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Having returned from his early morning run with Diefenbaker, showered, shaved, and dressed, Fraser takes the bus to the Consulate, arriving at 8:20 to start the work day. His appointment book lies on his desk, still open to yesterday's page. He takes a breath, straightens his collar, and composes himself before flipping over today's page to contemplate the schedule laid out for him in Inspector Thatcher’s firm, shapely handwriting.
Thursday, June 16, 1996.
8:30 Open Consulate, staff reception desk.
10:00 Deliver courier pouch to French Embassy
11:05 *Consulate Library
12:00 Guard Duty
12:45 *Consulate Front Steps
13:00 Shift Ends
14:00 Liason duty at 27th Police District
15:20 *Det. Vecchio's vehicle (alternative location acceptable as Liaison duties permit)
20:00 Report to Superior Officer
He frowns over the 12:45 appointment for a moment: surely she didn't really intend. . .? But no, the Inspector is not a woman to make a mistake over this sort of thing, and it isn't his place to question her orders. He’ll just have to make sure that he carries out his duties without any mishap.
First things first, however. He smoothes down the front of his tunic a last time, ignoring the pleasant tingle of anticipation the movement provokes, and goes to turn on the ground floor lights and unlock the front door.
He is seated at the reception desk, processing CW-128 forms, when Turnbull arrives at five minutes to nine. They exchange a pleasant greeting and chat for a minute about last night's curling game, then Turnbull goes on upstairs to clean the guest bedrooms.
At 9:00 sharp, Inspector Thatcher arrives, immaculate in a pink business suit. Fraster bends his head over his paperwork to hide the sudden flush of his cheeks, but instead of passing him by with a curt greeting, she stops in front of the desk and stands waiting until he has no choice but to lift his eyes to her.
“Good morning, Constable.”
He clears his throat. “Good morning, Sir.”
Standing, she’s only a little taller standing than he is seated, but she doesn’t need height to look down on him. He suppresses the urge to squirm in his seat. He is an officer of the RCMP, and there is such a thing as upholding the dignity of the uniform.
“Did you sleep well?” she asks.
“I had a bit of a restless night,” he admits.
A flash of amusement crosses her face, which then grows sterner than before.
“I trust your lack of sleep won't interfere in any way with your ability to perform your duties.”
“On the contrary, Sir,” he assures her.
That wins him a tight smile.
“Good. I'll expect a full report at twenty hours. Don't be late.”
“Yes, Sir.”
She sweeps into her office, and Fraser returns to his paperwork, mentally reciting the names of Canadian cities and towns in descending order of population until he has his breathing back under control.
At ten o’clock, Turnbull relieves him, taking over the reception desk while Fraser sets out for the French Embassy with the courier pouch securely tucked under his arm. He arrives at 10:28, hands off the pouch to the Ambassador’s personal secretary with all the proper protocols and countersignatures, then spends a few minutes exchanging pleasantries in French. Mlle. Rémy tries to engage him in a conversation about Impressionist art. Ordinarily, he enjoys chatting with her, but today he has a schedule to keep, so he politely extricates himself and walks briskly back to the Consulate.
He walks in the door at 11:03. Fortunately, Turnbull has no messages for him and no emergencies to report, so Fraser is able to get past him with a minimum of delay and make his way upstairs to the library.
If there’s one room in the Consulate that Fraser loves for itself, and not merely for what it represents, it is the library. Deeply carpeted, with heavy curtains that further dampen sound, which are currently pulled aside to let the early summer sun stream in, warming the dark wood of door frames, bookshelves, and antique furniture. The books are a hodgepodge; some past diplomats went in for matched sets of leather bindings, while others enriched the Consulate with volumes reflecting their personal interests. The room sees little use, but Fraser lives in hope that one day, some guest or visiting diplomat or even the Inspector herself will be in need of a particular book, and be glad of the riches accumulated here. Meanwhile, he cherishes the moments of solitary peace he is able to steal here.
