Disclaimer: The Due South characters aren't mine and I am in no way making any profit from them. I don't think I could come up with such interesting characters if I tried, but since someone else has, I'll take the liberty to play with them.
A/N: I usually favor dialogue over vast paragraphs of descriptive prose (blame a high school English teacher who made us read Charles Dickens' "A Tale of Two Cities." Ugh.) So I decided to try to write a story with no dialogue whatsoever. Something to stretch the creative muscles. Or something like that. Ah, well. It seemed like a good idea at the time…
Oh, and I couldn't remember what year the end of the show was supposed to be set in, so I just picked a year. The letters begin the summer after CotW. Spoiler to CotW. References, but not really spoilers, to AtQH, The Edge, WAtE, and probably a few others.
Letters
July 11, 1999
Dear Inspector Thatcher,
I hope I am not acting presumptuously by writing this letter. I find that I miss your company and was hoping that we could engage in a correspondence of letters. Although our paths crossed for a relatively short time in Chicago and we have now parted ways, I would like to hear of your adventures wherever life takes you.
I am, of course, stationed in the Northwest Territories, in Deline to be exact, on the western shore of Great Bear Lake. After contributing to the capture of Muldoon, I have found that the ranking officials in the Force have grudgingly accepted my existence again. They seem to be amenable to my remaining in the far north, most likely because they do not have to deal with me on a day to day basis. I actually prefer it this way. I can apply myself fully to the duty that I took on when joining the Force and not devote any attention to political maneuverings. The skills I possess are much more applicable to police work here than they were in Chicago. My trip to find the hand of Franklin with Ray ended abruptly when one of our sleds went over a cliff almost taking Ray and his dog team with it. He found he had had enough adventure, and if I am to be completely honest, I had as well. I have settled into life here and am enjoying the day to day challenge of rural police work. I have begun to rebuild my father's cabin, which is about half a day's ride from Deline. The solitude is refreshing most days, but my time in Chicago had left me with the occasional yearning for the contact of another human being.
Diefenbaker is still with me and will be my lead sled dog come winter. He has been instrumental in helping me select my permanent sled team. As it is summer, I have not had a chance to hitch them to a sled, but they seem to be smart, obedient dogs. Dief still begs for junk food, and has on multiple occasions convinced an unsuspecting member of the Deline detachment that he is sorely underfed and desperately needs a donut.
When I returned from my leave of absence to find you had already been reassigned, I was somewhat dismayed. I have a great respect for you, both as your subordinate, a fellow human being, and if I may be so bold as to say it, a friend. I had hoped to pass on my wishes for your continued success and happiness in person, but considering the circumstances, this letter will have to do.
I hope this letter reached you in a timely manner. I have addressed it to Buck Frobisher who is currently stationed, his word is imprisoned, at Headquarters in Ottawa in the hopes that he will be able to determine your whereabouts and forward it to you. Please write me back if you are able to, addressed to the RCMP detachment in Deline. I usually stop in there once a week unless I am on an extended assignment. If you would prefer not to maintain a correspondence with me, I understand. Wishing you all the best.
Sincerely,
Benton Fraser
(scrawled on a scrap of paper, words taking up the entire paper with no margins)
September 1999. Fraser, Good to hear from you. Can't write much. Not Inspector, with CSIS now. Undercover, can't say where. Sporadic contact. Correspondence acceptable. Will write more when able. Continue writing through Frobisher. –MT (miss you too.)
October 3, 1999
Dear MT,
As I am not sure if using your name puts you in any danger, I have determined it appropriate to use your signature as my greeting. I am delighted that you have received my earlier letter and are willing to continue writing, sporadic as it must be for both of us.
It has been snowing up my cabin (it is still difficult for me to think of it as mine instead of my father's) for about a month now, but we got the first heavy snow of the season last week. The dogs, especially Dief, are anxious to run, but until the newest members of the team have been fully trained, I don't dare take them out more than a few kilometers from the cabin. I must learn to trust each of these dogs as I do Dief.
My case load is fairly light here. Nothing as unique as some of the cases we worked in Chicago. No money grubbing kidnappers posing as evangelists. No vaudun priest slum lords. No acting as security for high level trade conferences. No terrorists on trains. My work consists of monitoring caribou populations and rescuing lost hikers. Some domestic disturbances in town, but I am usually not called on those as I live so far away. I have the vague notion that my commanding officer doesn't know what to do with me. I suspect he tolerates me since I take all the assignments that nobody wants, the ones that will keep them away from their families for extended periods of time.
