appears at the door, saluting. "What can I do for you this fine day?"
"Turnbull, this is Constable Fraser. Except he's--she's a woman now."
"Sir! I wasn't aware that you were planning on changing your sex. May I extend my congratulations, if that is appropriate? Although...your uniform, sir?" He looks scandalized at the state of my clothes.
"It's not intentional, Turnbull. And I hope it's only temporary, although it's too early to tell at this juncture."
"Very well, sir."
Inspector Thatcher takes over. "I have a task for you, Turnbull. Go out and buy proper underwear and some other clothes for Constable Fraser. I certainly can't have him, I mean her, I mean...be seen in this state."
"Yes, sir. What size should I buy?"
She sighs impatiently, handing me a measuring tape from one of her drawers. "Go and take your measurements, Constable."
Her gaze flickers down to my chest, where the jacket hangs open. "And I believe those need cup size C. Or possibly D."
In my office, I measure my height and my circumference at waist, hips, and chest. I write them down on a piece of paper for Turnbull, who seems awed at the importance of his mission. "Sir? What style would you prefer?"
"Something plain and practical, please. And if you could keep the reason for your purchases quiet, I'd be much obliged."
He straightens. "Mum's the word! I certainly won't let them know I'm buying it for a woman, sir. Or a man."
There seems to be nothing I can do now but wait, so I sit down at my desk and absently sort my piles of paper. They don't need sorting, of course, but I need something to occupy my hands. Ray. I need to talk to Ray, but I can't. Tomorrow, I'm scheduled to help him with a suspected insurance fraud case. It’s a large Canadian company, which makes my involvement all the more important. I suppose I can still do that, but I'd prefer to avoid the station if at all possible, until I can determine the reason for my sudden change of sex.
There must be a reason. I am no stranger to phenomena seemingly unexplainable by modern science, and in my experience, things like this do not happen at random. The key, just as in a criminal investigation, is to find the motive behind it. Who would want to do this to me, and why? I can't make head or tail of it.
There is a precise knock on the door. "Yes?"
Slightly muffled by the door, Turnbull replies: "Sir, I have completed my mission."
"Come in." He pushes the door open, with a plastic bag in one hand and what I assume is Inspector Thatcher's uniform in the other.
"Thank you kindly. If you give me the receipt, I will of course reimburse you."
He puts the bag on my desk. "If I do say so myself, I think I found the perfect colors for you."
"I'm sure you did." I wait for him to leave--I think I can do without Turnbull watching me undress. When the door has closed, I investigate the contents of the bag. Thankfully, it appears that Turnbull managed to follow instructions this time. There are several pairs of plain black cotton underwear, and two brassieres, slightly more embellished. I also find a long blue skirt and a blouse in paler blue.
I shed my too-big clothes and start dressing. The brassiere fits well, but it feels different from when I went undercover as a woman. This time, I have real breasts, and they are gathered together, held up in a way that emphasizes them somehow. I look down at my cleavage, frowning. On the other hand, the brassiere will undoubtedly be an advantage should I have to run. Experimentally, I shake my upper body, and nod in satisfaction when my breasts are held in place tolerably well. I glance at Dief, whose tongue is lolling out.
"I'll thank you to keep your amusement to yourself. How would you feel if you were suddenly turned into a bitch?" That silences him.
The uniform, though, is blessedly familiar, and I put it on with relief. It fits me well, on the whole--perhaps a little tight across the chest, and the boots are half a size too large, but this is easily remedied with a pair of extra socks.
I knock on Inspector Thatcher's door. "Come in."
I stand before her desk, back straight, arms at parade rest. "Do I pass inspection, sir?"
Her gaze flickers over my body, and then her face shutters off, unreadable and blank. I swallow uncomfortably under her scrutiny. No, I know my lanyard is straight.
"Yes, Constable, you do," she says finally.
"Thank you, sir."
