Title: An Incidental Encounter

Pairings: Fraser/Thatcher

Rating: T—language and grown up situations

Spoilers: MotB, Victoria's Secret, Letting Go

Teaser: Two young Mounties meet at an RCMP function.

Disclaimer: Fraser, Meg, et al belong to Paul Haggis, Alliance, CTV, CBS, ProSiben, and everyone else who was involved in their creation and longevity. I make no profit from this, so please don't sue me. I promise to put them back when I'm done playing with them.

A/N: I published this previously and had a pretty big error pointed out to me. I fixed that one, so hopefully it's up to standard now. :-)

Meg woke slowly. What happened the night before? She remembered going to the social with the other women she was rooming with for the convention. Remembered dancing with several of the others at the dinner. Remembered the after party. Remembered drinking.

Her eyes focused blearily on the wall next to her hotel bed. It was funny. She could have sworn the room she was staying in had floral wallpaper, not solid industrial beige.

She blinked and sat up. She wobbled a bit, a stabbing pain behind her eyes from a combination of too little sleep and too much alcohol. Her eyes felt gritty. She heard a soft moan on the bed beside her. "Oh. Shit," she thought.

Even with the low light her senses kicked in. She could smell the harsh Mountie-issue soap that she refused to use; the liquor; neats foot oil; his own personal scent. And she could smell sex. It hung thick in the air and she realized she knew exactly what happened the night—hours, really—before.

There was absolutely no way she could face this man. No way. She had too much going for her to risk the embarrassment from something like this. The man mumbled a woman's name—not Meg's, of course—and shifted in his sleep.

Meg quietly slipped off the bed and attempted to gather her clothing. Where was her bra? No matter. She had to get out before he woke up and before anyone saw her. At least she had her pants and t-shirt on.

She took one last look at the Mountie still asleep on the bed. She was a little surprised—and relieved—even without beer goggles he looked pretty good. Too bad she'd never see him again—Christ, she couldn't even remember his name. He was really quite sweet and, despite his shyness, he knew exactly what to do behind closed doors.

She imagined herself staying with him, waking him up with kisses on that bare chest. She shook her head. She couldn't stay.

She quietly left the room, red serge jacket and boots cradled in her arms. She glanced at her watch, saw it was 3:00 a. m. and breathed a sigh of relief. No one would be up at this ungodly hour. She quickly slid her arms through the jacket's sleeves, not wasting time to fasten the buttons, and started walking silently to her room. She could just see the door and knew she was in the home stretch.

And the door next to her opened. Meg just about jumped out of her skin.

"Constable Thatcher!"

Meg spun to face Sgt. Sam Thorn, jaw hanging open, unable to speak.

"Would you kindly explain what you're doing out at this hour—out of uniform?" Thorn demanded, eyes already telling Meg she knew the answer.

Meg gaped for a moment, jaw moving like a fish. Unable to form a coherent answer, she bolted to her room, fumbled with the lock and slammed the door shut behind her. Safely inside her room she sighed and closed her eyes. She sank to the floor, back pressed against the door. She felt like throwing up, and not from the hangover. She could smell him on her clothes.

She closed her eyes and thought back about what got her into this mess in the first place.

"Come on Meg!" pleaded Rebecca, her best friend since they met at the Academy. "Loosen up! Have some fun, for God's sake."

"Yeah," added Sara. "If we've got to do this training up here in the frozen armpit of the north, we might as well have a little fun while we're here. And if anyone needs to get laid, its you."

Meg Thatcher sulked. This wasn't the first time her girlfriends tried to get her to do something stupid. It probably wouldn't be the last, either. She knew she needed to blow off some steam, and she also knew the repercussions of Conduct Unbecoming.

But still.

She'd been so uptight about everything lately—she was up for a promotion and had just had the preliminary review. With any luck she'd be a Corporal in a month and well on her way up the chain of command.

Maybe the girls were right. Maybe she did need to loosen up—it was probably her last chance with the promotion coming up. After all, this was the smallest town she'd ever been to—Meadow Lake. It really was in the middle of the boonies. The bright side to that was the men.

Oh. My. God.

She didn't realize how many men were stationed out this far. Or how desperate they'd be after being alone for so long. It was like shooting fish in a barrel. Desperate, lonely fish.