Sometimes, on nights like tonight, I sit staring into the fire wondering how my father stayed away from me and my mother for months at a time when I was small. I know why he did it: Duty always came first with him. He did what had to be done. What boggles my mind is how he did it. Although I never suffered from this before my time in Chicago, I find that I miss human interaction. Working with the Rays made me realize that there is something, a joy maybe, or a satisfaction, in working with a partner whose skills compliment your own. I learned much from them, although, arguably not much that will be of use out here in the Territories. Working with you and the rest of the consulate staff showed me the value in regular communication with others. I do miss that. And yes, although I didn't say it in my last letter, I miss you.
I received your letter earlier than I expected as I am presently in Toronto to attend a mandatory training session on new fishing legislation. When I checked in with the RCMP headquarters, the receptionist recognized my name and found your letter in the outgoing mail. I told her than it was illegal to tamper with the mail, but she insisted I take it as it was going to be delivered to me anyway, only it would take 3 more weeks to get there. I admit that the desire to hear from you outweighed my desire to follow the letter of the law in all circumstances. I hope you don't think less of me for it.
Yesterday I stopped by a café and ordered a latte. You once mentioned enjoying them, and I was curious to try something that represented home to you. The experience was most pleasant. I only wish you would have been there to enjoy it with me.
If you can't reply without compromising your safety, please don't feel compelled to do so. I will continue to write to you until I receive any indication that my writing goes against your desires.
Yours truly,
Benton Fraser
December 17, 1999
Dear Benton,
Things have calmed down here a bit and I can take the time to write a more thoroughly than before. I really can't tell you much about my life or my work. I most likely never will be able to. Some of the things that I have had to do here will weigh heavy on my heart for the rest of my life. You mentioned once that you thought I would be able to sacrifice the few to save the many. I accused you of thinking me coldhearted enough to be willing to cause the death of innocents, even to save others. Well, I have learned about myself that I AM that coldhearted. I have had to make decisions that, while are logically necessary for the good of many, have short term repercussions that are hard to swallow. I have had to overlook unspeakable wrongs committed by others in order to keep my position hidden. Victims of horrific crimes have looked me in the eye and pleaded silently for help, and I had to stand there and watch as the things or people they loved most were taken from them. Thank God I didn't have to directly contribute to their torment. I would have done it if I had to. I hate to admit that and I'm certainly not proud of it, but yes, I would have.
I'm writing this letter from a beautiful little oasis in the middle of a desert. There is a small spring-fed pool of cool water in the middle of an otherwise harsh climate. The pool is large enough to provide water to a grove of palm trees, but not much else. Enough for shade, but not for a hiding place. I can see whoever approaches long before they can see me. It is where I meet my CSIS contact, who will take this letter directly from my hands.
This place is an oasis of thought as well as one of water. I can feel mentally clean here. For a short time at least, I can put off thoughts of the mission, what I have done, the things that I will have to do. I can think about better times and places. I think about home. I think about Nancy and her baby. And I think about you. Always calm, maybe not in control of the situation, but always able to take advantage of whatever you were given.
Your friend,
MT
February 20, 2000
Dear MT,
Please don't ever think of yourself as coldhearted. It is not coldhearted to do what needs to be done. It shows a tremendous amount of strength to be able to make difficult decisions, especially when your decision is staring you in the face with pleading eyes. You are one of the most honorable people I know, and that you can still work effectively in an environment that consistently requires you to be other than yourself shows your incredible strength. I could never think less of you for not only surviving, but for working tirelessly towards the completion of your assignment.
I have just returned home from an extended sojourn into the northern wilderness. In my time in Chicago, this is what I missed most. The extreme cold is numbing to some, but to me it in invigorating. There is no such thing as giving up and moving on to better things. To give up is to die. One's survival is completely based on one's own actions: did I pack enough supplies, did I pack the right gear, can I track and hunt an animal to find food for the night, did I train my dogs well enough to navigate difficult terrain without overturning the sled, am I physically strong enough? If I die, I know that it is nobody's fault but my own.
