title: the least worst option (and its unsurprising results)
summary: Well. I have a lot of feelings about Benton Fraser. A. Lot. Of. Feelings. And there are these glorious shining moments when Meg Thatcher is suddenly my spirit animal.
disclaimer: Neither Due South nor its characters belong to me; this story yields no profit and is intended for entertainment only.

In retrospect, Meg tells herself, it was her own fault. The entire mess started because she simply didn't have a better idea.

Of course, she never should have uttered the words All right, Fraser. But I'm coming with you this time. In no conceivable timeline do those words ever turn out well.

Sure enough, Meg now finds herself running behind Fraser, who's leading her out of a smoky, seedy bar where they almost just got seen by three men who really, really aren't going to be nice when they find out the two Mounties are following them.

She follows him out the back door, into the alley, but she can still see the men nearby. Damn. No way out. And in a few seconds, they're going to see the two of them.

She hopes Fraser has a bright idea. She's got nothing. There's nowhere to hide.

He looks back at her, eyes wide. "Ma'am?"

"Constable?"

"Do you trust me?"

Her breath catches. "What?"

"Ma'am, do you trust me?"

Well - "Yes."

He doesn't even give her a moment to react. He grabs her arm, pushes her back against the wall, turns her face up to his, and kisses her on the mouth.

Her whole body stiffens, but he doesn't wait for her acquiescence. This isn't the stammering, two-left-footed country boy she's used to. He's confident. Sure of himself. Deliberate. In total control.

And it's unbelievably hot.

She's vaguely, distantly aware of people walking past, her pulse hammering in her chest. The cold night air is stinging her cheeks, a shocking contrast to the heat of his body against hers.

Fraser has absolutely no business being so good at kissing.

He's even earnest in this, his teeth grazing her lip, his tongue swiping over it. It's not acting, no timid attempt for someone else's benefit; he's kissing her thoroughly, like it's his only design in life. Her mouth opens under his and he plunders her mouth, slow and purposeful, like he's determined to get every taste, and her head is spinning.

He lets her mouth go and she has to suck in air. But he's tracing the edge of her jaw with his tongue, slow and painstaking and so insanely perfect that she's not even sure what they're doing.

"Inspector," he murmurs into her ear, and oh that has to be an accident, the way his mouth is brushing her earlobe. "Can you see them?"

Right. Right. "Uh. Yes." It's hard to concentrate and ohhhhhh that's most certainly his teeth on her earlobe now. She fists her hand in the back of his blue shirt, scraping her nails over the taut muscles.

"Tell me when they leave," he whispers.

She lets out a soft noise that's clearly something like okay. It's certainly not involuntary. But she's trapped, the brick wall at her back, his strong, lean body pressed up against her front, and as she slides one hand into his hair, she can feel a deep rumble in his chest.

He may be the world's politest man, but his body is crushed against hers, and she can feel the subtle weight between his legs, the heat, even through their clothing. It may be a ruse but it's clearly, well, serious for him.

Meg bites her lip. It's wrong. It's all so, so, so wrong, and she shouldn't -

"Ma'am?"

She swallows. "They're still there."

"Understood."

Meg tries to gather herself, but then his tongue is in her mouth again and his hips are pressing unconsciously into hers and if there was ever a reason this shouldn't be happening, she's completely forgotten it.

She waits until the men are really gone before telling Fraser to stop. She has to be sure. For safety. It has nothing to do with the fact that he's found the spot behind her ear that drives her absolutely insane.

They slip out of the alley and into the street, and manage to get all the way back to the consulate without looking at each other.

The next morning, right on cue, there's a knock at her office door. Meg pulls off her reading glasses. She knows who it is. And there's no way around it. "Come in."

Sure enough, it's her errant constable, crisp and clean in his beloved brown uniform, wolf at his heels. Is it just her imagination, or is he standing more firmly at attention than usual?

He looks delicious.

And for God's sake, why does the wolf look like he's sitting at attention?

"Good morning, Fraser."

"Good morning, sir."

Shit. She's staring at his mouth. And from the flush in his cheeks, he's noticed.

"I have my incident report here, sir."

"Thank you. Well. I appreciate your promptness."

Meg takes the paper he hands her, consciously making sure her hand doesn't touch his. It almost seems like he's - is he staring at her lips?

"Yes, sir."

She scans the paper, and only then realizes he's still standing there, motionless. He's not beelining for the door. In fact, he has a trace of something on his face, something -

She decides to take pity on him. Since he did, after all, give her a sort of warning before kissing her senseless. "Is there something else, Constable?"

"I - want to apologize, sir. I am aware that my, ah - actions - last night were a breach of protocol, and I am very sorry to have violated your personal boundaries."

Oh, for crying out loud. Meg ignores the blush rising in her cheeks. And makes herself stop looking at his mouth. Again. Shit. "You have nothing to apologize for, Fraser. You were thinking on your feet. And you even had the presence of mind to first ask my permission."

"Understood, sir." He shuffles his feet awkwardly. "I - um - I just wanted to - to make sure you weren't - that is, I didn't mean to -"

"Constable?"

