Characters belong in due South, and thus are property of Alliance. I borrow them temporarily and only to work out a few ideas in my head.

This is set during Season 3.

Rainy Day, Rainy Night

by Michelle Lunsford (04/98)

Please provide all pertinent details.

Constable Benton Fraser read the statement on the form for what he guessed was the fifth or sixth time. Rather than formulating an appropriate response, his mind turned again towards contemplation of the drudgery of Royal Canadian Mounted Police paperwork. Amazing how it continually accumulated despite his best efforts to keep ahead. Already he had spent several hours at the task, completing required forms, gathering and preparing completed forms for submission, and filing approved and returned forms. A weary glance at the piles across his desk provided little indication that he had made any progress at all.

The Mountie turned his head, stretching a taught muscle in his neck and across his shoulder. It had been too long a day. That morning, during his and Dief's pre-breakfast walk, the torrential downpour began, soaking them both to the bone. The morning routine felt out of synch after that, and Fraser had not only cut himself shaving but also burned his oatmeal. And the automatic coffee maker decided today was its appointed time to expire. Of course, it simply had to go out with a bang - literally. What coffee had brewed by that point was spilt all over the counter and floor, and damp coffee grounds festooned the walls and ceiling. Fraser didn't know by what miracle the actual coffeepot had survived, he simply thanked the heavens that he didn't have to sweep miniscule glass particles from everywhere.

Inspector Thatcher arrived at the Consulate midway during the cleaning process. Seeing that a new coffee maker would need to be procured, the Inspector also provided a list of other errands that were of necessary importance as to be completed that day, despite the still pouring rain. As Turnbull was out of town on vacation, the ignoble duty fell to Fraser.

Just prior to lunch, Ray called. A recent case they had supposedly closed was getting hung up on some sort of bureaucratic technicalities, and Welsh wanted to see them pronto. The end result had been most of the afternoon spent answering questions and working with files. He and Ray had scarcely made time for lunch, eating vending machine sandwiches as they plowed through the paperwork. Sometime after five, they had finally worked through the problem.

Fraser returned to the Consulate to find the stacks of work to be done on his desk had grown. Not allowing himself a chance to think about how much he didn't want to do it, the Mountie sat down and began working on the files. Progress had been steady, until somewhere along the way, as it invariably happened, one of the files he ran across was an older one that had involved the assistance of Detective Ray Vecchio.

Ray.

Not a day went by that Fraser didn't think of him. It had been nearly six months since Fraser had returned from a trip in Canada to find his best friend gone undercover and one Stanley Raymond Kowalski in his place. No specifics, and no way to contact him; Fraser only knew that Ray was working undercover with the mob. It was serious, it was dangerous, and it was going to be continuing for who knew how long.

Sometimes Fraser would try to imagine what his friend was truly facing. The Mountie had gotten his first taste of Chicago Mafia associations during the case with Frank Zuko. Somehow, Fraser knew, this would be much worse. The association with violence was something that gnawed at him most. What sort of things was Ray being exposed to? Or what might Ray be forced to do himself, at some point, to prove his loyalty? And how did his friend live with the constant fear of being discovered? Would he survive? And if he did, what would be the cost?

Of course, it was all compounded by the fact that Fraser knew he was not the only one who thought along these lines. Sometimes, when he would be at the precinct station before Francesca arrived for work, he would see it. She would come in, smile, and offer her customary "Good morning, Fraser." But he saw it all the same; the slightest hint on her face that not too long ago she had been crying. Fraser knew that it was on these mornings that Francesca had stopped by the church on her way in to work, offering a prayer, or perhaps even lighting a candle, for the safety and wellbeing of her brother. So often he would want to give her a word of comfort, or a touch. But Fraser always refrained, somehow knowing it would only give Francesca reason to break down again. And he knew that was the last thing she wanted. So, he would wait, watching for the right time, later in the day, when he could offer a look or a word of encouragement. Fraser always felt like it was never enough, but occasionally he would see the understanding flood her large, brown eyes, and it would be all Francesca needed to keep going, to keep pressing on.

No one had asked the Mountie, or even obscurely suggested it. Fraser just naturally accepted it as his duty to look after the Vecchio family until Ray returned. He made a point to call on Mrs. Vecchio at least once a week. And she had taken to inviting him for dinner on a regular basis. The contact was proving cathartic for both of them.