Returning to my cabin is a homecoming of sorts, but also somewhat disconcerting. I see the evidence of civilization, a fireplace with a fire laid out, a kitchen with a stove and sink, a bed with quilts, books to read and kerosene lamps to read them by. Last summer I installed a diesel generator and fuel tank behind the cabin. I still don't think I need it, but my commanding officer insisted that I have a radio so that he can get in touch with me immediately should an emergency arise. I could not argue when he put it in those terms. I rarely turn on the generator, just often enough to keep the radio batteries charged. I think this summer I will attempt to install an electric pump for the well. I can live comfortably without running water, but, since I have the generator, I may as well make use of it. The generator needs to be used on a regular basis to be properly maintained, and the radio doesn't need to be charged that often.
I look around and see these trappings of civilization but one thing is missing: people. I never knew I could miss people this much. There is a storm brewing tonight, but when it blows over, I think I will make a trip into Deline to visit a few friends I made last summer. Samantha Laraby, our outpost secretary, and her husband Peter were quite kind to me and welcomed me into their home on several occasions. Samantha had a baby in November, their first, and I promised that when duties allowed, I would be happy to help out where I could, even if it is just to give a new mother a break. The trip into town will also give me a good excuse to post this letter. I suspect that is the real reason for my trip!
Yours,
Ben
April 11, 2000
Dear Ben,
I am back in Canada now. I didn't receive your letter until I returned. It seems that the letter was delivered to my old contact the week after I left. He then had to send it back to Frobisher who had to send it back to me.
As soon as I finish up the paperwork and debriefings from this mission I plan to take a month off to recover from my tour of duty with CSIS. They have asked me to return for other missions, but I don't think I will. I completed my assignments successfully, but in the end, my heart was just not in it. I observed a parallel there, between being the Liaison Officer in Chicago and working undercover to bring down a dictator. In both I was required to act in a deceptive manner for an institution that I believed in. I was required to hide things I felt and instead put on other emotions that were in no way representative of the truth. It wasn't so bad at in Chicago, but it grated upon me when I was overseas. The only time I felt truly like myself was when I was doing something decisive, when there were no maybes, and my skills were pitted against someone else's. I felt the same in Chicago, the few times that I left my desk and joined you in the field. It felt so good to get out there and actually do something instead of just talking, or planning, or figuring out the political consequences. I thought that's what the CSIS would be like, but they just wanted me to be a pretty face to infiltrate organizations that would be very unsuspecting of a good looking female.
I am done with that. I struggled my whole RCMP career to escape from being just a face and a body. I thought I had finally done it in Chicago, but then you came along. Not that you did anything inappropriate. Not at all! In fact, you behaved with such decorum that I began to wonder what you were covering up. I was bound and determined to root it out. With all that I had encountered in the RCMP previously, I just couldn't believe that your actions came from your true beliefs, that someone who had spent so much time in police work wasn't jaded to the negative side of human nature. You surprised me, and I wasn't used to surprises, especially such pleasant surprises.
To get back to the point, I don't know what I'm going to do with my life. I joined the RCMP to make a difference in the world, or at least in Canada, and I still want to do that. I have been offered my previous rank, should I choose to return to the Force, but I'm not sure if that's what I want to do.
Ben, I hope this isn't too forward of me, but I would love to see you before I make any permanent decisions. You always advised me wisely, and I value your opinion. Is there any way you could come back to Toronto for a week or so? You must have some leave coming to you. Please say that you will come.
Yours truly,
Meg Thatcher
P.S. It is so nice to sign my real name on a personal letter after being undercover for so long.
April 30, 2000
Dearest Meg,
Welcome back to Canada! I know this greeting is quite late in arriving, but it is sincere nonetheless. I wasn't exactly worried about you, for I know that you have the skills to take care of yourself in whatever situation you face, but it feels as if a weight has been lifted from my mind knowing you are back on Canadian soil. A weight that I didn't even know existed.
Yes, I would love to see you before you before you decide what you want to do with the rest of your life. Unfortunately I can't take leave at such short notice. A spring flu is going around Deline and the surrounding areas, and half of our constables are either sick themselves, or are caring for sick family members. I can't in good conscious leave my duty station at this time. I am staying with the Laraby's for the duration of the emergency. I feared exposing baby Nathan to influenza bacteria, but Samantha wouldn't hear of me making camp outside of town when I had friends with a warm house and a guest room just blocks from the RCMP outpost. Luckily, none of us have shown any symptoms, and we are taking all precautions to keep it that way.
