due South story: "After Hours"
Feb. 9th, 2011 05:16 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
luzulaTitle: After Hours
Pairing: Fraser/Thatcher
Rating: R
Length: 2100 words
Summary: Meg gives in to temptation.
Notes: This is a prequel to Apology. Thanks towintercreek for the beta!
Inspector Meg Thatcher was slightly tipsy.
Possibly this was why she let herself go back to the Consulate after her dinner out with the Russian ambassador. Odious man—he'd tried to impress her with the bear's head above the mantelpiece, which came from a bear he'd shot himself. As if she were some wide-eyed slip of a girl who'd never held a rifle in her hands. Meg's lip curled in amused remembrance.
While her mind distracted itself with dissecting the evening, she opened the Consulate door. The interior was dark except for a light in the back, by the kitchen. Her high heels echoed on the hard floor, and she slipped them off.
Two eyes gleamed in the dark, and she jumped. "Oh! It's you."
Diefenbaker padded forward to sniff at her hands. She'd never been entirely comfortable around him—he was a wild animal, after all—but he did guard the Consulate well.
She slipped toward the kitchen in her stockinged feet, holding her shoes in one hand. The door to the kitchen was ajar, letting out a stream of warm light. Constable Fraser stood by the sink, his arms elbow-deep in suds. He was in civilian clothes, jeans and a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and his hair curled up in the damp air. She watched him clean a glass methodically, first the inside and then the outside, and rinse it. Next he started on a plate, but stopped, raising his head like a dog on a scent.
Fraser turned and caught sight of her. "Sir."
"Constable." The titles felt wrong, but she didn't know what else she could call him.
"I didn't know you'd be coming back here tonight."
She didn't have an excuse ready. "Ah, well..."
His ingrained politeness came to her rescue. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to sound unwelcoming. Please come in."
"Don't let me interrupt you," she said, waving towards the sink.
"I'll just finish this. It won't take long."
Meg sat down on a kitchen chair and started rubbing at her left foot, digging her thumbs into the arch. These shoes were stylish, but style often came with a price, and the heels were higher than she was used to.
Fraser's back was turned to her and Meg could watch him openly. There was something about seeing him in a domestic setting like this that got to her—he was such a private man. Not that she herself was the type to talk about her private life to all and sundry.
Fraser pulled the plug in the sink, and she averted her gaze before he turned around. One did not ogle one's subordinates. She knew how that felt from the other end, and she wasn't about to subject him to it.
"Would you like a cup of tea?" Fraser shook the water from his hands and dried them with a kitchen towel. His rolled-up sleeves felt almost indecent, when his uniform ordinarily covered everything but his hands and head. Meg tried to keep her eyes off his bare forearms.
"Yes, please. I mean, tea would be a nice change from vodka," Meg said, flustered. She felt heat rising on her face. Get a grip on yourself. It's not as if he were naked.
That thought did not improve matters.
"Vodka?" Fraser said, raising his eyebrows.
"I had dinner with the Russian ambassador. But he drank most of the vodka. I didn't have much—I prefer wine."
"Ah." Fraser filled a kettle with water and put it on the stove. He fetched cups and sat down, then stood up again to get the tea. Had she made him uncomfortable, barging in like this? This was his home after office hours, after all.
"Well, it worked out to my advantage—he let slip some quite interesting information when he was drunk." Meg smiled in satisfaction.
"Do you enjoy it?" Fraser asked.
"Enjoy what?"
"Diplomacy."
She almost gave a quick and dismissive answer. But his gaze was open and steady, as if he were sincerely interested in her answer. Meg tried to remember the last time someone had asked her a question like that.
She broke the eye contact to gather her thoughts. "Well, it's exciting to see how much you can get out of someone else without revealing your own information. Sometimes it's the way you phrase things, rather than the actual facts, that make the difference. And of course the other side is trying their best to get you to reveal things, too. I was always competitive—I remember my little brother complaining that I couldn't play a simple game of checkers without turning it into life or death."