He automatically goes to his favorite spot: the odd nook in the corner of the room, where a small desk is nearly hidden from view. On the desk, he finds a bud vase containing a lush peony blossom, next to an open book. He settles himself in the chair and breathes in the subtle scent with its notes of citron and honey. He imagines Inspector Thatcher—Meg—placing the flower in the vase, just so; pausing to sniff it, her loose hair brushing the petals as she straightens, a satisfied smile tugging at her lips. . .imagines that hair brushing across his own face as he looks up at her. . .
The page greets his eyes with poetry:
The World is too much with us, late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;—
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
. . .
He takes his time reading the familiar words of Wordsworth before continuing to the poem on the facing page.
Under the desk, he undoes his trousers and slips his right hand inside. As he reads, he strokes himself leisurely, even dreamily, savoring each ripple of pleasure as his arousal gently grows. The words take him away, inside his mind, outside the walls and the city and all the demands on his attention, and he wanders, alone and perfectly content, with the sun and wind on his face, and his body humming with potential, until a wave of sensation washes through him, and another, and he bites his lip and comes in his hand.
He sits for some time, smiling and boneless in the hard library chair, listening to the barely-audible sounds of traffic outside and people going about their business elsewhere in the building, feeling the patter of his heartbeat gradually slow back to normal. Eventually, he digs out a handkerchief with his free hand to wipe off the other, stands, closes the book and returns it to its shelf. The flower, he takes with him to his office. He has a change of clothing there, and there is a shower upstairs for staff use.
At noon sharp, freshly groomed, he takes up his position on the front steps. Standing motionless is second nature to him, requiring only the barest attention to self-discipline, and he often finds guard duty to be a form of meditative exercise. Today, however, it’s difficult to calm either his mind or his body. His muscles are tensed with anticipation and his thoughts circle fruitlessly around the question of how on earth he’s going to fulfill his 12:45 assignment without shaming himself, his uniform, his country, and the general public.
Surely she doesn’t intend him to put his hand on himself, here in full view of a crowded city street, and. . . He can’t even finish the thought; it's too embarrassing to contemplate. He feels his cheeks heating. He suppresses the urge to shift his feet. Even if he were to bring himself to orgasm without physical stimulation—a difficult trick, but within the realm of theoretical possibility—he's completely exposed. He can control his movements and his expression, but he can’t hide his autonomous responses. And foot traffic past the Consulate is regular, especially during the lunch hour.
He breathes slowly: in and out, in and out. He trusts Inspector Thatcher—he trusts Meg. That is the point of this exercise, and also its foundation. She will try him, she will push him, she may even humiliate him—but only within certain boundaries. She will not expect him to do the impossible, nor will she ask anything of him that he is actually unwilling to give.
His job, therefore, is to prepare himself for the task he was assigned. Physically, it’s largely a matter of encouraging his body's impulse, rather than suppressing it as he would under most other circumstances. He’s already aroused by the assignment, the memory of his earlier orgasm, the anticipation of what’s to come, the thrill of the risk he’s taking. Every time a tourist’s gaze passes over him like he’s part of the edifice of the building behind him, his pulse jumps and his penis twitches, hardening another increment. With careful, tiny movements of his pelvic muscles, imperceptible to the observing eye, he can give himself a little friction against the starched fabric of his boxer shorts—the effect is disproportionate, electric. He can intensify it by controlling his breath and gradually tensing certain key muscles. . .yes.
Yes.
The logistical challenge, though. . . How to create a distraction, or an obstruction, when he is standing on an exposed stair, not allowed to move so much as a finger. . . ? It’s surprisingly difficult to focus his thoughts on the question. He should be able to practice biofeedback and strategize at the same time, but the tingling heat gathering between his legs nags for his attention, as insistent as the minutes ticking down on his mental clock, every time a passerby looks his way, he has to suppress a shiver of alarm. His heart wants to race, his whole body wants to burst from its self-imposed cage of immobility, he wants—he wants—
From behind him, someone is coming down the Consulate steps. In his peripheral vision, dark hair crowning pale pink; click of heels on stone. Inspector Thatcher stops in front of him, on the spot where the least restrained tourists stop to take pictures. His mental clock ticks over to 12:45 as she checks her wristwatch. Heat washes through him; his collar itches almost unbearably. He keeps his gaze fixed steadily over her head, but from this angle, he can see her well enough, as she is undoubtedly well aware.