By the time you receive this letter, the outbreak will most likely be contained. Since I am unable to come to you, could you possibly find a way to spend some time here? I would love to show you spring in the Territories. I have taken the liberty of telling Samantha and Peter about you. I hope you don't mind. They wish to extend an invitation for you to stay with them, should you decide that a visit here is in your best interests. You are also welcome to stay at my cabin, but I doubt that you would be very comfortable there, since it is sparsely furnished and has few of the comforts of life that you are used to.
The snow is almost melted, so my return home will be my dogs' last run before the summer. I don't think Dief will mind too much, though. He seems to have taken a liking to one of the females, a beautiful Siberian Husky with dark brown, almost black, markings and chocolate eyes. She is a feisty little one, but she loves to run and puts her whole self into the task she is given. She is smart too, sometimes making observations even before Dief does, and if he doesn't pay enough attention to her, she really puts him in his place! I call her Prima, short for Primadonna. In a few years when she settles down a bit, she will make a good lead dog.
Meg, please come to visit us. It's not only that I want to help you with your decision, although I will certainly help in any way I can. Quite simply, I want to see you. I want to hear your voice and talk to you, not as Inspector and Constable, but as two friends who have shared a unique experience. Who else around here would understand defending oneself with eggs? Chicago changed me, if only a little, and I find that I can't totally abandon that piece of myself, even when surrounded by my home. You are the only one who shares both my experiences in Chicago and my dedication to the RCMP. I long to share my thoughts with someone who will understand them. I long to share them with you.
Because I don't have a telephone at my cabin, I have enclosed The Laraby's phone number. If you decide to travel here, they can pass your plans to me.
Devotedly,
Ben
May 10, 2000
Dear Ben,
I am coming. I may reach you before this letter does. If you receive it after I have arrived, I beg that you don't continue reading.
I didn't realize quite how much I needed your presence until I read your last letter. I had shoved that need back to the deepest recesses of my mind while I was on assignment, even deeper than when we were in Chicago. It was easier to do, because in Chicago you were always around to remind me what I had once and what I would not allow myself to have again.
I told you to forget, Ben, but you didn't obey that order. I ordered myself to forget, too, but like you, I could not. Do you still remember? I think you do. I hope you do. You remembered a year ago, the last time we saw each other. Every time I hear wolves howling, which, granted, is infrequently, I remember our last night together, our only night. I thought being together once would resolve what I considered an unhealthy obsession with someone who was far beyond my reach. But you didn't cooperate, Ben. One searing kiss that almost brought me to my knees was all we shared. I remember the way you held me, gathered so tightly to you. I could feel the beat of your heart, racing, keeping pace with mine. The way you buried your face in my hair an inhaled deeply just before saying the two words that I dreaded the most. "We can't." I wanted to ask why not, but I already knew. I held you tightly, knowing with certainty that we both wanted what we could not have. Instead, we parted company, you to your tent and me to mine. Those were the hardest eight steps that I have ever taken, each one drawing me further and further from you.
The bigger steps were somehow easier than those first few. Watching you ride off with Ray for your adventure, accepting an assignment with CSIS, getting on a plane to leave North America, those steps were easier because they didn't really separate me from anything that wasn't already gone. But each of those steps taken that night when my lips were still tingling from our contact, no, I can say it now, our kiss, felt like some part of myself was being drawn out of me. When I got to my tent, I turned back and looked for you, to see if there was any chance that you would change your mind, but you were already disappearing through your tent flaps.
I dreamed about you that night. I dreamed that I woke up in the dark to the scent of you in my tent. I opened my eyes and saw you silhouetted in door, moonlight behind you. I couldn't see your face, but I knew you were waiting for something. I whispered one word, your name, Ben, and you acted on the invitation as it was meant. You came to me. At least, the dream-Ben did. As you lay down next to me I started to unfasten the buttons of your parka. You shook your head and repeated the words you said earlier "We can't." I hated you in that moment, but it was short lived as you lay behind me, you in your parka and me in my bedroll, and you draped your arm over my shoulder. Dream-Ben had taken off his gloves and began to stroke my face. I reached up and behind me to lightly touch your face, somehow still free of stubble. I wondered when you had time to shave and what you used for a mirror, but I dismissed the thought as supremely unimportant. Dream details rarely make sense, anyway. You reached up for my hand, placed a light kiss on my fingertips, then took my hand in yours and draped your arm around my stomach. I snuggled deeper into your arms and you pressed kisses into my hair.