According to the roster, I have guard duty now. I go out on the front steps, straighten my spine and relax my body. The secret to standing still for hours on end is not to grow tense, and to shift your weight imperceptibly from foot to foot over the course of minutes, moving your toes inside the boots to keep the blood flowing. Dief wanders off after a while to inspect a nearby alley. I'm afraid he finds guard duty pointless, although his actual wording is far more crude.
To keep my mind occupied, I watch the passersby. I am used to attracting a certain amount of attention while standing guard, most of it unwelcome, and today is no exception. There are the usual stares, of course, and people pointing me out to one another, and at a quarter past eleven a man approaches me.
"Hey, Mountie girl! You look like you could use some company." His tone of voice is most insulting. I ignore him, of course. He looks me over, gaze lingering at chest height. The tunic is actually rather form-fitting and I feel as if I might as well have a sign above my head advertising my breasts. I feel my cheeks grow hot.
The man leans in, putting a hand on my shoulder. "So, you like riding, do you?"
My hands want to clench, but I refuse to let him see me react. I assess him without moving my eyes. He has the advantage of height and build, yes, but I could take him. It would simply be a matter of using his own strength against him, waiting until he overextended himself, then bearing him to the ground, twisting his arm behind his back to the point of dislocation...
I don't do this, of course. I stare straight ahead until the man tires of his sport.
When I return to my desk after lunch, Ray has left a message saying that he won’t be able to liaise with me tomorrow, and could I handle the case alone, or put it off. I suppose I could--after all, the case is the concern of the Canadian Consulate as much as the CPD. But I feel slightly off balance. I suppose I’ve come to count on Ray. He would probably grumble and complain about how this could not possibly have happened, but he’s unquestioningly loyal and would help me return to normal, if at all possible.
There is a sharp knock on the door, and I look up as Inspector Thatcher opens the door. Not for the first time, I wish that she would wait for an answer before entering.
"Constable?"
"Sir," I say and stand up. She faces me across the desk, and I wonder whether she enjoys the fact that she is now taller than me. No, that’s an uncharitable thought, and I shake it off.
"Ottawa is concerned about the image of Canadian businesses abroad, and there is some pressure to solve the Golden Glory case. I understand you are to be working on it with Detective Vecchio tomorrow?"
"Yes, sir. But I’m afraid Detective Vecchio won’t be able to help."
"That is unfortunate. Perhaps Turnbull...no." She frowns thoughtfully. "I suppose I could find the time to help you instead. It is an important case, and it would do me good with some fieldwork. It’s been too long."
I’m surprised, but I try to hide it. "Of course, sir. I have appointments with the CEO of the company and some of the key personnel tomorrow, and I’m looking forward to working with you."
I’m surprised to find that it’s true. I’ve wondered what it would be like to do real policework together with Inspector Thatcher. Obviously she must be capable, to have attained the rank she has at such an early age, but our working relationship has so far not afforded opportunities for such collaboration.
***
In the elevator up to the 23rd floor, Inspector Thatcher taps distractedly at the file in her hands. She's dressed in a business suit, looking crisp and professional, and I in the borrowed uniform. Together with Ray, I've met once already with the CEO, with the financial officer, and with the public relations manager. All three of them denied any knowledge of the matter. Today, we will meet again with the latter two and see if we can shake loose some new information.
Inspector Thatcher takes immediate control of the situation. "I'm Inspector Margaret Thatcher of the Canadian Consulate. This is Constable Fraser; she'll assist me in the investigation."
Confusion registers on the face of Chantal Leroux, the public relations manager. She is too smooth to ask outright, but says, with a slight French accent, "I was given to understand that the investigation would be handled by Detective Ray Vecchio and, ah, another Constable Fraser. They spoke with us the day before yesterday."
"Ottawa has taken an interest, and the investigation will be handled by the Canadian Consulate. This is Constable Elizabeth Fraser, the sister of the Constable Fraser you met before," Inspector Thatcher lies smoothly.
"I see," Ms. Leroux says. She leans back in her chair, her eyes fixed on me. I wonder if she suspects something. No, how could she? The financial officer, in his neutral suit and tie, says nothing. If anything, he seems to be looking sideways at Ms. Leroux, not me.