She flashes a brief but piercing look at his crotch—there’s nothing to see, there can’t be! His boxer shorts are snug, the jodhpurs roomy, the tunic made of heavy serge!—then rakes her gaze slowly upwards, tilting her chin to regard his face.
“So far, so good,” she says, crisply but for no ears but his. The faint praise simultaneously warms and frustrates him. As if she doubts his ability to meet her frankly rather absurd expectations! Needless to say, he doesn't respond.
“Eye on the time, Constable,” she says. Then she turns her back on him, takes a folder from under her arm, and peruses its contents, occasionally glancing up as if she’s waiting for something; a car to pull up, perhaps. As she is a step below him, the top of her head is approximately level with the tops of his breast pockets; her body shields the lower half of his from the view of people passing on the sidewalk. Not perfect cover, but enough to make the risk supportable.
He continues his minute shifting, his precise tensing of muscles. She flips a page, makes a dissatisfied noise. His penis twitches in response. She glances up at the street, shifts her feet, mutters under her breath as she ruffles through the pages. In his peripheral vision, he sees people passing on the sidewalk, some of them slowing for a longer look at this strange Canadian display, a man in a red uniform standing still as a statue. He breathes in, out, slow and even. The breeze ruffles her dark hair, not quite close enough for him to catch its scent. She reads, checks her watch, sighs. His pulse hammers, having slipped from his control, he’s not sure when. Arousal and the urge to move are so closely intertwined that he can barely tell them apart.
As he feels the orgasm creeping up on him, he braces his feet and legs, relaxes the muscles in his face and shoulders and holds. . .still. . .still. . .refusing to shudder or even let his nostrils flare as the electric current races through him, leaving him light-headed.
Inspector Thatcher tucks her folder under her arm, descends to the sidewalk, and walks off without looking back.
Fraser keeps his eyes on the building across the street and focuses on breathing evenly as the last licks of pleasure shiver through him.
Punctually at 1:00 p.m., Turnbull comes out to relieve him of guard duty. The sweat has dried from Fraser’s face, but he is sticky inside his shorts and he can smell himself, though he suspects few other people would be able to. He ought to clean up and change his uniform before leaving for the police station, but Inspector Thatcher hasn’t left him enough time to do so; in fact, he’ll have to hurry to make it there by 2 p.m. Not that Ray would mind if Fraser arrived a few minutes late; he probably wouldn’t even notice. But that's no excuse for tardiness on Fraser's part. He'll just have to make do with a quick wipe-down in the bathroom and trust to the distinctive fug of the bullpen to overpower any lingering odor. (He has to admit, only in the privacy of his own mind, of course, that there’s something compelling in the lingering reminder both of what he’s done—what he’s still doing—and of the risk of being discovered.)
As Fraser walks into the bullpen at 2:00 on the dot, Ray strides up to him and takes him by the shoulder, propelling him right back outside. “Good, you’re here, that hunch of yours came up gold, why am I not surprised? We need to track down Oliphant, like, yesterday!”
An hour and fifteen minutes later, Fraser is pursuing a would-be cat burglar (otherwise practical black outfit adorned with tail and pointed ears) across a series of rooftops. Ray is somewhere below on the street, presumably finding an overland route to intercept them when either Fraser brings down his quarry or they run out of accessible roofs. Airborne over a gap between buildings, Fraser just has time to check his wristwatch. He hasn’t forgotten the next entry in his appointment book, but his chances of being able to keep it are rapidly approaching nil. His stomach flutters anxiously as his boots hit the roof—he hates the thought of being found wanting, even for an essentially arbitrary and trivial assignment—but no call is more important than the call of duty (never again)—and Inspector Thatcher will—Meg will—
He pounds across the roof, gaining on the costumed miscreant, who pulls up short with a scrape of rubber soles, arms windmilling for balance. Ah, they’ve reached a major street crossing; the next roof is both too far away and ten stories up. Fraser grabs the burglar securely by shoulder and waist and hauls him back from the edge of the roof with its dangerously low, probably code-violating safety wall. Evading the burglar’s attempts to stomp on his foot and to thrust an elbow into his groin, Fraser subdues him. The conversation they have while waiting for Ray to arrive to read the lawbreaker his rights is fruitful and instructive on both sides, and Fraser has reason to hope that the young man will think twice before straying again from the straight and narrow.
