| On State Street, that great street.... |
[Nov. 7th, 2009|02:23 pm] |
WHO: Meg Thatcher and Constable Benton Fraser
WHAT: Meg arrives for her new undercover assignment
WHERE: Chicago, IL
WHEN: Late in the afternoon
WARNINGS: Doubtful; will update as needed.The Mounties are makin' out again. Sex can't be far behind.
I just wanna say
They do things they don't do on Broadway
You'll have the time, the time of your life
Bring all your friends, all your kids, and your wife....
Meg Thatcher had been feeling the effects of fatigue when the cab dropped her off on Stetson Avenue, but she feels a fresh surge of adrenaline as she enters the tall building at 180 North to take the elevator to the 24th floor.
2 ... 5 ... 9 ... 11 ... 20 ... 21 ... 22 ... 23 ... 24....
Incredible. A far cry from the relatively modest structure they had used on her arrival to Chicago years ago, and more modern and efficient (though less elegant) than its successor. She can't help but envy Ben his posting, though she knows how unhappy he is here. He doesn't need to say anything for her to understand that.
Still, as she walks from the elevator down the hall to the large glass doors, she finds her pace quickening, and she has to force herself to a more sedate stroll, resisting the urge to yank open the door engraved with the single maple leaf.
A young, dark-haired, olive-skinned woman in the blue Undress Order of the RCMP greets her with a polite smile, then a sudden widening of the eyes. "Ah, welcome to the Canadian Consulate of Chicago," she says, eying Meg with greater than usual interest. "How may I assist you?"
Meg swallows, her throat feeling suddenly dry. "I'm here for the Registration of Canadians Abroad service. I understand there's some paperwork I'll need to fill out while I'm here at the University of Chicago?"
"Yes," says the constable, her gaze flicking curiously to Meg's left hand. "It's not a requirement, but we do recommend all Canadian citizens register when they'll be traveling abroad, either before they leave or once they arrive at their destination." She glances about. The office seems relatively quiet at this hour, Consular staff preparing to wind up the final minutes of their day in their cubicles. "If you'll follow me? Constable Fraser would be happy to assist you."
The two women make their way through the maze of bureaucratic furniture until they arrive at the cubicle labeled with the name Meg has held in her thoughts all day.
CONSTABLE BENTON FRASER
The muzzle of an Arctic wolf can be seen at the cubicle's entrance, close to the floor, pointed in the direction of the office chair occupied by the cubicle's resident Mountie.
"Fraser?" says Hourani. "Could you help this lady with her ROCA paperwork?" |
|
|
| When sorrows come, they come not single spies |
[Aug. 17th, 2009|07:17 am] |
Who: Geoffrey Tennant, Ellen Fanshaw, Meg Thatcher, Constable Benton Fraser
What: Reunion, possibly.
Where: Luton, England
When: More or less an hour after this post
Warnings: Possible swearing, given Geoffrey and Ellen's fantastic command of the art.
The phone wouldn't stop ringing.
Geoffrey Tennant is not a man renowned for his patience. He's also not renowned for enjoying the phone, either; and he likes it even less since the last time he spoke to a much-maligned old friend before he was run over and killed by a pig truck.
The phone is now in the freezer.
His first instinct had been to throw it out a window, but it had bounced off the reinforced whatever-it-is they make windows out of now and hit him in the head, so the freezer seemed like the better option.
It's probably still ringing, but if it is, he can't hear it anymore. And he's going to sit right here and finish making this little stage diorama out of those tiny water crackers he found in a cupboard and which the upper-middle-class seem to love so much, and ignore it happily. Well. Maybe not happily. Perhaps that's too strong of a word. But it beats wanting to tear his brain out of his own skull and thinking too much about what's going on.
Suits him just fine. |
|
|
| And waxen in their mirth and neeze and swear |
[Aug. 16th, 2009|11:52 am] |
Who: Ellen Fanshaw and Constable Benton Fraser, RCMP
Where: Consulate General of Canada in Chicago/Consulat général du Canada à Chicago
What: Ellen's less than grand entrance to this world
Warnings: Language from Ellen, and other ego-driven explosions.