Sara flagged a waiter for another round. When he arrived he grinned at the women. "You know, they say women go nuts for men in uniforms, but I think it goes both ways." Sara returned his smile and let him keep the change.

Rebecca leaned over and whispered in Meg's ear.

"What about that one?" She unobtrusively pointed at a man sitting on the edge of a larger group. He had a different air about him. Like he was completely out of his element and didn't want to be there.

Sara looked at him, too. "Oooh! Pretty!" She grinned at Meg. "You should go talk to him. He looks lonely. It probably won't be that hard to get him to go back to your room."

Meg flustered and tucked a few long strands of dark hair behind her ear. She wasn't sure if she could go through with this.

Ben sat at the edge of a group of other Mounties. Many of them knew each other very well. He was posted so far out that he knew them only from this training session. They were drinking and flirting with women—both the local girls and other Mounties—but he just wasn't in the mood. It was the last night of two weeks of special operations training. He'd barely gotten dressed at all for the social. Since uniforms weren't required, he decided to forgo his red serge and wore jeans and a battered cream colored sweater.

He thought of his father's advice. "The solution to life's problems is not found at the bottom of a glass of beer." He smiled sardonically. He wasn't drinking beer.

He took another long drink of whiskey and looked around the room over his glass. Near the bar sat a trio of girls laughing and appearing to have a good time. From the corner of his eye he saw the dark haired one study him, then look away suddenly, tucking hair behind her ear to make it look like she was being casual.

Long dark hair, dark eyes, creamy skin.

It had been a little over a year since he'd done his duty—wrongly, as he saw it—and locked away the love of his life. He still wasn't dealing with it properly. He missed her with his entire soul every moment of every day.

And sometimes the whiskey helped.

But times like right now, when everyone else was so happy and having a good time, it hit him that he was alone.

Alone.

Oh God.

He glanced at the girls again. No one was looking, thankfully. He shook his head. No, it was wrong to do that. To even think that. He stared blankly ahead again for several minutes, eyes unfocused, not moving, not taking another drink. He felt someone watching him and he looked at the three girls again, this time catching the eye of the brunette. She tried to look away, but knew she'd been caught staring and bit her lip to repress a smile. He grinned and dropped his chin to his chest, embarrassed himself. He rubbed absently at one ear.

For the first time in a long time he felt himself blushing. He tried to keep his gaze focused on the table when he saw the brunette shoved gently by her friends in his direction. He watched her take another swallow of liquid courage before walking toward him.

They sat next to each other, the noise in the bar too loud for good conversation. The woman held her wine glass with two hands and turned it, silently revealing her nervousness. They'd been talking—if one could call it talking with this much going on—for about an hour. He told her about how he'd only recently been back on the job after a rough case. He told her he'd spent the winter with his leg in a cast.

"What did you do?" she asked.

"About what?" he answered, confusion on his face.

She rolled her eyes and smiled. He was forgetful when he was drunk, that was certain. "Your leg."

"My leg? Oh, well, I, um, I broke it when I jumped off a cliff chasing a criminal." Ben told himself that wasn't really a lie, just a half truth. He was chasing a criminal. Though the physical chase was long over and he was only chasing her through his memories. When it got too much, he realized couldn't live with himself anymore. He was there, the cliff was there, there wasn't anyone to stop him. So he jumped.

Only the jump didn't have the intended consequences. He spent more than a week at the bottom of that ravine before anyone found him—stumbled on him was more like it. The leg had already started to heal and the doctors tried to leave it be, but when they realized how out of alignment it was they had to rebreak it. Twice.

He spent 3 months in that plaster prison. He could barely get around with the cast up to his thigh; knee and ankle held rigidly in position. Even after he was out of the cast and was only using a brace he was miserable. Being a loner to begin with didn't help him much, and being left to his thoughts only made it worse.

And that's when he found he liked Scotch whiskey. It was dark and smooth and burned him. He couldn't get enough.

"So you're very dedicated, then?" The woman asked, her lips very close to his now.

"Oh yes." He started to elaborate when she caught him off guard with a question he wasn't prepared for.

"Would you like to go somewhere else? I'd like to talk to you about some of the cases you've been on. They sound fascinating." Her hand slid up his bicep.

