Full Title: Three Cliches Meg Thatcher Found Herself Playing Completely Straight, and One She Subverted with Not Inconsiderable Glee
Note: There is TV physics, biology, medicine, and crime-fighting in this. Please don't expect excessive realism. ;)


Meg melted against the brick wall of an alley behind the Good Times Bar in downtown Chicago, wishing she had something to hide behind. Things had been going just fine until the suspects she and Fraser were tailing realized they'd left something behind, and had turned back the way they came to retrieve whatever it was. (She'd overheard them talking about a go-go dancer costume, which didn't make any sense on the surface, but perhaps it was a code for something more useful to a bank heist.) Though the shadows in the alley hid them for now, the two men were certain to see her and Fraser when they passed by.

"Any bright ideas?" she hissed at Fraser.

His reply came from alarmingly close to her ear. "I believe our only chance is to appear...distracted."

She chose not to mention that she was already quite distracted. "Any suggestions?" The suspects were perhaps thirty yards away now, and quickly coming closer.

He looked at her consideringly, his gaze resting on her lips. "Well, it is a bit well-worn, but given that our options are rather limited..."

She twigged to what he was saying and felt her jaw drop. "Oh, you've got to be kidd—"

Two things happened in the next moment: the suspects reached them, and Fraser pulled her against his body and kissed her as if their lives depended on it. Which, to a certain extent, they did.

She supposed that didn't mean she couldn't enjoy it.

The suspects paused upon catching sight of them. Thinking quickly (the fact that she was capable of thought at all was a minor miracle; where the hell had Fraser learned to kiss so well?), she fisted her hand in Fraser's shirt and twisted them so that her back was to the wall and his was to the alley, ensuring that the bank robbers wouldn't have a clear look at their faces. Thankfully, Fraser was wearing jeans and a leather jacket instead of his uniform, so they wouldn't have any cause to suspect RCMP involvement.

The suspects continued to stare at them. Starting to feel a bit of genuine panic, she let out a moan that was not entirely faked, and snaked her left hand inside Fraser's jacket, running her fingers up his spine. Fraser slipped his knee between hers, thrust his hand into her hair, and held her even more tightly against him.

One of the men grunted. "Lascivious acts," he muttered. "There oughta be a law." Finally she heard them start walking away, apparently convinced that she and Fraser were merely a pair of amorous drunks.

She kept kissing him until she could no longer hear their footsteps. For verisimilitude, of course.

When they parted—oh, who was she kidding: when she managed to drag herself away—both of them just stood there and stared for a moment. She still had her hand inside his jacket, and his fingers remained twined in her hair.

She finally tilted her head in the direction the thieves had gone. "We should..."

He nodded, his eyes wide. "Of course." He let go of her, and she unfisted her hands from his shirt. Without another word, they resumed their investigation.