As a rule, the Canadian Consulate in Chicago is a quiet place, the nation's business in the tri-state area being conducted in a low murmur accompanied by the gentle tap-tapping of keys, punctuated by the occasional telephone ring. But rules are meant to be broken, and now it is a young constable's responsibility to try and mend them again.
"Ma'am," Constable Hourani says in her most patient voice, "I do understand that this is very distressing for you--"
"Distressing?" repeats Ellen Fanshaw. "Yes, I suppose you could call it distressing if you had a limited vocabulary. Maybe I didn't make myself clear. I've been kidnapped. I'm supposed to be in New Burbage. I'm not the only one who's gone missing lately either. You should call them. Or check whatever it is you people check for reports of serial kidnappings. Go on. There's bound to be something about it. It's not as if much happens in New Burbage besides the festival."
( Read more... ) |
|
|
| Who comes not so carefully upon this hour |
[Aug. 7th, 2009|07:44 am] |
WHO: Geoffrey Tennant and Meg Thatcher
WHAT: Geoffrey wakes up in agony somewhere entirely not New Burbage
WHERE: A pub in Luton
WARNINGS: None necessary, unless you call 'hungover and pottymouthed' a warning.
Somewhere in Luton, twenty yards from the The Moon And Sixpence pub on Ashcroft Road, there is a somewhat disheveled-looking man sleeping on a bench.
( Or he might be unconscious. It's difficult to tell. ) |
|
|
| A Mountie without a wolf walks into a bar.... |
[Jun. 22nd, 2009|03:07 pm] |
Who: (former) Inspector Meg Thatcher and Nate Ford
What: Meeting. In a bar.
Where: A bar.
When: Some time shortly after this.
Warnings: Beyond language? Doubtful.
A bar. Meg Thatcher sighed briefly to herself as she enters. No matter what the venue, she found there was an underlying sameness to all bars: a certain reek of desperation, a certain frisson of loneliness, and of course a distressing tendency for things better left unidentified to go squelch under one's shoe. No Diefenbaker to accompany her on this occasion, but he belonged in Chicago as long as Ben was there.
Besides, she had been handling herself alone in a bar since before she'd had cadet tabs on her shoulders. After fifteen years on the Force, she had decided that the most terrifying thing in them tended to be American beer.
Briefly, she pondered the literal enactment of the traditional Canadian joke regarding American beer, then gave her head a decisive shake and made her way over to where Nate Ford was ... oh, dear. Yes. Drinking again, and not for the first time, she suspected. "Hello," she said neutrally. |
|
|
| What lies ahead? |
[Mar. 9th, 2009|08:22 am] |
Who: Constable Benton Fraser and Inspector Meg Thatcher
Where: Their current flat in London
When: Shortly after this
Warnings: None anticipated
The shower takes much longer than the average Depot shower. Which, thinks Meg Thatcher, rather undermines the idea of water conservation. Still, as she finishes drying herself off and slips into a terrycloth robe, she can't bring herself to feel guilty about it. Nor does she feel guilty about the glances she throws towards Benton Fraser as he emerges from the shower.
There is nothing that could make her feel guilty about offering him her comb and raising her eyebrows in invitation. |
|
|
| Milestones |
[Mar. 6th, 2009|08:17 pm] |
Who: Constable Benton Fraser and Inspector Meg Thatcher
What: Fraser's (re)graduation from the RCMP's Depot Division
Where: Regina, Saskatchewan
When: This morning
Warnings: None to begin with, but some definite hot Mountie makin' out later.
( It's like deja vu ) |
|
|
| A career nowhere near ordinary |
[Mar. 2nd, 2009|09:42 pm] |
Who: Benton Fraser and Meg Thatcher
What: Thatcher visits Fraser
Where: RCMP Depot Division, Regina, Saskatchewan, Canada
Warnings: Unlikely to be needed PG-13 for sexual themes, no explicit content
Diefenbaker had made his objections loudly known when she had crated him for transport, but the invocation of Fraser's name seemed to have the desired effect on him. Or perhaps it was her explanation that animals being so transported were frequently tranquilised, something she was loathe to do to him unless he proved that he was incapable of behaving appropriately. Fortunately she had not had to wait too long to fetch him from the airport after she had de-planed; otherwise she feared he would chew through the carrier wall. Or perhaps somehow contrive to undo the latch with his teeth. Or his tail. She would not put either tactic past him.
