Christmas Presents

Disclaimer: Characters are not mine. Abuses of the English language unfortunately are.

A/N: Set post ATQH, spoiler for the same.

Christmas was in the air at the Canadian Consulate in Chicago. With only three days left to go, Constable Turnbull had exchanged his Stetson for a Santa hat. Delicious smells were wafting from the kitchen where he was baking batch after batch of Christmas cookies. A light snow was falling outside the consulate windows, the wind gusts causing the flakes to swirl around in elegant swoops and spirals before settling on the ground to cover the dirt and filth of the city streets.

The doors of the Consulate burst open, assisted by an unexpectedly strong gust of wind. Snow blew into the foyer as Inspector Thatcher tried to wrestle the large heavy doors shut again. When she finally succeeded, she took off her coat, hat, scarf, and gloves and hung them on the coat rack which was rapidly filling to capacity. She made a mental note to order a larger one, especially since this winter was expected to be a chilly one. She turned to go into her office and was momentarily startled by the scene before her.

A Christmas tree stood in the corner, fully lit and decorated. Train tracks had been laid around the tree and a pair of long legs clad in dress uniform pants and perfectly polished high brown boots stuck out from under the tree in a rather undignified position. Meg shook her head at what her subordinate found to do with spare time at the office. She couldn't complain that his status reports were late, or that he ever shirked his duties, either official ones or the personal errands she sent him out on. Still, it was unseemly that any consulate staff should be seen in such an undignified position for a distinctly unofficial purpose. Meg crossed her arms over her chests, assumed her best "what do you think you are doing" posture, and tapped her high heeled shoe on the floor to get the constable's attention. After only four taps, the legs began to move, and by seventeen, Constable Fraser was standing at attention before her. The only evidence of his previous activity was his slightly mussed hair and the lack of Stetson on top of it. And a Douglas Fir needle stuck to the shoulder of his red serge tunic.

With obvious disapproval of the condition of his uniform, she stepped over to him and with a single finger and thumb picked the needle from his tunic and dropped it on the floor. She looked him in the eye, and then down at the train track, the caboose of the train set just visible where he had been sprawled only moments before.

"What is that?"

"A model train, sir."

"I can see that, but why do we now have toys at the Canadian Consulate?" Meg paused to give Fraser one of her special Ice Queen glares. He opened his mouth to answer but before he could utter a word, she held up one finger to stop him. "Remove it," she commanded just as Constable Turnbull rounded the corner.

"But Sir," cried an appalled Turnbull as he stepped out of the kitchen with freshly baked jam thumbprint cookies on a Christmas plate, "It's not Christmas without a model train around the tree! It's tradition!" Neither Fraser or Thatcher was surprised to see a frilly apron covering his red serge, but in deference to the season, he had acquired a bright green one complete with Christmas tree embroidery and tiny battery powered lights. Between the green apron and red serge, Constable Turnbull looked like a walking advertisement for a gender-reversed Stepford Wives: Christmas Edition. The look on his face spoke plainly of the importance of a model train at Christmas.

Meg felt vaguely sorry for the young constable who would be away from his family for the first time this Christmas. It was not his fault that the train looked remarkably like another train that figured prominently in her memory. She let an exasperated sigh escape. "Fine. Keep it out. But see that it does not disrupt consular proceedings or keep anyone from their assigned duties."

When Meg stopped back at the consulate after her shopping expedition the place was deserted. Turnbull had gone home for the night and a note from Fraser told her that he was attending a Christmas party at the Vecchio house and he would finish his reports first thing in the morning. The lights on the tree had been left on, as had the model train. As it made its loop around the tree, she thought she caught a glimpse of something decidedly un-train-like in one of the cars. Since there was nobody else in the consulate, she let curiosity get the better of her, and she got down on all fours in her business suit to take a closer look at the train. Inside one of the cars was a horse. Only one, but it was the perfectly in scale with the rest of the train.