The kettle whistled, and Fraser got up to pour hot water into their cups.
"Thank you," Meg said and inclined her head. "But there are aspects I don't like, as well. The sexism, for one. Of course, sometimes you can use being a woman to your advantage, but I don't much like playing those kinds of games."
Fraser's gaze sharpened. "Did the ambassador—well, did he offer insult to you in any way?"
How sweet of him. But Meg didn't need a champion.
"No, it was just the usual ogling of my breasts," she said. Her dress did have a bit of a décolletage, but really, it wasn't that deep. Fraser's cheeks reddened. Now that she thought of it, he had carefully kept his eyes either on her face or down at his teacup.
"You shouldn't have to be used to that sort of thing," he said. As if he wasn't used to being ogled, too.
"No, I know. Neither should you. I mean, not that you have breasts, but you..." Meg wondered if it was the alcohol tripping up her tongue, but truthfully, it was probably proximity to Fraser. The man's bare forearms had scrambled her brain. "Well, you have other...visible qualities."
Fraser was looking down at his teacup again, cheeks still flushed. Christ, she'd messed up again.
"I apologize," she said quickly. "A commanding officer shouldn't let herself notice such things about one of her subordinates. I would never, I mean, you don't have to worry that I would..." Meg didn't even know how to finish that sentence, and it dangled awkwardly in the air between them. She wished she could sink beneath the floor.
"I'll just get some milk for the tea," she said and got up from the chair abruptly. She opened the fridge and rummaged around for the carton of milk.
"I'm not worried," Fraser said behind her. His voice was low, and after a tense pause, he continued. "I do, however, wish that our positions gave us more freedom."
Her heart caught in her throat. She swallowed, and then turned around to face him. "So do I. But I can't initiate, well, any sort of personal relationship with someone who is below me in the chain of command." She couldn't cross that line, not after, well. Meg cut the thought off—it was in the past now.
Fraser looked at her for a long moment, his eyes dark. "Perhaps I shouldn't say this, but—would it make a difference if I were to do the initiating?"
Meg drew in a breath. It shouldn't make a difference—the distinction was much too fine. But somehow it did, and Meg surrendered. She could appreciate a superior diplomatic move when she saw one.
"I shouldn't say yes, but I—" She looked into his eyes and said it, almost defiantly. "Yes."
Fraser stood up and came toward her, hesitating when there was only a handsbreadth between them. She put her hands behind her back and gripped the handle of one of the kitchen drawers so as not to reach out and touch him. The kiss that she had ordered him to forget was burned all too vividly into her mind.
But he didn't kiss her, not at once. He brought up his hand to touch her cheek, so lightly that Meg shivered. Goosebumps rose on her skin. She almost turned her head to catch his fingers with her mouth. But no, she shouldn't.
Meg couldn't quite meet his eyes; it felt too intimate. Instead, she looked at his throat, where his flannel shirt was open enough to show the notch between his collarbones, looking strangely vulnerable.
His fingers moved up to her hair, combing through it, and then down her neck, still with that light touch. Meg felt her heart beating hard, as if she were in danger. Then Fraser leaned in and kissed her, not on the mouth, but on the side of her neck. It was as light as his fingers had been, and shouldn't have made her sound like that, as if he had touched her somewhere entirely more intimate.
Meg tightened her hands on the handle behind her. She wasn't used to being passive in bed, and it was increasingly difficult not to grab Fraser by the head and kiss the hell out of him. But no. She held on. And there was a certain freedom in this, too, in not being the one responsible.
He kissed his way down her throat—and god, that was the tip of his tongue. She shivered again, and her nipples tightened. Meg wished he'd keep going down, but he didn't. He went up again and started on her earlobe, sucking on it. His breathing was rapid, like her own. When his teeth closed on it, she moaned, then bit her lip, trying to keep it back. He was so close to her, but not nearly close enough. His shirt brushed against her dress, but she wanted more than that. She wanted his body hard up against hers.
Fraser raised his head, meeting her eyes. "Still a yes?" There was a shadow of uncertainty in his eyes.
