I used to watch Due South when it was on in the 90's. I've recently rediscovered it, and I just can't even explain how much I love it. Unnnnfffffffff.
Post-ep for 2x9, "The Edge." In which Fraser and Meg go out for coffee.
Meg isn't entirely sure why she agreed to join him on what absolutely, positively, one hundred percent is not a date, in spite of how much it seems to resemble one.
If anything, it was pity. The invitation itself was so tentative, and his acceptance of her (uncomfortable) attempt at rejection so very pathetic, that she couldn't help herself.
So one completely silent car ride later, she's sitting at a table in a quiet little café not far from Roosevelt University, watching her deputy liaison officer carefully balance their drinks as he carries them over.
"Thank you," she offers, taking the cup he hands her. It's odd to see him in anything other than red. Well, or brown. Every time he walks into the consulate in that brown uniform he loves so much, she has a brief moment of thinking she's traveled backwards in time. Of course, his absurdly developed sense of chivalrous politeness (honestly, the man's a walking stereotype) only furthers that. There have been times he's nearly fallen down stairs racing to open the door before she can touch the knob. And that wolf of his -
- well, she's learned to pick her battles.
The coffee's piping hot, but she takes a cautious sip from the edge. It's particularly good, some blend she hasn't had before - dark, with an edge of sweetness, bold and rich and satisfying. She must be smiling, because Fraser looks up at her cautiously. "Is it all right, ma'am?"
"Yes, it's very good. Thank you." It feels stilted but he seems to accept it, nodding his head.
Meg purses her lips, watching the most old-fashioned, masculine, dogsled-driving, ice-floe-jumping, kayak-paddling product of the territories she's ever met take a careful drink from his hot chocolate.
He's a puzzle.
But they're in public together, so they may as well talk to each other.
"I have to admit, that's more lively than most official consular functions tend to be," she notes dryly.
Fraser lets out a chuckle. "I'm glad to hear that, sir."
"I appreciate the formality, Fraser, but given that we're both out of uniform and you just had a gun to your head, you - don't have to call me 'sir.'"
He looks startled. Really? Does he really think she's that overbearing?
That thought bothers her more than it should.
"Understood, s- ah, ma'am," he stumbles, scratching his eyebrow. Great. Now she's flustered him.
Meg sips her coffee again to buy some time, glancing around. Being near a university campus, the place has an array of people. Even so, she and Fraser draw attention. Particularly Fraser. There are plenty of female eyes watching him with appreciation - Meg sternly refuses to go further down that road - but in general, the white tux jacket and bowtie are out of place.
On the other hand, Benton Fraser spends his time trotting through Chicago in a bright red tunic and jodhpurs. With a wolf. "Out of place" is his default mode these days.
She's swept with an overwhelming wave of - something. Something in the middle of pity, curiosity, and perhaps even a little guilt.
So Meg blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. "Do you mind if I ask you a question?"
"Of course not."
"Why are we here?"
"S- ah, ma'am?" His brow furrows in confusion. "I'm not sure I understand the question."
From anyone else, that might be evasion. But Meg Thatcher has come to discover that the man sitting across from her right now is quite possibly the most earnest human being on the entire planet.
"You turned down an official commendation - one, I might add, which you honestly deserve - but you wanted me to join you for coffee?"
His mouth opens as he nods in understanding. But he pauses, and she feels the need to clarify. "I'm not angry, Fraser. I'm just curious."
He nods, glancing up at her. "May I speak frankly?"
Frankness. From Fraser. Knowing him, it'll still be the politest thing she hears all day. "Yes, please."
He stares into his cup for a moment, and she can see he's trying to choose his words carefully.
"I know you don't like me."
Oh. That's not what she was expecting.
"And I understand why." One corner of his mouth turns up in a rather mirthless smile. "I know it's not unearned, on my part."
"Fraser -"
"I - I'm sorry, ma'am. May I finish?"
Still a little stunned at this sudden new Fraser who says things, she nods.
"I - want to - I would like you to understand that while I know I frustrate you, and my performance has been sadly lacking, I have nothing but respect for you, ma'am. I'm sorry for any trouble I've caused you. I know it's not an excuse, but please believe me when I say I've never meant to disappoint you."
Apparently he's finished with this - this soliloquy, apology, self-flagellation, whatever it is. He takes another sip of his hot chocolate. Meg just stares.
"Fraser." She bites her lip, watching his eyes meet hers again. "I - I don't -" Damn. She'd really thought this wouldn't keep happening. "I'm sorry you have that impression of me."
"Ma'am?"
She folds her hands in her lap. His gaze is clear, open. Unblinking.
"You and I come from different worlds, Fraser. That's for certain. And, yes. At times I don't understand your reasoning. I'm sure there are times you don't understand mine." She takes a breath. "But I don't hate you. And - while I know I don't always show it, I do respect you."
That seems to catch him. Fraser's whole face softens, his blue eyes warm, something like a smile on his mouth.
"I appreciate that very much, ma'am."
Meg feels something twist hard in her chest.
So that's what he really wanted.
He doesn't want a commendation, some string of empty words in his record, a ribbon, a platitude. And it wasn't even about the coffee.
He just wants her respect.
It's so quietly, unabashedly honest that she's embarrassed to feel her throat getting tight. She drinks her coffee, avoiding his eyes for a moment. This is the missing piece of Benton Fraser. He caught the man who murdered his father and ended up unwelcome in his home. He is, quite literally, an exile.
Now Fraser's, well, gazing at her, and he's so absurdly handsome and earnest that she has to break the tension somehow. "You do realize I have difficulty understanding things like you nearly drowning in a bank vault, right?"
That makes him laugh, full and hearty, his whole face lighting up. Meg can't stop herself from smiling.
"I assure you, ma'am, it seemed like the best course of action at the time."
It's past midnight by the time they finally leave the café.
Fraser, ever the gentleman, holds her coat for her, then hurries to get the door. And after tonight, suddenly it's not irritating.
She just smiles at him. "Thank you."
Meg drives them back to the consulate. The car has to be dropped off there, and they can both get taxis to their respective homes.
As Fraser waves down a cab for her, Meg can't help but wonder - "Constable. You - you know this wasn't - a date. It would hardly be appropriate -"
"Of course not, ma'am." A cab pulls up to the curb, and he turns back to her, eyes sparkling. "If it were, Diefenbaker would have chaperoned."
She rolls her eyes. Fraser grins, opening the cab door for her.
"But in reality, ma'am, thank you very much for a lovely evening."
"Likewise, Fraser."
It's the moment when a date would end with a kiss. But it's not a date. She's made it perfectly clear to herself.
But old-fashioned gentleman Fraser surprises her. He takes her hand, glancing up at her with a softness in his eyes that she really shouldn't read into, and very gently presses it to his lips.
"Good night, Inspector."
Meg lets out the breath she didn't know she was holding.
"Good night, Constable."
The cab pulls into the street, and she chances a look back at the tall figure, silhouetted in the lamplight. He's a strange transplant. A thorn in her side that's starting to become something far more dangerous: a man she cares about.
And somehow, tonight feels like a better beginning.