Quickly she found the controls and stopped the train. No, she sighed to herself, he wouldn't have disabled the breaks. That would be too obvious. But the horse, that was the perfect message. How distinctly Fraser, she thought, Easy to notice and easy to ignore. Not quite an invitation, more like an indication that if an invitation was to be given, it would also be accepted. He still hasn't managed to obey orders and forget.

She couldn't blame him on that last point, though. She was finding it harder and harder to keep her feelings from showing. Not in everyday circumstances. No, she was an expert in hiding her thoughts and emotions behind the mask of Inspector Thatcher. It was the unusual occurrences, ones in which she had to use her right brain, her creative side, instead of the logic-ruled left brain, that bits of feeling seeped through holes in her armor. In the privacy of her home she had been contemplating this problem. She was his commanding officer, so she could not initiate any kind of relationship since it could appear to be sexual harassment. Fraser would not make the first move either, since she told him in no uncertain terms that their one kiss could never be repeated. Although he may not be able to alter his memory at her order and forget the kiss ever happened, he would never allow himself to actively disregard a direct order from a superior officer.

Maybe this was his attempt to circumvent their respective positions. There was nothing about putting a horse in a train that in any way disobeyed any kind of order. And if she didn't respond in kind, there was no embarrassing moment to be endured. She thought about how she was going to answer. She knew she couldn't let this advance go unacknowledged, but in what way could she respond that would communicate her desire to take back that unfortunate order about not repeating the kiss?

Then she remembered something. Something very important. She had provided a caveat to regretful order. Something about certain conditions repeating themselves. Leave it to Fraser to be so specific that the chance of the exact same set of circumstances occurring was slimmer than a supermodel during Fashion Week. Something about unconscious Mounties… Yes, she could work with that… Smiling, Meg picked up the phone to call directory assistance. She needed to find the most well stocked model train shop in the city.

The next morning Fraser opened his office door to find Inspector Thatcher already at her desk. There was a Christmas package at his feet, left sometime during the night for him to find first thing this morning. He took it back to his desk, untied the red ribbon, and carefully unwrapped the box without tearing the gold patterned wrapping paper. It was the horse he had placed in the train car the night before. He knew that the inspector would have noticed the small alteration in an otherwise "normal" train set. But to have her return it to him was a blow to his heart. She must have realized what he had done, and was gently telling him that she stood by her orders from before. Saddened, he went back down to the tree to turn on the lights and the train. They meant nothing to him now, but he would keep up the act for Turnbull. There was no reason to ruin the season for everyone.

Fraser took the steps to the foyer more slowly than usual. He toyed with the idea of annoying the Inspector so that she would put him on sentry duty. He admitted to himself that he could use some forced solitude-in-a-crowd at the moment. As he knelt under the tree to turn on the train set and plug in the Christmas tree lights, he noticed something in one of the cars. He looked in the window and saw four figures inside the car. They looked like the plastic people he had seen in the model train store the previous day when he purchased the horse, but these had been altered from the original. Their pants had been painted navy blue with a yellow stripe down the side. Their jackets had been painted bright red with a black collar. A thin stripe of brown encircled their waist and another slashed from right hip to left shoulder. Their eyes had been painted closed. Each of the figures was placed horizontally on the floor of the car with a tiny pillow under each head.

Unconscious Mounties.

A wide smile slowly replaced the melancholy expression on Fraser's face. His superior officer had not only noticed and understood the question, but had given him the answer he had hoped for. A train filled with unconscious Mounties. What was next? He didn't have to think for too long. Taken over by terrorists…His smile grew as he determined how to play the next round of this delightful game. He remembered seeing a Christmas display in a comic book store between the consulate and his apartment.

"Come on, Dief." He said calling to his half wolf. "We have work to do." Dief whined. "Yes, well, if you didn't eat quite so many of Constable Turnbull's Christmas cookies, you wouldn't have this problem." He grabbed his hat and walked out the consulate doors with a slightly uncomfortable wolf trailing behind him.