Meg nearly groaned in exasperation. "If you don't kiss me soon, I'm going to die of frustration." She did her best not to make it an order.
His lips twitched. She didn't know his smile could be so playful.
"I will," he murmured, leaning in to kiss the other side of her neck and then working his way down. One of his hands was on her waist now, and she could feel the warmth of it through the thin fabric of her dress. He kissed his way down along her neckline, and god, she wished it were lower.
When at last he raised his head and kissed her on the lips, she opened her mouth and leaned in, trying to make the kiss deeper, but he drew back again. He was still teasing her, the bastard.
"Fraser, please," she said hoarsely.
And then he was kissing her in earnest, his tongue in her mouth, and she could finally kiss him back. Meg turned her head to get better access, and he moaned into her mouth. She let herself touch him, now, brought up her hands to hold his head in place so he wouldn't draw back again. His hand came up to cup her breast, and when his thumb slid over her nipple, it sent a shock of arousal through her whole body.
***
They didn't have sex, of course. Fraser broke off the kiss eventually, and yes, of course he wasn't the sort of man who'd tumble into bed on the first date. She should have known that.
So when Meg took a taxi home later that night, her whole body was thrumming with sexual frustration. When she got through the door, she took off her coat and flung herself on the bed.
It was her own fingers between her legs, but in her mind it was his hand rucking up her skirt, his mouth on her nipple. Her hands guiding him into her. They were up against the wall (and yes, she knew that was an impractical position, but this was her fantasy, damn it) and her legs were clenching around his hips as he thrust deep into her.
It didn't take long, and afterward Meg let out a long shuddering breath and let her legs fall apart. She waited for her heartbeat to slow down.
Meg still didn't know if she'd made the right decision—certainly she'd broken the regulations, no matter what distinction Fraser had made. Perhaps she shouldn't even have gone to the Consulate that evening. It wasn't as if she hadn't known her own motivations in doing so.
Meg took her clothes off and settled down beneath the covers. She'd deal with it in the morning.
Pairing: Fraser/Thatcher
Rating: R
Length: 2100 words
Summary: Meg gives in to temptation.
Notes: This is a prequel to Apology. Thanks to
wintercreek for the beta! Inspector Meg Thatcher was slightly tipsy.
Possibly this was why she let herself go back to the Consulate after her dinner out with the Russian ambassador. Odious man—he'd tried to impress her with the bear's head above the mantelpiece, which came from a bear he'd shot himself. As if she were some wide-eyed slip of a girl who'd never held a rifle in her hands. Meg's lip curled in amused remembrance.
While her mind distracted itself with dissecting the evening, she opened the Consulate door. The interior was dark except for a light in the back, by the kitchen. Her high heels echoed on the hard floor, and she slipped them off.
Two eyes gleamed in the dark, and she jumped. "Oh! It's you."
Diefenbaker padded forward to sniff at her hands. She'd never been entirely comfortable around him—he was a wild animal, after all—but he did guard the Consulate well.
She slipped toward the kitchen in her stockinged feet, holding her shoes in one hand. The door to the kitchen was ajar, letting out a stream of warm light. Constable Fraser stood by the sink, his arms elbow-deep in suds. He was in civilian clothes, jeans and a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and his hair curled up in the damp air. She watched him clean a glass methodically, first the inside and then the outside, and rinse it. Next he started on a plate, but stopped, raising his head like a dog on a scent.
Fraser turned and caught sight of her. "Sir."
"Constable." The titles felt wrong, but she didn't know what else she could call him.
"I didn't know you'd be coming back here tonight."
She didn't have an excuse ready. "Ah, well..."
His ingrained politeness came to her rescue. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to sound unwelcoming. Please come in."
"Don't let me interrupt you," she said, waving towards the sink.
"I'll just finish this. It won't take long."
Meg sat down on a kitchen chair and started rubbing at her left foot, digging her thumbs into the arch. These shoes were stylish, but style often came with a price, and the heels were higher than she was used to.