Out of the question to do anything untoward in Ray’s car while driving to the station with a suspect handcuffed in the back. The calendar entry did explicitly allow for an alternative location, but given that Fraser is already forced to an alternative time, which was not explicitly permitted, he’d prefer not to take extra license. So, when they arrive at the police station, Fraser leaves his Stetson on the Riviera’s dashboard as he helps Ray escort the burglar from the car.
Ray notices the hat’s absence before Fraser can bring it up: “Hey, Benny, where’s your hat?”
“I must have left it in your car.”
Ray tosses the car keys at him and turns to speak to the officer on duty at the desk.
Back at the car, Fraser slides into the passenger seat and completes his assignment efficiently, rubbing himself quickly and roughly through his trousers, his hand under his tunic, the car’s walls offering reasonable concealment. He deliberately rides the threshold of pain: chastisement for his tardiness, self-inflicted like the many reprimands submitted to his own file out of an unquenchable thirst for balance, for consequences to attend on being allowed to get away with it, time and time again.
“You don’t fool her, you know,” he mutters between clenched teeth, just before orgasm hits him like a gut-punch.
As Ray is still mired in booking the suspect, Fraser has enough time to change his underwear for a spare pair he keeps stashed in Ray’s locker. Relieved to finally feel less sticky, he helps Ray complete his report, joins him for a quick supper at a diner, then gratefully accepts a ride back to the Consulate.
He arrives in time to use the Consulate facilities for a quick shower before knocking on Inspector Thatcher’s office door. At her brisk, “Come in,” he enters, pulling the door closed behind him, and stands at parade rest in front of her desk, awaiting her attention.
She’s frowning down at some papers on her desk, her shoulder-length hair swinging loose, her pink suit still impeccable after a long day. She reaches the end of a page, stacks the papers, taps the stack against the deck to neaten the edges, and sets it aside. She raises her eyes and gives him a long once-over.
“Well, Constable? Your report on your special assignment?”
“Ma’am,” Fraser acknowledges. “I completed my duties in the Library in good time and, if I may say so, quite satisfactorily.”
He pauses for her reaction; an arch, “Oh?”
“Yes, ma’am. I am confident you would have no complaint about my performance, had you been there.”
“Mm.” She draws the sound out enough to split the difference between acknowledgement and appreciation. “And your analysis of the task?”
This, too, is part of the assignment. “I was presented with an opportunity to reflect on the importance of taking time for quiet and beauty. Stopping to smell the peonies, as it were. It’s a gift we too easily neglect to give ourselves, and all the more precious when given by another.”
“You’re welcome, Constable,” she says, with an amused smile. “And I prefer peonies to roses.”
“I concur. They are underappreciated in mainstream culture. As are men who love poetry and nature. And women who are strong leaders, know their own desires, and refuse to be patronised or harassed by the men around them. . .and who might feel the need to keep their softer feelings hidden as an unaffordable liability.”
“I think you’re stretching the metaphor, Constable.”
“I apologize, Ma’am. I read poetry; unfortunately, that doesn't confer the ability to write it.”
“Well, no one’s perfect,” she says tartly, but her eyes are soft.
“Indeed,” he agrees.
“Proceed,” she tells him.
“During my guard duty shift, I was placed in a difficult tactical position with competing objectives. Or, I should say, that is how the assignment initially presented itself. However, I believe the lesson of this assignment was about trust. In my own capabilities, and more importantly, trust in my commander, not to have set me up for failure. Trust in my partner, to be there to help me when it mattered most.”
Inspector Thatcher smiles, nods, then raises her eyebrows.
“And. . .” Heat flushes his cheeks as he continues, “That assignment was also about the, ah. . .” he clears his throat. She waits, watching him. “The pleasure of, ah, taking risks. And the fear of exposure. Humiliation. The—the pleasure of that fear. And of accomplishment. Performing a difficult task under pressure.’