"All right, ladies and gentlemen," Thatcher says. "Let's review the situation. The shipment of maple syrup that Golden Glory had reported as sunk to the bottom of Lake Michigan has turned up again in a warehouse down by the water. And since the insurance company has already paid for the missing shipment, they are not happy."
She leans backwards and regards each of the executives in turn. I should keep my eyes on them, as well, but I can't help but admire her body language--the relaxed but focused pose, the sharp gaze.
"Have you spoken to the shipping company?" asks Ms. Leroux.
"Not yet," Thatcher says. "Have you?"
"I'm afraid not. And I really don't know anything about it." She spreads her hands in a gesture of innocence.
"And have you gone through the financial records?" Thatcher asks Mr. Daniels, the financial officer.
"I have the records for the last three months here, Inspector," he says. "No trace of any anomalies. Do you want to take a look?"
"Thank you, I will," she says, and begins to browse the papers.
"Meanwhile, would you like some refreshments?" Ms. Leroux says to me. "Coffee? Tea? Anything to eat?"
"Some tea would be nice," I say out of politeness, and Thatcher nods, too. Ms. Leroux presses a button and says a few words, and five minutes later a man comes with a tray.
"Do you take milk or sugar?" Ms. Leroux asks, standing up to serve me. She places her manicured hand with its long red-painted fingernails so that it almost touches mine on the table.
"Neither, thank you," I say, and try not to draw away. Ms. Leroux was uncomfortably friendly to me last time I was here, and she shows the same tendencies now.
"You look remarkably like your brother," she says. "Are you twins?"
"No. It's a common misconception that fraternal twins look more alike than other siblings," I say, grateful for the distraction. "And of course, a man and a woman couldn't be identical twins."
She nods, apparently deeply fascinated by my words.
"Is that other cup for me?" Inspector Thatcher asks, her voice unnecessarily sharp.
"Yes, of course," Ms. Leroux says. To my relief, she leaves my side.
***
SOMEWHAT LATER IN THE STORY WHEN RAY HAS COME HOME
That night, I call Ray. He answers on the second ring, sounding distracted.
"Yeah? Ray Vecchio here." In the background, I hear the raised voices of children.
I pitch my voice low, trying to approximate my normal speaking voice. "Ray, this is Benton Fraser speaking. I know I sound strange, but please believe me."
"Fraser?" Ray says, alert and suspicious.
"Yes, Ray." I lick my dry lips, finding it hard to explain my predicament. "I have a problem. Of the, ah, female kind."
"What? I'll be right there. Just stay put." The phone clicks in my ear.
Oh dear. I must have given him the wrong impression, and I can't say that I blame him, given my history with women. I huff out a frustrated breath and wish that I could have expressed myself plainly. Although I’m not sure he would have believed me if I had.
I open the door to prevent Ray from charging in with his gun drawn, and wait inside, keeping an eye on the corridor. After approximately fifteen minutes, Ray comes up the stairs, sounding slightly out of breath. He stops short at the sight of me. I raise my hands, preparing to explain. "Ray, it's me, Benton Fraser. For reasons unknown to me at this juncture, I woke up this morning as a woman."
Ray seems stunned, so I take his arm and propel him into the apartment, closing the door. No need to give the neighbors a show. Ray shakes his head. "Only you, Benny, only you."
"Well, I didn't do it on purpose, Ray," I say, crossing my arms defensively. This has the unfortunate side effect of pulling the too-large flannel shirt tight across my chest. Ray stares at my breasts in fascination, as one might stare if the trees in the park were to unexpectedly sprout pineapples.
I clear my throat.
"Uh, sorry. Didn’t mean to stare at you." Ray laughs, somewhat hysterically. "So what do I call you? Benita?"
"Ray, please."