Fraser's back was turned to her and Meg could watch him openly. There was something about seeing him in a domestic setting like this that got to her—he was such a private man. Not that she herself was the type to talk about her private life to all and sundry.
Fraser pulled the plug in the sink, and she averted her gaze before he turned around. One did not ogle one's subordinates. She knew how that felt from the other end, and she wasn't about to subject him to it.
"Would you like a cup of tea?" Fraser shook the water from his hands and dried them with a kitchen towel. His rolled-up sleeves felt almost indecent, when his uniform ordinarily covered everything but his hands and head. Meg tried to keep her eyes off his bare forearms.
"Yes, please. I mean, tea would be a nice change from vodka," Meg said, flustered. She felt heat rising on her face. Get a grip on yourself. It's not as if he were naked.
That thought did not improve matters.
"Vodka?" Fraser said, raising his eyebrows.
"I had dinner with the Russian ambassador. But he drank most of the vodka. I didn't have much—I prefer wine."
"Ah." Fraser filled a kettle with water and put it on the stove. He fetched cups and sat down, then stood up again to get the tea. Had she made him uncomfortable, barging in like this? This was his home after office hours, after all.
"Well, it worked out to my advantage—he let slip some quite interesting information when he was drunk." Meg smiled in satisfaction.
"Do you enjoy it?" Fraser asked.
"Enjoy what?"
"Diplomacy."
She almost gave a quick and dismissive answer. But his gaze was open and steady, as if he were sincerely interested in her answer. Meg tried to remember the last time someone had asked her a question like that.
She broke the eye contact to gather her thoughts. "Well, it's exciting to see how much you can get out of someone else without revealing your own information. Sometimes it's the way you phrase things, rather than the actual facts, that make the difference. And of course the other side is trying their best to get you to reveal things, too. I was always competitive—I remember my little brother complaining that I couldn't play a simple game of checkers without turning it into life or death."
The kettle whistled, and Fraser got up to pour hot water into their cups.
"Thank you," Meg said and inclined her head. "But there are aspects I don't like, as well. The sexism, for one. Of course, sometimes you can use being a woman to your advantage, but I don't much like playing those kinds of games."
Fraser's gaze sharpened. "Did the ambassador—well, did he offer insult to you in any way?"
How sweet of him. But Meg didn't need a champion.
"No, it was just the usual ogling of my breasts," she said. Her dress did have a bit of a décolletage, but really, it wasn't that deep. Fraser's cheeks reddened. Now that she thought of it, he had carefully kept his eyes either on her face or down at his teacup.
"You shouldn't have to be used to that sort of thing," he said. As if he wasn't used to being ogled, too.
"No, I know. Neither should you. I mean, not that you have breasts, but you..." Meg wondered if it was the alcohol tripping up her tongue, but truthfully, it was probably proximity to Fraser. The man's bare forearms had scrambled her brain. "Well, you have other...visible qualities."
Fraser was looking down at his teacup again, cheeks still flushed. Christ, she'd messed up again.
"I apologize," she said quickly. "A commanding officer shouldn't let herself notice such things about one of her subordinates. I would never, I mean, you don't have to worry that I would..." Meg didn't even know how to finish that sentence, and it dangled awkwardly in the air between them. She wished she could sink beneath the floor.
"I'll just get some milk for the tea," she said and got up from the chair abruptly. She opened the fridge and rummaged around for the carton of milk.
"I'm not worried," Fraser said behind her. His voice was low, and after a tense pause, he continued. "I do, however, wish that our positions gave us more freedom."
Her heart caught in her throat. She swallowed, and then turned around to face him. "So do I. But I can't initiate, well, any sort of personal relationship with someone who is below me in the chain of command." She couldn't cross that line, not after, well. Meg cut the thought off—it was in the past now.
Fraser looked at her for a long moment, his eyes dark. "Perhaps I shouldn't say this, but—would it make a difference if I were to do the initiating?"
Meg drew in a breath. It shouldn't make a difference—the distinction was much too fine. But somehow it did, and Meg surrendered. She could appreciate a superior diplomatic move when she saw one.