He clears his throat. There's a definite tinge of pink in his cheeks.

"I'm afraid I was a bit - rough, sir. I'm sorry if I seemed - ah - forceful."

He needs to stop talking. Now.

"You were taking initiative, Constable. You did nothing wrong."

"Understood. Thank you, sir."

"Is that all?"

His breath catches, and his eyes meet hers, so full of -

"Yes, sir."

The air rushes out of her lungs.

"Dismissed."

He nods and leaves. But instead of trotting out at his heels, the wolf sits for a moment, staring at Meg, his head cocked to one side.

There is something wrong. That animal knows things.

She very nearly asks Constable, did you tell the wolf what happened?

Benton Fraser's not a stupid man.

He knows what happened wasn't supposed to have happened.

He can't stop thinking about it.

The dream Meg has that night isn't even a surprise.

She wakes up panting, sweaty, her face hot. Damn it. Damn it.

It's stupid. It's nothing. It's just her brain taking meaningless images and flashing them through her unconscious mind's eye. There's no reason at all to be embarrassed about that lengthy, detailed encounter. It wasn't real. His suspenders didn't really slide down his shoulders. His shirt didn't really end up flung across her office floor. And he certainly didn't do that when he took off her -

She's worked with attractive men before. She's not incapable of functioning in the presence of cheekbones and bright eyes and broad shoulders. Of course, office work in Ottawa never necessitated making out with anyone in a dark alley. Especially not a someone she's starting to realize that she's dangerously attracted to.

Benton Fraser is trouble. Trouble in tall browns, with blue eyes and an unreadably pleasant face. It felt like irritation at first. Irritation is safe. She can deal with that.

But that's slowly been wearing off, until she was - comfortable with him. After all the friction when she'd first gotten to Chicago, after that mess with the egg farmer and Fraser saving her from Henri Cloutier, they'd come to a tacit understanding. She didn't hate him. He could finish her sentences. They'd started circling each other and found common ground.

She's not blind. He's gorgeous. And seems to be completely unaware, which somehow makes him even more attractive.

It's been a tacit understanding with herself as well, though. She's never actually had to sleep her way to the top. Meg is an intelligent woman. And she'd certainly never subject him to anything like the (thinly) veiled sexual harassment she experienced in Ottawa.

This is why they have ranks. Ranks make everything simpler. He's a constable. She's a commissioned officer. It was distance. Distance is clear. And every time he looked at her with that calm, earnest expression, she could brush it off.

Now all she can think about is the way he grabbed her. The heat in his eyes. The nip of his teeth at her ear.

She knows too much now. She knows how he seduces a woman. And she knows that he's good at it.

It was easier when she looked at him like some kind of handsome, backwoods monk. But now that she knows he's a straight man with a healthy sexuality. And he knows exactly how to use his tongue.

Meg notices, the next day, that Fraser's even less comfortable than usual. Which is saying something.

She lets it go while he's standing sentry duty. If nothing else, it fits the context. After the lunch hour, though, when he comes into her office with his status report, he spends the entire report avoiding her eyes.

"Is something wrong, Constable?"

His face is the color of his tunic, and he's studiously looking at the wall just above her head.

"No, sir."

He's possibly the worst liar she's ever met. "Fraser. Look at me."

He blinks, shuffles his feet, and finally meets her eyes, but she sees his glance dip to her mouth. And suddenly she feels her own face getting warm.

"Dismissed, Constable."

He retreats to his office, and Meg very deliberately fills out a budget report instead of pondering the possibility that Constable Fraser had a sex dream about her last night.

The Inspector stops in his office to debrief - er, update - him on an upcoming Canadian official's visit. He thinks everything is fine.

When she's finished, they both move for the door at the same time - her to open it, him to open it for her - and in the narrow space, they're suddenly face to face, so close, and it's the same. It's exactly the same.

Fraser swallows. "Ma'am?"

Her eyes flick up to his, and he forgets why this is a bad idea. He's terribly aware of her, the warmth of her body, the gentle fragrance that clings to her like light. And his body vividly remembers the sensation of her body pressed against his, the softness of her curves against his leaner, muscular frame.

She looks up at him through those long lashes, her eyes so dark, her lips just barely parted. She wants to kiss him. He needs to kiss her, a drugging, physical need.

Almost unconsciously, he's leaning forward. His hand steals to her cheek, and her eyes flutter shut. Her breath is hot on his mouth, and he's -

"Inspector? Are you up here?"

Ovitz. His voice is coming from just down the hallway.

They freeze, her eyes flick open, and her face goes in an instant from that beautiful, dreamy expression to pure panic.

She turns and leaves without a word.

Fraser lets out a long breath and slumps back against his desk, curling his hands around the edge. Diefenbaker, watching from the corner, lets out a huff.

Fraser smiles wryly. "I know. Nothing but trouble."

They've reached an impasse. He knows that. It's bad enough that he can't control himself around her. But she feels the same way. This maddening, complicated, beautiful, fierce woman wants him.

He doesn't know what to do.

But he needs to kiss her again.