“You do enjoy that,” she says.
“Yes,” he whispers. He’s still not sure why this, of all things, is so difficult to admit aloud, but it is, and she knows it. All of which is another complex pleasure, blooming warm in his chest.
“Very good,” she says. “And the third?”
He licks his lip. “I regret to report that I was unable to adhere to the assigned schedule, although I did complete the assignment at approximately 6:05 p.m.”
“Because?” she inquires coldly.
“I was engaged in pursuit of a suspect who—as we have now confirmed—had perpetrated an escalating series of crimes, including attempted burglary that very likely would have had violent consequences.”
Inspector Thatcher frowns, but Fraser is no longer anxious. He knows he made the only possible decision, and he is prepared to stand by it.
“I suppose it was too much to hope that for once you might make it through the day without a single act of re-interpreting your orders to suit your own priorities.” She sighs. “Still, you did complete the assignment, and I suppose I can overlook the delay, in view of mitigating circumstances.”
He meets her eyes and sees approval and understanding. Because yes, he knows that though his unconventional approach to his Consular duties does genuinely irritate her, her dedication to maintaining the right is equally genuine, and she would never ask him to put aside that duty for the sake of their game. The game is founded on that trust, in fact. He knows, too, that although she would not give up her political career path, she does envy him a little for the more active, hands-on aspects of his own work.
“Your analysis?” she prompts.
“As I did not complete the assignment as specified, I cannot say what lesson I might have drawn from that experience. However, as it transpired. . .” He draws a steadying breath, suddenly shaky for reasons that have nothing and everything to do with her. “Some duties take priority, no matter what the circumstance. If we lose sight of our priorities—” His throat tightens. He swallows hard, takes another slow breath. “We betray ourselves, and those who trust us, who—who care about us. And I know—I trust—that you would never want me to do such a thing. I know that you trust my judgement in this, as I trust yours. And that makes everything else possible.”
She blinks, taken aback. For a moment, he wonders whether he has been too candid. One purpose of their games is to allow them to express things they don’t wish to speak—or hear spoken. But the purpose of this report is to push those boundaries, for both of them. And her eyes are softening.
“Very, ah—” She clears her throat, and when she speaks again, the demeanor and voice of the commanding officer are firmly back in place. “Very perceptive, Constable. I’m pleased with your performance overall. Good work.”
He allows himself to smile. It would be terribly unprofessional, but they aren’t actually on duty right now, however much they may be observing the forms.
“Permission to speak, Ma’am?”
“Granted,” she says, with a small smile of approval.
He licks his lips, more or less involuntarily, before asking, “May I ask, how was your day?”
This time, her smile holds something warmer than simple approval. She flips open the planner that lies by her right hand and rotates it to face him. (Not that he couldn’t have read the text upside-down, but he wouldn’t have done so. Not without permission.)
Her schedule is jam-packed with appointments, of course. The last entry is 20:00: Const. F. report.
“It’s been a very long day,” she murmurs, her eyes never leaving his face. “I’ve barely had a second to stop and. . .think.” Her voice is the purr of the cat that got the cream. Fraser feels his heartbeat at every individual pulse point.
“Is there something I can do?” he asks.
She doesn’t reply verbally, but continues looking at him, sitting straight in her chair, hands resting on her desk. Inviting him to look. To assess. To diagnose.
He considers the line between her brows; how she unconsciously massaged the bridge of her nose earlier, under the despised reading glasses; the half-hour dinner break on her calendar.
He comes around to her side of the desk and folds himself down to his knees beside her, leaving her room to swivel her chair around to face him. He lifts her foot in both his hands, glancing up at her face for permission before removing her pink, low-heeled pump. When he digs his fingers gently into the muscles of her instep, she rewards him with a soft moan. She relaxes back into the chair, stretching out her legs as he continues to minister to one tired foot and then the other.
“Oh, that’s so good,” she murmurs. “Don’t stop. . .” The pleasure he feels at being praised pales before the pleasure of seeing her like this, sprawled at her ease, her dignity set aside, trusting him to see her, to care for her, to know her as no one else is permitted to know her.
This is what they give each other, that no one else can.