***
Notes: Yeah, I got stuck on the casefic aspects. *sigh* The conclusion of the case was to involve a gunfight in a warehouse, with people falling into vats full of maple syrup. The one who turned Fraser into a woman was the financial officer, who paid a witch to do it since he was in a relationship with the PR officer Chantal, and was jealous of her attentions to Fraser. (I am aware that this is a ridiculous plot. Whatever, it's due South.) But to his annoyance, she didn't stop flirting with Fraser just because he was in a woman's body. I guess Fraser got the witch to turn him back at the end. I wavered about the Fraser/Thatcher elements of this story. At first, I pictured them going back to her office, full of adrenaline from the firefight, and making out. Then there was oral sex with Fraser on his back on Thatcher's desk, with his borrowed uniform half off. Aaaand then I changed my mind and wanted it to be all about UST-laden professional respect. And then I wavered back to porn--who knows how it would've ended up. But hey, feel free to write that porn scene. Or do anything else inspired by it.
Pairing: Fraser/Thatcher + ensemble
Rating: PG
Length: 3650 words
Summary: Fraser wakes up in a woman's body.
Notes: Note, this is an ABANDONED WIP. It's maybe five years old or so, though I rather like it on reread--it's a casefic with some fun ensemble elements and Fraser/Thatcher bonding. Set in S2. There are notes at the end about where I imagined the story going after this (as far as I remember).
I roll onto my side, half awake, and pull my arms up to my chest. My hands encounter something soft and yielding, curving flesh warm with body heat. I startle, fully awake at the inexplicably terrifying thought that there is a woman in my bed.
No, there isn't. Or rather, there is. But I'm alone, and those are my breasts.
I lie down on my back, breathing slowly to calm my racing pulse. Tentatively, I move a hand down to my groin, and feel not a penis under my long johns, but only a curly thatch of hair. I take a deep breath, and rational thought returns. I can deal with this.
After all, stranger things have happened to me.
I glance at the clock, which stands at 05:56. Since I'm awake, I might as well get up. I stand, looking down at myself. The long johns don't fit me very well--they are too long, hanging loose on my arms and legs, and too tight in other places. Diefenbaker raises his head from his mat over by the window, then whuffs in confusion. He pads over to me.
"Diefenbaker. It's still me." My voice is higher than before, and the pitch drops as I try to adjust. He whines, then sticks his nose between my legs. "Dief! Stop that! Honestly, you have no sense of propriety."
I kneel down and take his head between my hands, making sure he can see my mouth. "Dief. I'm still me. I'm the same person you met in the bear trap, and the same person you saved from drowning."
He seems to accept it then, although he lowers his tail in confusion. I don't blame him. "No, I don't know what happened, either. We'll find out, though." My voice has found its proper range now. If I were to sing, I would probably be a mezzo-soprano.
Well. One thing at a time. I fetch my towel and head for the bathroom to take a shower. I strip down, looking more closely at myself. I am shorter, of course, and more...curvaceous. I tentatively cup one of my breasts. It feels heavy and warm in my hand. They seem a bit impractical, and I wish they weren't quite so ample. My muscle mass is reduced, although I still seem to be reasonably fit, and my layer of subcutaneous fat is still there, although distributed somewhat differently.
In the bathroom mirror, the face looking back at me is recognizably my own, although the features are more delicate, my jaw and chin less wide, my cheeks smooth. My hair is still short, messy and a little curly after sleep. I smooth it down reflexively.
I shower quickly, trying to decide what on Earth I should do. I can't shirk my duties at the Consulate, of course, but how can I turn up like this? Perhaps I could call Ray for advice--but no, he's away on some internal education of the CPD that he complained volubly about yesterday. I reluctantly conclude that I will have to confide in my superior officer. This is hardly something I can hide.
When I begin to dress, I realize that I can't possibly wear my uniform. It would fit me extremely ill, and I can't bring myself to represent the RCMP in such a way. I didn’t keep the clothes I wore when I was undercover as a woman--I gave them away to charity, not anticipating that I might need them again. Instead, I pull a flannel shirt over my head, along with a sweater, hoping that my breasts will be obscured underneath the layers. Obviously I have no brassiere, and I feel positively indecent without one. I can't pull my jeans over my hips at all; they are too narrow. I sigh and take on the sweatpants I use for going running.
