This was started and finished between 12:20 and 1:10 a.m. on January first. Don't worry, I've proof-read it since then! The characters contained within are the property of Alliance; I just thought I'd air them out for the coming year, and no infringement is intended.
Midnight on New Year's Eve
by Chastity
"Ten minutes until midnight!" the TV show host cried, and the crows on camera let out a roar. It was echoed, on a smaller scale, by the crowd in the squadroom of the 27th Precinct. They were gathered to celebrate the end of 1998 and the beginning of 1999.
Unfortunately, Fraser observed, the year did not seem to be ending on an auspicious note – for anyone. Ray had spent most of the night chasing after Stella, feeding her lines about "a new year and a new beginning," only to be constantly rebuffed. Huey and Dewey had drunken far too much champagne and wine, and were unsuccessfully trying to start a conga line. Welsh had disappeared a few minutes ago. Then again, so had Commander Sherry O'Neil, his superior; perhaps someone was ending the year pleasantly. Not so Frannie; she had been following Fraser most of the night, and had only just disengaged to pay some attention to a few of the other males in the department. It even looked as if she was considering joining the Duck Boys' conga line. Inspector Thatcher, Fraser had noticed, had spent most of the evening clutching the same drink, and had gravitated around the room without spending much time with anyone.
But where was she now? Fraser glanced around curiously; it appeared she, too, had disappeared. Wait ... there she was, slipping up the stairs that led to the upper floor of the Precinct; and eventually, Fraser knew, they led right to the top of the building. He climbed the stairs quickly, unnoticed, certain that he would find Thatcher on the roof.
Indeed, that was where she sat, perched on the edge of the building with her legs dangling. She was staring at the stars, and a half-filled glass of champagne sat next to her left hand.
"Inspector?" He spoke softly, but still startled her; she jumped slightly, nearly knocking the champagne over and catching it only at the very last moment.
"Fraser," she said in a mildly accusatory tone, "do not sneak up on a person when they are sitting on the edge of a rooftop."
"Sorry, sir," he said, swinging himself down to sit on her right side. "May I ask why you're out here in the first place?"
To his surprise, she blushed slightly, turning her head so she was in profile to him. She was silent for some time; when she finally spoke, it was in a voice almost unlike her own – soft and gentle, yet hollow and sorrowful.
"For a long time, Fraser," she explained, "it's been my policy to spend midnight on New Year's Eve alone. I decided long ago that if I didn't have anyone that I was close to to spend this time with, I didn't want to be with people whom I felt might be only superficially my friends."
It was Fraser's turn to sit silently, as what he felt to be an awkward moment stretched out. Finally he cleared his throat and said hesitantly, "Do you ... would you like me to leave, then?"
Thatcher looked up at him, shocked. "Oh, no! I didn't mean that you should go ... but I don't mean that you should feel you have to stay ... I mean..." she looked down at her hands, then back up at him. "Ben ... I would ... appreciate it ... if you would stay with me."
He nodded his assent and moved closer to her, close enough that their shoulders touched; it seemed the most natural thing in the world. It seemed natural, too, when she rested her head on his shoulder, and when his arm around her waist pulled her closer.
And when the nearby church bell had tolled twelve, and she had said "Happy New Year, Ben," and he had said "Happy New Year, Meg," it seemed perfectly natural for her to lift her head, for him to lower his, and for them to kiss.