She thought she was braced for the wave of homesickness that would hit her when she first approached the Depot grounds, but it was a tsunami, not merely a wave. The buildings. The landscape. Most of all, the cadets marching as she once had marched. She remembers counting to six in unison with the rest of her troop when they were learning how to march. She remembers the first time she pulled on her High Browns, and when she first realised that she no longer noticed the pressure of the leather against her calves.
She wonders where her troop members are now, back home, and if they miss her.
She swallows, and moves forward, looking for Benton Fraser. |
|
|
| It is my pleasure to welcome you.... |
[Feb. 16th, 2009|11:07 am] |
Who: Benton Fraser and Meg Thatcher
Where: Safehouse in London
When: A few days after this post.
Warnings: Probably nothing to worry about
When Meg Thatcher feels the loss of her rank and position in the RCMP, generally the pain comes from the knowledge that she is no longer able to serve her country and its citizens as she has done for her adult life to date. There are other times, however, when she misses the less-noble features of Inspector-hood. Such as having a staff. Or at least a secretary who could sort the mail. Or were they called administrative assistants now? Regardless, at this point she'd even welcome Turnbull when she's going through the day's post, even though he did have a rather odd filing system he'd use to sort correspondence, and there had been that incident with the frog--
Maybe she doesn't miss Turnbull that much after all.
One letter immediately catches her attention, with its familiar crest in the upper lefthand corner, and the recipient: Benton Fraser.
His acceptance letter. It has to be. "Ben?" she calls to him. |
|
|
| |
[Feb. 9th, 2009|08:37 pm] |
Who: Constable Benton Fraser and Inspector Meg Thatcher
When: The morning after this post
What: Fraser has returned from Toronto ... more or less
Where: Safehouse in London
Warnings: None
Before her eyes open, Inspector Meg Thatcher realises that she is alone in the bed. Well, she thinks, at least the wolf isn't here. Nothing like waking up in the morning to discover an Arctic wolf on the pillow next to you.
She's pleased to note that she's awake before the alarm has gone off, a sign that she is adapting to the unfamiliar bed and the noises of Bloomsbury. Sliding out of bed, she automatically makes it up in Academy-approved fashion and searches for her pyjama pants and robe.
Drat. She'd forgotten about yesterday's clothes. Those will need to go into the hamper ... at some point she should find a laundry service. And a dry cleaner.
You ran into a burning building to save a mohair sweater?
Yes, sir.
Pardon me if that sounds like pure stupidity.
Yes, sir.
You don't agree.
No, sir. Stupidity would have been if I ran back in for your leather chaps.
She definitely should not discuss dry cleaning with Fraser. Ben.
Where is he, anyway? Time for her to leave the bedroom and see where he's gotten to. |
|
|
| |
[Feb. 8th, 2009|06:49 pm] |
Who: Constable Benton Fraser and Inspector Meg Thatcher
When: Two days after this post
What: Fraser returns from Toronto
Where: Safehouse in London
Warnings: None
Fraser had seemed even more subdued than usual when Inspector Thatcher had picked him up at Heathrow. Tactfully, she had not tried to draw him out on the subject of his trip, which meant that the trip back to the flat was silent. Aside from Diefenbaker's vocalisations. The wolf demonstrated a remarkable range of noises.
Perhaps now that they are back inside the flat, he will open up to her. Or at least say something.
Please. This is Benton Fraser.
But she cannot prompt him to speak. He must choose to speak. It must be his decision. So instead she sits on the couch with the laptop and begins reviewing--for the hundredth time--the latest files from CSIS. |
|
|
| The journey of a thousand miles |
[Feb. 6th, 2009|11:10 pm] |
Who: Constable Benton Fraser and Inspector Meg Thatcher
When: Two days after this post
What: Fraser's leaving London for Toronto for a task nobody should have to undertake.
Where: Heathrow airport, 10:30AM
Warnings: None
( Fraser has never cared much for airports ) |
|
|
| The hard light of day |
[Feb. 4th, 2009|10:12 pm] |
Who: Constable Benton Fraser and Inspector Meg Thatcher
What: Where to go from here?