"Great Scott. What on Earth has happened to you, son?"
Of all moments, he has to pick this one to turn up. Although I suppose it could have been worse--I could have been naked still. "I don't know, Dad. But I intend to find out."
"I should hope so. Hunt them to the ends of the earth, you should."
"Dad, it's not like I was shot dead. I'm still alive and well."
"Yes, well, can't be stranger than being a ghost, I suppose. Good child-bearing hips, that looks like. Perhaps I can get some grandchildren after all."
"I wouldn't count on it if I were you," I say drily. "If you have nothing to contribute on the subject of how to change back into a man, I need to go to work."
"That's good, son," he says approvingly. "A little trifle like this shouldn't keep you from your duty. I'll let you leave, then." He tips his hat at me.
I should go. I feel strangely reluctant to leave the safety of my apartment, but I begin work in 45 minutes, and the walk takes about half an hour. I take my leather jacket on to further hide my breasts from view, although I don't feel very successful. Dief nudges his nose into my hand, and I stroke my hand over his head, pathetically grateful for the comfort.
"All right, let's go," I say to Dief. I sneak out, hoping to avoid the neighbors and feeling like a thief in my own house.
Out on the street, I feel grateful for the first time for the anonymity of the city. No one knows me, no one sees that I've changed, and I only get a few glances for my ill-fitting clothes. I must look like a bag lady, I realize, someone who scrounges for throwaway clothes in containers.
At the entrance to the Consulate, I hesitate, then begin to unlock the door. I am not the first to arrive, though--there is a light under Inspector Thatcher's door, although Turnbull is nowhere in sight. Best to get this over with. I take a deep breath and knock firmly on her door.
"Yes?" she replies.
"Sir. I respectfully request to speak with you."
"Who is this?" The door opens, and she stares at me. I am no longer taller than her, I realize--I'd instinctively looked down, but her eyes meet mine at the same height. She's impeccably dressed, as always. "Who are you?"
I straighten my spine. "I'm Constable Fraser, sir. I'm afraid I woke up like this. Or, not exactly like this, but, well. As a woman, sir. I apologize for being out of uniform."
Her eyes widen. I don't think I've seen her lost for words before. Finally she pinches her hand, presumably to see if she's dreaming, and then shakes her head. "In my office, Constable."
Behind her desk, she regains her considerable poise. "How did this happen?"
"I'm afraid I don't know, sir. But I intend to find out."
"I certainly hope so. In the meantime, I expect you to do your duties."
"Of course, sir. Although I'm afraid my uniform doesn't fit."
She taps a pen against her lips. "Perhaps you could borrow one of mine. We do seem to be much the same size. Although--Constable, you do realize that you need a, well..." She gestures helplessly toward my chest.
"The proper sort of underwear, sir?" My cheeks are hot.
"Yes, that." I hear the front door opening, and she turns away with visible relief. "Turnbull!"
"Sir? Yes, sir?" He appears at the door, saluting. "What can I do for you this fine day?"
"Turnbull, this is Constable Fraser. Except he's--she's a woman now."
"Sir! I wasn't aware that you were planning on changing your sex. May I extend my congratulations, if that is appropriate? Although...your uniform, sir?" He looks scandalized at the state of my clothes.
"It's not intentional, Turnbull. And I hope it's only temporary, although it's too early to tell at this juncture."
"Very well, sir."
Inspector Thatcher takes over. "I have a task for you, Turnbull. Go out and buy proper underwear and some other clothes for Constable Fraser. I certainly can't have him, I mean her, I mean...be seen in this state."
"Yes, sir. What size should I buy?"
She sighs impatiently, handing me a measuring tape from one of her drawers. "Go and take your measurements, Constable."
Her gaze flickers down to my chest, where the jacket hangs open. "And I believe those need cup size C. Or possibly D."
In my office, I measure my height and my circumference at waist, hips, and chest. I write them down on a piece of paper for Turnbull, who seems awed at the importance of his mission. "Sir? What style would you prefer?"
"Something plain and practical, please. And if you could keep the reason for your purchases quiet, I'd be much obliged."