"I shouldn't say yes, but I—" She looked into his eyes and said it, almost defiantly. "Yes."
Fraser stood up and came toward her, hesitating when there was only a handsbreadth between them. She put her hands behind her back and gripped the handle of one of the kitchen drawers so as not to reach out and touch him. The kiss that she had ordered him to forget was burned all too vividly into her mind.
But he didn't kiss her, not at once. He brought up his hand to touch her cheek, so lightly that Meg shivered. Goosebumps rose on her skin. She almost turned her head to catch his fingers with her mouth. But no, she shouldn't.
Meg couldn't quite meet his eyes; it felt too intimate. Instead, she looked at his throat, where his flannel shirt was open enough to show the notch between his collarbones, looking strangely vulnerable.
His fingers moved up to her hair, combing through it, and then down her neck, still with that light touch. Meg felt her heart beating hard, as if she were in danger. Then Fraser leaned in and kissed her, not on the mouth, but on the side of her neck. It was as light as his fingers had been, and shouldn't have made her sound like that, as if he had touched her somewhere entirely more intimate.
Meg tightened her hands on the handle behind her. She wasn't used to being passive in bed, and it was increasingly difficult not to grab Fraser by the head and kiss the hell out of him. But no. She held on. And there was a certain freedom in this, too, in not being the one responsible.
He kissed his way down her throat—and god, that was the tip of his tongue. She shivered again, and her nipples tightened. Meg wished he'd keep going down, but he didn't. He went up again and started on her earlobe, sucking on it. His breathing was rapid, like her own. When his teeth closed on it, she moaned, then bit her lip, trying to keep it back. He was so close to her, but not nearly close enough. His shirt brushed against her dress, but she wanted more than that. She wanted his body hard up against hers.
Fraser raised his head, meeting her eyes. "Still a yes?" There was a shadow of uncertainty in his eyes.
Meg nearly groaned in exasperation. "If you don't kiss me soon, I'm going to die of frustration." She did her best not to make it an order.
His lips twitched. She didn't know his smile could be so playful.
"I will," he murmured, leaning in to kiss the other side of her neck and then working his way down. One of his hands was on her waist now, and she could feel the warmth of it through the thin fabric of her dress. He kissed his way down along her neckline, and god, she wished it were lower.
When at last he raised his head and kissed her on the lips, she opened her mouth and leaned in, trying to make the kiss deeper, but he drew back again. He was still teasing her, the bastard.
"Fraser, please," she said hoarsely.
And then he was kissing her in earnest, his tongue in her mouth, and she could finally kiss him back. Meg turned her head to get better access, and he moaned into her mouth. She let herself touch him, now, brought up her hands to hold his head in place so he wouldn't draw back again. His hand came up to cup her breast, and when his thumb slid over her nipple, it sent a shock of arousal through her whole body.
***
They didn't have sex, of course. Fraser broke off the kiss eventually, and yes, of course he wasn't the sort of man who'd tumble into bed on the first date. She should have known that.
So when Meg took a taxi home later that night, her whole body was thrumming with sexual frustration. When she got through the door, she took off her coat and flung herself on the bed.
It was her own fingers between her legs, but in her mind it was his hand rucking up her skirt, his mouth on her nipple. Her hands guiding him into her. They were up against the wall (and yes, she knew that was an impractical position, but this was her fantasy, damn it) and her legs were clenching around his hips as he thrust deep into her.
It didn't take long, and afterward Meg let out a long shuddering breath and let her legs fall apart. She waited for her heartbeat to slow down.
Meg still didn't know if she'd made the right decision—certainly she'd broken the regulations, no matter what distinction Fraser had made. Perhaps she shouldn't even have gone to the Consulate that evening. It wasn't as if she hadn't known her own motivations in doing so.
Meg took her clothes off and settled down beneath the covers. She'd deal with it in the morning.
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Date: 2011-02-10 12:08 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-02-10 01:39 pm (UTC)