Ben's heart leaped. Was she asking him what he thought she was asking, or was she really interested in his job? He looked in her eyes. No, this wasn't about work at all.

Then he knew. He knew they were both in it for the same thing—and the bar was far too public.

Ben stood, pushing himself up more with his right leg than the left. Only after he was fully upright did he put his weight on his left leg. He winced slightly; his companion didn't notice. He stretched his bad leg and listened to the tendons crackle. He knew he was standing stiffly on it; knew when he walked his knee and ankle still didn't bend right after being in a cast so long; knew he swayed, slightly, with every step. He wondered briefly if the alcohol was making it more noticeable.

He wondered, too, if what he was about to do was any different from jumping off that cliff eight months before.

They stood outside his hotel room. He had trouble getting his fingers to work the key in the lock while she ran her fingers through his hair. It was soft and thick and she knew her actions were having the desired effect.

Meg studied his face for a moment. The deep blue eyes, the five o'clock shadow. He tried to smile and she caught a glimpse of crooked teeth between the boyish dimples. Somehow that made him just right—not too perfect. He didn't have a lot of laugh lines, so she figured he didn't smile much. He had to be self-conscious about his teeth. For a split second she imagined herself doing unspeakably wonderful things to him, just to get him to smile again.

He finally got the locks to cooperate and the door swung open. This room was much more spartan than her own, but she was okay with that, it didn't really matter anyway. She watched him place the 'Do Not Disturb' hanger on the door knob and lock the door behind them. He shrugged off his leather jacket tried to smile again. She noticed the nervousness in his face. "Probably never done this before," she thought. Hell, she hadn't either.

"W-would you like anything?" He asked her.

"Um," she started. "Is there anything on TV? Movie, hockey game or—" she cut herself off, realizing there was no TV in the room. "Oh. Nevermind."

"Ah. Well, you see," he nervously ran a thumbnail over his eyebrow. "I didn't grow up with a television, so I'm just not used to—" this was his time to be cut off, this time by Meg stepping close to him. Her lips were now just inches from his. Yes, she was definitely in his personal space. She was acutely aware that her heart was racing.

"What else would you like to do? We can talk about anything here." She slipped a hands around his waist, resting her fingers in the back of his jeans. He felt a rush of blood. No more talking.

"Oh dear," he whispered.

Her head dipped and he felt her lips barely brush his neck, just below his jaw. He gasped involuntarily. Meg smiled against his skin, opening her mouth, sucking lightly at the skin. She reached out with her tongue and traced the outline of his ear, while her hands started to dip into the back of his jeans. He moaned in appreciation.

He suddenly realized he was just standing there and his hands slid up to caress her back. He felt strong muscles and thought about how her right side was slightly more developed than her left—he decided she must pitch for a softball team. He turned his head and caught her mouth with his. He could taste the wine on her lips, smell the alcohol in their sweat, but he didn't care. He felt her tongue against his lips and he opened his mouth to let her explore. His hands moved down past her waist and he pulled her closer to him. He felt her tense slightly and pull away.

They stood there a moment, staring into each other's eyes. In unison they spoke.

"Are you sure?"

They both grinned. Ben picked up Meg and carried her toward the bed.

Benton Fraser started awake to the sound of a door slamming somewhere on the other end of the lodge. His senses were muddled by the night before. The inside of his mouth tasted like an old sock and his head was painfully buzzing. But he could remember how he got here and what happened since. He could dimly make out the time by the bedside clock. 3:02 a. m.

"Well, it's too early to get up and too late to go back to sleep," he joked with himself. He rolled on his side to tease his companion awake and found her gone. He looked around and saw her clothes gone, too. He felt an all-too-familiar kick to his stomach when he realized what happened. What she'd done. What he'd done.

He wanted to vomit. He wanted to scream, but he could barely even move. He knew then he would never, never drink again.

Tears came to his eyes as he reached for her pillow, drawing it close to his chest. He held it to his nose and inhaled deeply.

He thought he smelled Escada.

A/N 2: Notes from the Labyrinth at LJ has made several allusions to why Fraser doesn't drink, one of which is that maybe he's a recovering alcoholic. That inspired me to think about other reasons Fraser might not drink any more.