He straightens. "Mum's the word! I certainly won't let them know I'm buying it for a woman, sir. Or a man."
There seems to be nothing I can do now but wait, so I sit down at my desk and absently sort my piles of paper. They don't need sorting, of course, but I need something to occupy my hands. Ray. I need to talk to Ray, but I can't. Tomorrow, I'm scheduled to help him with a suspected insurance fraud case. It’s a large Canadian company, which makes my involvement all the more important. I suppose I can still do that, but I'd prefer to avoid the station if at all possible, until I can determine the reason for my sudden change of sex.
There must be a reason. I am no stranger to phenomena seemingly unexplainable by modern science, and in my experience, things like this do not happen at random. The key, just as in a criminal investigation, is to find the motive behind it. Who would want to do this to me, and why? I can't make head or tail of it.
There is a precise knock on the door. "Yes?"
Slightly muffled by the door, Turnbull replies: "Sir, I have completed my mission."
"Come in." He pushes the door open, with a plastic bag in one hand and what I assume is Inspector Thatcher's uniform in the other.
"Thank you kindly. If you give me the receipt, I will of course reimburse you."
He puts the bag on my desk. "If I do say so myself, I think I found the perfect colors for you."
"I'm sure you did." I wait for him to leave--I think I can do without Turnbull watching me undress. When the door has closed, I investigate the contents of the bag. Thankfully, it appears that Turnbull managed to follow instructions this time. There are several pairs of plain black cotton underwear, and two brassieres, slightly more embellished. I also find a long blue skirt and a blouse in paler blue.
I shed my too-big clothes and start dressing. The brassiere fits well, but it feels different from when I went undercover as a woman. This time, I have real breasts, and they are gathered together, held up in a way that emphasizes them somehow. I look down at my cleavage, frowning. On the other hand, the brassiere will undoubtedly be an advantage should I have to run. Experimentally, I shake my upper body, and nod in satisfaction when my breasts are held in place tolerably well. I glance at Dief, whose tongue is lolling out.
"I'll thank you to keep your amusement to yourself. How would you feel if you were suddenly turned into a bitch?" That silences him.
The uniform, though, is blessedly familiar, and I put it on with relief. It fits me well, on the whole--perhaps a little tight across the chest, and the boots are half a size too large, but this is easily remedied with a pair of extra socks.
I knock on Inspector Thatcher's door. "Come in."
I stand before her desk, back straight, arms at parade rest. "Do I pass inspection, sir?"
Her gaze flickers over my body, and then her face shutters off, unreadable and blank. I swallow uncomfortably under her scrutiny. No, I know my lanyard is straight.
"Yes, Constable, you do," she says finally.
"Thank you, sir."
According to the roster, I have guard duty now. I go out on the front steps, straighten my spine and relax my body. The secret to standing still for hours on end is not to grow tense, and to shift your weight imperceptibly from foot to foot over the course of minutes, moving your toes inside the boots to keep the blood flowing. Dief wanders off after a while to inspect a nearby alley. I'm afraid he finds guard duty pointless, although his actual wording is far more crude.
To keep my mind occupied, I watch the passersby. I am used to attracting a certain amount of attention while standing guard, most of it unwelcome, and today is no exception. There are the usual stares, of course, and people pointing me out to one another, and at a quarter past eleven a man approaches me.
"Hey, Mountie girl! You look like you could use some company." His tone of voice is most insulting. I ignore him, of course. He looks me over, gaze lingering at chest height. The tunic is actually rather form-fitting and I feel as if I might as well have a sign above my head advertising my breasts. I feel my cheeks grow hot.
The man leans in, putting a hand on my shoulder. "So, you like riding, do you?"
My hands want to clench, but I refuse to let him see me react. I assess him without moving my eyes. He has the advantage of height and build, yes, but I could take him. It would simply be a matter of using his own strength against him, waiting until he overextended himself, then bearing him to the ground, twisting his arm behind his back to the point of dislocation...
I don't do this, of course. I stare straight ahead until the man tires of his sport.