When: The morning after this post
Where: Safehouse in London
Warnings: None. That I know of.
He doesn't remember falling asleep. But when consciousness does come once more, he finds himself again disoriented. The bed he is asleep in does not feel familiar: the mattress is softer, the sheets smoother, and perhaps, most importantly-- he is not alone.
Meg Thatcher is curled against him here as he lies on his back, his left arm wrapped around her, their limbs a tangle in the rumpled sheets.
He shifts position, and as he does so, it comes back to him in a crashing flood of conscious recollection: they were both pulled from the world they knew, from the lives they had made, thrown into chaos and confusion. As of a few hours ago, Fraser has let himself take refuge in the one familiar thing left to him: the woman who was, until just recently, his superior officer.
Whether this was the right decision remains to be seen. What has been done cannot be undone. And now, he has no excuse of hierarchy or the dictates of regulations to hide behind.
Oh dear. |
|
|
| Set Adrift |
[Feb. 1st, 2009|05:10 pm] |
Who: Constable Fraser and Inspector Thatcher
What: Trying to figure this all out
When: Right after this
Where: Coffee house somewhere in London
Warnings: None.
He needs air. He needs solitude. Something. Anything. There's too much that's changed without warning, without preparation, and he needs time alone to try and make sense of it. But he has no Consulate to take refuge in, and the streets of London are unfamiliar. There's nowhere private enough for his liking that will let him deal with this immense undertaking. He'll have to settle for being invisible in a public space-- if he can get that invisibility, considering his distinctive red serge tunic, that is.
Fraser takes it upon himself to ask a passerby for directions to the nearest coffee house, and approximately fifteen minutes later, he has found a small table in the back corner of a fairly quiet establishment. It is here that he begins to try and collate his thoughts, beginning with the withdrawal of the wallet that contains possibly the second biggest bombshell this strange world has to offer him: the family photo.
A wife and two children, whose husband and father he has just inexplicably, for all intents and purposes, replaced. But he is not a fit replacement, and he cannot ever hope to be the man who has vanished in his stead. And as he gazes upon the photograph, he cannot help but feel as though he has unknowingly committed the worst possible crime imaginable. There will no longer be a husband or father in their lives, unless there is some method of placement reversal. These children will grow up with an absentee father, known only by name and deed.
It's too much like his own upbringing, and it pains him beyond measure to think that he too has suddenly become the man he never wanted to be, and followed his father in the precise footsteps he swore he would never take.
He is stuck here, without his career-- his life-- or a home save this shared one he cannot return to. He has no friends, no place to go, and these lives are forever changed, even though he knows that logically, the fault is not his. The damage is done. They will have to know.
Fraser sets the wallet with its accusatory photograph down on the table, and covers his face with one hand. As if that alone can shut out the insanity that is this bizarre world.
Dear God. What is he going to do? |
|
|
| Maintiens le droit |
[Jan. 30th, 2009|02:51 pm] |
Who: Inspector Meg Thatcher and Constable Benton Fraser, RCMP
What: Strategy session
When: Approximately an hour after this exchange
Where: CSIS safehouse, Bloomsbury
Warnings: Probably nothing to worry about
Bloomsbury, of all places. Well, Thatcher supposed it was a logical enough choice, given the nearby large tourist hotels and shopping centre. Plenty of anonymous people around. Likely the sort of place where a spy could blend in.
CSIS, of all agencies. She had never pictured herself in the Service canadien du renseignement de sécurité, in either covert or overt ops, and now here she is with identification that (apparently) proclaims her to be Maggie Norton. Maggie. She never liked being called "Maggie," and had insisted on "Meg" as soon as she could.
At least it was still in service to her country, though she'd feel more comfortable if she still had red serge to call her own. Unlike Fraser, who was ... someone who got asked for his autograph? He must feel the loss of his uniform more keenly than she does.
So ... things could be worse. And she and Fraser--and the wolf--surely will be able to figure out a way back home.
Her impatience turns to anxiety as she imagines what an unsupervised Turnbull could do to the consulate while she's away. |
|
|