Fraser and Dief walked for a several blocks until they arrived at the comic book store. A bell on the door alerted the shopkeeper to the entrance of his next potential customer, and he looked up to see a Mountie and a large dog entering his shop.

"Excuse me, sir, I couldn't help but notice your display of comic book character themed Christmas tree ornaments. Would you happen to have one representing The Flash?"

The shopkeeper grunted in acknowledgement, and produced a flat red ornament with a large yellow lightning bolt taking up most of the surface.

"Four-fifty. Or I'll gift wrap it for 6."

"Thank you kindly, but that's not necessary. I'll just take the ornament. Four if you have them."

The shopkeeper rang up Fraser's purchase and placed the ornaments in a bag. "Anything else I can get for you?"

"No thank you. These will do nicely." Fraser said as he paid the shopkeeper from the shrinking stash of American currency he kept in his hat. He would have to make a trip to the bank soon to convert more of his paycheck.

When Inspector Thatcher came back from lunch, she had developed a slight headache. Her favorite Chinese food had alleviated it slightly, but it was still there, laughing at the massive amounts of paperwork that had to be completed before the end of the calendar year. It could be worse, she thought. At least I don't have a family I have to ignore for this job. It would be nice, though, to have someone to spend the holidays with, a good friend, maybe, someone she could be real with, and not have to put on an act. That's all she was, she realized. She had put so much of herself into being The Inspector, analyzing what kind of person would most likely get choice assignments and be placed on the fast track for promotion that she had lost herself in the process. Everything from her clothing to the kind of music she listened to had been chosen to build a character. Even her apartment and her office were decorated by a professional instead of what reflected herself. How else could it have been? she asked herself. I saw what I wanted and figured out how to get it. And now I have to live with that.

With these less than cheerful thoughts, she crept into her office to the sounds of Jingle Bell Rock playing in the kitchen. Hopefully her subordinates would not bother her and she could get some work done.

As soon as Fraser heard her door click, he quietly snuck out of his own office and down the hall to the Christmas tree. Without a sound, he turned off the model train, and, with some double sided tape and paperclips, he hung the lightning bolt ornaments on the train. He also removed one of the "unconscious Mounties" and took it back to his office.

Back at his desk, he hummed quietly to himself, a less well known aria from Handel's Messiah. He placed the Mountie figure in the box he received earlier, reusing the same wrapping paper and ribbon. At first glance it appeared as if he had not even opened the gift. Looking at Dief, he put his finger to his lips and walked down the hall and placed the package at his superior's door.

Meg found it difficult to focus on her paperwork. Especially when, only five minutes after she closed her office door, she heard the sounds of the model train slow down and stop. Another ten, and they resumed as before, but slightly lower pitched, as if an extra car or some other weight had been added to the train causing an additional burden on the motor.

It was impossible to concentrate on assembling the 809G reports. The only way she was ever going to get any work done was to find out what Fraser had done to the train. She got up from her desk, stowed her reading glasses in the top drawer, opened her door, and almost tripped on the same package she had left for Fraser early that morning. Without opening it, she knew what it contained. She raced into the foyer and was confused at the lightning bolts covering the train. Why on earth would Fraser have marred the traditional holiday display with brightly colored yellow and red ornaments that were so gaudy that they almost took over the whole scene?

And then she realized. Taken over by bolts. As in Randall K Bolt. A terrorist. A train taken over by terrorists. This was getting too good.

She walked back into her office, took off her suit jacket, and turned toward her personal storage closet. Where was it? She took down box after box and finally found what she was looking for. A small snow globe she had received at a charity event a few years back. She had enjoyed the formal dinner, held just outside Chicago in the conference center above the underground particle accelerator at FermiLab, but the snowglobe they had given out as a favor was a little over the top. Really, who wanted a model of the particle accelerator* with the "snow" in the globe shaped like the greek symbols for nuclear particles? It was past time to get rid of this thing. With her plan fully formed, she found that she could concentrate fully on her professional tasks, and completed the 809B reports as well as adding details to the following month's tasking worksheet, responding to some rather inane requests for general information about Canada, and returning phone calls to Ottawa that she had missed during her lunch hour. She was in such a good mood that she let Turnbull leave 90 minutes early ("But my pear tartlets are still in the oven!") and flat out ordered him to leave 30 minutes later.