When I return to my desk after lunch, Ray has left a message saying that he won’t be able to liaise with me tomorrow, and could I handle the case alone, or put it off. I suppose I could--after all, the case is the concern of the Canadian Consulate as much as the CPD. But I feel slightly off balance. I suppose I’ve come to count on Ray. He would probably grumble and complain about how this could not possibly have happened, but he’s unquestioningly loyal and would help me return to normal, if at all possible.
There is a sharp knock on the door, and I look up as Inspector Thatcher opens the door. Not for the first time, I wish that she would wait for an answer before entering.
"Constable?"
"Sir," I say and stand up. She faces me across the desk, and I wonder whether she enjoys the fact that she is now taller than me. No, that’s an uncharitable thought, and I shake it off.
"Ottawa is concerned about the image of Canadian businesses abroad, and there is some pressure to solve the Golden Glory case. I understand you are to be working on it with Detective Vecchio tomorrow?"
"Yes, sir. But I’m afraid Detective Vecchio won’t be able to help."
"That is unfortunate. Perhaps Turnbull...no." She frowns thoughtfully. "I suppose I could find the time to help you instead. It is an important case, and it would do me good with some fieldwork. It’s been too long."
I’m surprised, but I try to hide it. "Of course, sir. I have appointments with the CEO of the company and some of the key personnel tomorrow, and I’m looking forward to working with you."
I’m surprised to find that it’s true. I’ve wondered what it would be like to do real policework together with Inspector Thatcher. Obviously she must be capable, to have attained the rank she has at such an early age, but our working relationship has so far not afforded opportunities for such collaboration.
***
In the elevator up to the 23rd floor, Inspector Thatcher taps distractedly at the file in her hands. She's dressed in a business suit, looking crisp and professional, and I in the borrowed uniform. Together with Ray, I've met once already with the CEO, with the financial officer, and with the public relations manager. All three of them denied any knowledge of the matter. Today, we will meet again with the latter two and see if we can shake loose some new information.
Inspector Thatcher takes immediate control of the situation. "I'm Inspector Margaret Thatcher of the Canadian Consulate. This is Constable Fraser; she'll assist me in the investigation."
Confusion registers on the face of Chantal Leroux, the public relations manager. She is too smooth to ask outright, but says, with a slight French accent, "I was given to understand that the investigation would be handled by Detective Ray Vecchio and, ah, another Constable Fraser. They spoke with us the day before yesterday."
"Ottawa has taken an interest, and the investigation will be handled by the Canadian Consulate. This is Constable Elizabeth Fraser, the sister of the Constable Fraser you met before," Inspector Thatcher lies smoothly.
"I see," Ms. Leroux says. She leans back in her chair, her eyes fixed on me. I wonder if she suspects something. No, how could she? The financial officer, in his neutral suit and tie, says nothing. If anything, he seems to be looking sideways at Ms. Leroux, not me.
"All right, ladies and gentlemen," Thatcher says. "Let's review the situation. The shipment of maple syrup that Golden Glory had reported as sunk to the bottom of Lake Michigan has turned up again in a warehouse down by the water. And since the insurance company has already paid for the missing shipment, they are not happy."
She leans backwards and regards each of the executives in turn. I should keep my eyes on them, as well, but I can't help but admire her body language--the relaxed but focused pose, the sharp gaze.
"Have you spoken to the shipping company?" asks Ms. Leroux.
"Not yet," Thatcher says. "Have you?"
"I'm afraid not. And I really don't know anything about it." She spreads her hands in a gesture of innocence.
"And have you gone through the financial records?" Thatcher asks Mr. Daniels, the financial officer.
"I have the records for the last three months here, Inspector," he says. "No trace of any anomalies. Do you want to take a look?"
"Thank you, I will," she says, and begins to browse the papers.
"Meanwhile, would you like some refreshments?" Ms. Leroux says to me. "Coffee? Tea? Anything to eat?"
"Some tea would be nice," I say out of politeness, and Thatcher nods, too. Ms. Leroux presses a button and says a few words, and five minutes later a man comes with a tray.
