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[bluster.livejournal.com]

In an ongoing attempt to lure Kellie over to LJ-land I sent her a link here so she could check out the fun fiction that's being posted. Since she's not a member of the community and unsure how to use the lj-cut she asked me to post this for her and I happily agreed. So, without further ado I give you


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Originally written as the lead-in to a sequel to "Candy" and "Inducement"
but never finished. (989 words)

Bump in the Night
Kellie Matthews

If I was at my place I probably wouldn't have woken up. My place has all
kinds of noises and I'm used to ignoring them there, but my brain knows
I'm in a strange place, a quiet place, so I wake up and look around as the
part of my brain that was working even though I was asleep tries to tell
my woken-up brain what it heard. Finally I figure it out. The door
closed. Quietly.

Fraser's out. He sleeps hard, nothing short of a truck coming through the
wall would wake him up, especially when he's all fucked out like tonight.
Dief's around somewhere but last time I checked he can't open or close
doors. That means there's a person sneaking around. There are three
possibilities. Could be a burglar, could be Turnbull, could be Thatcher.
I'm hoping for door number one. Except if it was, Dief would be ripping
his throat out, unless he came equipped with donuts, so I'm out of luck on
that, so I'll hope it's Turnbull. At least he'd understand.

I ease out of bed and look around for my clothes. Remember they're lying
in a heap in the foyer. Smart, Kowalski. I grab Fraser's clothes and pull
on the henley, then the pants, glad the henley mostly protects my cock
from the wool. I don't know how he stands it. I don't know how he stands
starched boxers either. I think he's got a streak of . . . what's the word
. . . catechism . . . no, masochism in him. Not enough to make him want to
be tied up, thank God, but enough to make him starch his shorts.

Pants aren't as big as I'd have thought. I guess it's just the uniform
that makes him look bigger. I slip quietly out of the room. Things look
pretty much like we left them. Fraser's belt by the door, my clothes on
the floor by the desk. Light's still on. Dief's sitting outside Thatcher's
office.

He whines and looks at the door, then at me, then at the door again. I
know what he wants. He's got a thing for that red couch. I mouth 'no' at
him, trying to decide whether I should pick up my clothes and then use the
john, or use the john and then pick up my clothes when I hear it. A
sniffle. From behind Thatcher's door.

I can't imagine Thatcher sniffling over anything, so it's got to be
Turnbull. Fraser said he left early, I guess for a date. Hopefully he
didn't get dumped. It's got to be tough trying to find someone if you're
Turnbull. It seems wrong to let him sit in there and sniffle by himself,
so I open the door, and stop dead in my tracks as the Ice Queen looks up,
her face half covered by a tissue.

Ooooohfuck.

Her eyes get big, and then she's crying into her tissue again. I've got a
pretty good idea what she's crying about, since seeing me just made it
worse. Hell. I can't sneak out and pretend this never happened. Feeling
like I'm going to lose the dinner I didn't have, I force myself to walk
over to and put a hand on her back, soothingly.

"Hey, its okay."

She sobs harder. I rub her back like I used to do for Stell when something
upset her. Finally Thatcher subsides, grabs another tissue, honks into it,
wipes her eyes, and tries to be the Ice Queen, though she's looking more
than a little melted at the moment.

"You shouldn't be wearing that," she says, trying hard to sound snippy.

I grin ruefully. "Yeah, well it was this or nothing and I figured this
would be better."

"You. . . he. . . I . . ." She hides her face in a new tissue. "But I
thought he liked me!" she wails into the tissue.

"He does," I say, truthfully. Unhinged maniac that he is.

"He likes you better!"

I thought people only said that in bad movies. "He likes me different. He
likes you. He says you're a fine officer."

Not the right thing to say.

"I thought we. . . that after I was no longer his CO . . ." she whimpers.

Time to nip that in the bud. "You know that wouldn't've worked. He makes
you crazy just working for you. Think about having that full-time."

She nods a little, thoughtfully. "True. I just. . . never thought Fraser.
. . he kissed me!"

What? "That was a long time ago," I say, hopefully.

She falls for it. "That doesn't change the fact that he kissed me on top
of that train and gave me reason to think he liked it."

On the train. That places it for me, from the files. The nutcase brothers
Bolt. That was a long time ago, so I'm not worried. Back to Ice Queen
pacification duty. "Well, of course. What's not to like?"

She looks at me like I have two heads. "How would you know?" she snaps.

"I was married. To a woman."

"You were?" she asks, surprised.

"Yeah."

"Then, how . . . ?"

She trails off. There are a lot of unfinished sentences in this
conversation. I shrug. "When you click, you click." And Fraser and I
don't just click, we ignite, I think, but I don't say. No need to rub her
nose in it.

Thatcher considers that thoughtfully, nods. "I suppose so."

She's taking it pretty well, all things considered. I'd expected
fireworks. Maybe gunfire. Shrieking at least. Instead she's been sniffly
but reasonable. "You okay?"

She sighs. Nods. "Yes, thank you."

"Need a taxi?"

"No, I drove." She stands up and puts out her hand. It's weird, but I
shake it. "Thank you," she says. "I'll appreciate your discretion."

"And I yours." Shit. I just sounded like Fraser. She caught it, too. A
little smile quirks her mouth.

"He does drive me crazy. I wish you better luck."

I grin. "He drives me crazy too. But I didn't have far to go."

* * *