The consulate was quiet. Fraser was busy writing his speech for a talk at a local elementary school scheduled for the beginning of January. (This is one of the many reasons Meg was glad she had a Deputy Liaison Officer.) Meg waited until the train had made its way around the tracks and had almost returned to the control box that doubled as the train station. She held the snow globe in a grip reminiscent of her softball days, took a breath, and let it fly. It hit the power switch with a satisfying crash, splashing water, glittery greek symbols, and bits of particle accelerator all over the track in front of the train. She then quickly closed her door so she could appear to be surprised at the mess in the foyer.

At the sound of the crash, Fraser came running out of his office, closely followed by Dief. The wolf took one look at foyer, one look at Meg, sighed, and went back into Fraser's office to curl up under the desk.

"Ma'am? Where are you? Are you alright?"

"Of course I'm alright, Constable. What happened?"

Fraser walked carefully over to the Christmas tree to investigate. He bent down and took a closer look at pieces of glass, liquid, and glitter scattered just in front of the train. "I really couldn't say, sir. But Turnbull's prize model train display is certainly a disaster."

"Yes, Constable, a disaster." She looked him square in the eyes, but it held none of her usual impatience. "Please see me when you have completed your investigation. I'll be in my office." She turned and walked back toward her office.

Fraser wondered why she wanted him to investigate such a small matter of a broken, what was it? Ah yes, a FermiLab snow globe. He got a towel from the kitchen to mop up the mess. He remembered when she was asked to attend a charity dinner there just after she moved to Chicago. He was a little jealous, not that he would ever admit it, of her invitation to visit the nuclear research facility. Then it dawned on him.

Before it came to a halt, the model train had been headed for "nuclear" "disaster".

He knew. She knew that he knew. And now, he knew that she knew that he knew.

Fraser stepped up to his superior officer's door and knocked.

"Come in, Fraser." Her voice held none of the impatience it usually did, but instead was filled with hints of welcome. He opened the door, walked into her office, and stood at attention, just as he had always done in the past. He looked past his Inspector, but couldn't help but notice the slight upturn of her lips and sparkle in her eyes. "Have you finished your investigation, Constable?"

"Yes, Sir." He locked eyes with her as he continued, "It appears that a train full of unconscious Mounties was taken over by terrorists and headed for nuclear disaster."

She walked around her desk to stand in front of him, a professional distance away. He thought he noticed a very subtle sway to her hips as she crossed the room. "A rather unique set of circumstances, don't you think?"

"Not at all unique, Inspector. I seem to recall, or rather, I can't manage to forget the particulars of another occurrence of a similar nature. One might say the exact same set of circumstances." He took a step towards her. He was close enough to reach out and run his fingertips along her face, from her temple down to her jawline. At his touch, her eyes fluttered shut for a few moments of their own accord. She reached up and took hold of his hand and placed it on her chest. He could feel her heart beating, and as took one more step towards her to close the distance between them, he felt her already fast heart rate increase slightly.

"It's racing." Fraser murmured, his voice so low it almost rumbled. He reached out and took her other hand and pressed it to the same place on his chest. His heartbeat was so strong that she could feel it through his thick wool tunic.

Meg nodded, "Out of control."

Together they whispered "A runaway…"

The End

A/N: I couldn't seem to get this kiss right, so use your imagination. And I didn't much care for re-using the conversation from atop the train, but it just fit.

*Yes, I know that the dimensions of a particle accelerator wouldn't lend themselves to being modeled for a snow globe, but let's just pretend, shall we?