"Do you take milk or sugar?" Ms. Leroux asks, standing up to serve me. She places her manicured hand with its long red-painted fingernails so that it almost touches mine on the table.
"Neither, thank you," I say, and try not to draw away. Ms. Leroux was uncomfortably friendly to me last time I was here, and she shows the same tendencies now.
"You look remarkably like your brother," she says. "Are you twins?"
"No. It's a common misconception that fraternal twins look more alike than other siblings," I say, grateful for the distraction. "And of course, a man and a woman couldn't be identical twins."
She nods, apparently deeply fascinated by my words.
"Is that other cup for me?" Inspector Thatcher asks, her voice unnecessarily sharp.
"Yes, of course," Ms. Leroux says. To my relief, she leaves my side.
***
SOMEWHAT LATER IN THE STORY WHEN RAY HAS COME HOME
That night, I call Ray. He answers on the second ring, sounding distracted.
"Yeah? Ray Vecchio here." In the background, I hear the raised voices of children.
I pitch my voice low, trying to approximate my normal speaking voice. "Ray, this is Benton Fraser speaking. I know I sound strange, but please believe me."
"Fraser?" Ray says, alert and suspicious.
"Yes, Ray." I lick my dry lips, finding it hard to explain my predicament. "I have a problem. Of the, ah, female kind."
"What? I'll be right there. Just stay put." The phone clicks in my ear.
Oh dear. I must have given him the wrong impression, and I can't say that I blame him, given my history with women. I huff out a frustrated breath and wish that I could have expressed myself plainly. Although I’m not sure he would have believed me if I had.
I open the door to prevent Ray from charging in with his gun drawn, and wait inside, keeping an eye on the corridor. After approximately fifteen minutes, Ray comes up the stairs, sounding slightly out of breath. He stops short at the sight of me. I raise my hands, preparing to explain. "Ray, it's me, Benton Fraser. For reasons unknown to me at this juncture, I woke up this morning as a woman."
Ray seems stunned, so I take his arm and propel him into the apartment, closing the door. No need to give the neighbors a show. Ray shakes his head. "Only you, Benny, only you."
"Well, I didn't do it on purpose, Ray," I say, crossing my arms defensively. This has the unfortunate side effect of pulling the too-large flannel shirt tight across my chest. Ray stares at my breasts in fascination, as one might stare if the trees in the park were to unexpectedly sprout pineapples.
I clear my throat.
"Uh, sorry. Didn’t mean to stare at you." Ray laughs, somewhat hysterically. "So what do I call you? Benita?"
"Ray, please."
***
Notes: Yeah, I got stuck on the casefic aspects. *sigh* The conclusion of the case was to involve a gunfight in a warehouse, with people falling into vats full of maple syrup. The one who turned Fraser into a woman was the financial officer, who paid a witch to do it since he was in a relationship with the PR officer Chantal, and was jealous of her attentions to Fraser. (I am aware that this is a ridiculous plot. Whatever, it's due South.) But to his annoyance, she didn't stop flirting with Fraser just because he was in a woman's body. I guess Fraser got the witch to turn him back at the end. I wavered about the Fraser/Thatcher elements of this story. At first, I pictured them going back to her office, full of adrenaline from the firefight, and making out. Then there was oral sex with Fraser on his back on Thatcher's desk, with his borrowed uniform half off. Aaaand then I changed my mind and wanted it to be all about UST-laden professional respect. And then I wavered back to porn--who knows how it would've ended up. But hey, feel free to write that porn scene. Or do anything else inspired by it.
(no subject)
Date: 2015-11-02 09:48 pm (UTC)First off, I have to say that this is the perfect Turnbull line. :D
And second, what a delightful concept! I'm glad you're posting some WIPs - even if they won't be finished (by you, at least), it's still fun to see what ideas you've had.
(no subject)
Date: 2015-11-03 09:53 pm (UTC)I have one WIP left to post now, but it's longer, and I'll have to read it through and see if it needs any clean-up before posting.