When I woke up the next morning my dream had dissolved into nothingness, wherever dreams go when they are finished tormenting the living. I added that dream to the library of memories I have of you, and replayed it in my head whenever I had to witness things that I would rather not have seen. You may have been half a world away, but you helped me get through some of the most difficult moments I hope to ever face. You, as well as I, are responsible for bringing down a dictator and freeing thousands of people from under his iron fist.
I have made my travel arrangements. I am flying to Yellowknife in three days. From there I'll catch the first plane to Deline that has room for another passenger. I have called your friends, the Larabys, who have agreed to let me stay with them if your assignment has you away from Deline when I arrive. I hope to see you within the week.
Love,
Meg
Meg's first thought when she arrived at the Deline airport was to wonder how such a tiny facility could even be called an airport. A single, short runway, a few hangers holding small two- or four- passenger planes, a windsock on a tower, a small weather radar antenna, and a simple rectangular shaped office building made up the airport complex. No terminal, no parking lot, no air traffic radar, no baggage carts, not even a control tower.
Her plane taxied over to a hanger. When Meg opened the door she was greeted by a blast of cool air, the freshest, cleanest air she had breathed in over a year. She closed her eyes, and over the smell of airplane exhaust she could smell evergreen trees, pine, she though, and occasionally a hint of freshwater lake.
After she retrieved her bag from where the pilot dropped it on the hanger floor, Meg pulled out the note with the Laraby's phone number on it. Samantha answered on the second ring, and, after Meg identified herself, she insisted on coming to the airport to pick Meg up. With the baby in tow, she didn't force herself to get out much, and sometimes she just needed a push.
Back at the Laraby's home, Samantha insisted on brewing a pot of tea for Meg. While Meg sipped her tea and Samantha nursed the baby, the two women fell into companionable conversation. The conversation, of course, eventually turned to Fraser. From the stories Samantha told, he had not changed at all, still seeing the good in everything and everyone he came into contact with, still going above and beyond what duty required of him. Meg told Samantha stories of Fraser's escapades in Chicago, focusing on the cases they solved together, and glossing over things like dry cleaning and sentry duty. Samantha held her sleeping baby and listened intently as Meg told of target practice with eggs, attending a NAFTA conference, sort-of witnessing a crime near an inukshuk, escorting the Musical Ride to Chicago, singing in an evangelical choir, and capturing international criminals in the frozen north. As she spoke, Meg realized that despite the paperwork, her few years in Chicago were to most interesting of all her adult life, and that interest was owed solely to one dark haired Mountie who was entirely too handsome for his own good. She said as much to Samantha who almost choked with laughter.
As Fraser's assignment was to keep him away from Deline until the following morning, Meg graciously accepted Samantha's offer to stay at her place. Meg was tempted to ask for directions to Fraser's cabin to meet him there, and was surprised when Samantha didn't even know where it was. Nobody, it seemed, knew were the cabin was. Meg was sure that it was in his personnel file at the RCMP outpost, but Samantha, as post secretary, had never seen it. Fraser always arrived on the west end of town either on horseback or with his dog team, but other than that general direction, the location of his cabin was unknown.
Samantha considered Meg's arrival and hoped that Fraser had finally found someone and would settle down. She had seen the looks that the local women gave him, and she saw too his reaction: first a play at ignorance, and if the women persisted, extreme discomfort. Although she herself admired him both for his looks and his kindness, she was thoroughly in love with Peter. From the start she had treated Fraser as he deserved, first with kindness and professionalism, and later with friendship. She felt lucky that her husband was comfortable with her being in such close contact with another man, and a good looking one at that.
As dusk approached Meg stifled a yawn. She had spent a long day travelling, and hadn't really slept well since she had written her last letter to Ben. She wondered if he had received it, and hoped he had. Just before she retired to the Laraby's guest room, Samantha had given her a small envelop, with her name written on the front in neat cursive. Meg recognized that writing. She looked up at Samantha who nodded once to confirm that Fraser was the sender. Meg waited until she door was closed, sat on the quilt-covered double bed, and opened the letter.
Meg,
It wasn't a dream,
Love, Then, Now and Forever,
Ben
The End
A/N: I was going to continue this through Ben and Meg's meeting, but writing without dialogue was getting rather tiresome.