The Mountie's thoughts regarding Ray ran the gamut, from near panic sensations of anxiety to the most mundane of concerns. Where was he? Was he sleeping well? What was he doing? What did he eat for lunch today? When would he be back? How would Fraser find out when he did get back? How would things be different when he returned?

Yes, there was always that consideration too. Kowalski had become a good friend during these past six months, and Fraser couldn't help but wonder what would happen to him when the real Ray Vecchio returned.

As was often the case, Fraser never arrived at any satisfactory answers. In reality, he knew that the situations would be faced and dealt with as they happened. If Ray didn't make it, then he would have yet another hole in his life, but somehow Fraser would manage. And he would do everything possible to help the Vecchio family as well. If Ray returned, then they would deal with all the changes together. And as for Kowalski, Fraser was determined he would speak his heart on the matter, but if the man wanted to move on, then he would not hold his friend back. In serious moments, Fraser would often end his musings with a glance above and a brief prayer to bring Ray home soon. In lighter moments, the Constable might find himself chuckling over such ridiculous notions as how was he going to refer to his two friends when Ray did return. He seriously doubted he could get away with referring to the one as Stanley. Perhaps he would resort to some nonsensical shorthand, like calling them Vee and Kay.

The sound of the Consulate's front door opening and closing again interrupted Fraser's introspection. A look at the clock revealed it was well past eight. Must be Inspector going home for the evening, he thought. His eyes fell again to the half-completed form. The request for all pertinent details still remained unanswered. With a sigh, Fraser closed the folder and pushed it aside. Enough paperwork for tonight, and a distinctive rumble from his stomach reminded him he'd not taken a break for dinner.

Diefenbaker stirred when the Mountie stood. Fraser cast a glance at his faithful companion. "Hungry?"

This was answered by a most definitive woof.

"Yes, I know it's late, and I apologize for working through our normal meal time. As you know, it hasn't been the best of days. I'm just going to change clothes, and then I'll fix us something."

The wolf whined, but then trotted off towards the kitchen where he would wait, relatively patiently.

Fraser had already shed the red jacket before beginning his evening paperwork, but now he exchanged the jodhpurs and long sleeved white undershirt for a pair of well-worn jeans and blue flannel button-up. He made his way into the small kitchen area of the Consulate. Initial inspection revealed enough leftovers for Dief and several choices of canned soup for himself. With the rain still producing a raucous cacophony outside, the idea of hot soup sounded good right about now. Fraser emptied the contents of the plastic container into Dief's bowl, and was just about to open a can for himself when he heard the front door open and then close with a good deal more force than was necessary. Curious, but cautious, the Mountie silently made progress towards the kitchen doorway and peered around the corner.

Standing in the foyer and fighting an umbrella that looked as if it had been inverted on several occasions recently, was Inspector Margaret Thatcher. Despite any cover the oversized umbrella might have provided, she was drenched from head to foot. As the umbrella appeared to be gaining the upper hand in their altercation, she finally jammed it in one corner near the door, glaring at it, as if daring it to move. She then marched, her shoes making an odd clamp-slosh sound against the bare wood, towards her office.

Fraser considered for a moment, and then proceeded to the same location. She had left the office door open, so he simply stood in the doorway and looked inside. She was rummaging about in a closet.

"Excuse me, Sir, is there a problem?"

The Inspector looked up, noticing him for the first time. Dark hair fell in wet, unruly strands over her forehead. Frustration was evident in the deep pools of brown and her skin appeared slightly flushed.

"Nothing serious, Constable." She returned to the exploration of her closet. "Actually, I should have known better. There are always reports about that section of road flooding over in bad rains."

Fraser guessed which section she meant, the one that was only a couple of blocks away, and considering the storm that had bottomed out that morning had not let up any at all through the day it was simple enough to deduce the rest.

"Shall I call for a tow truck," Fraser asked as he watched her move across the room to a second closet.

"No. I called from my cellular." Her voice became muffled as she moved a little deeper into the closet. "But they estimated they won't be able to get to it until sometime in the morning. Reports on the radio of traffic problems all over town. The weather is quite horrendous tonight." She emerged from the closet and moved towards a small wooden chest in one corner before continuing. "I requested them to have it towed here to the Consulate."

"Ah. Were you--" Fraser hesitated. "Were you planning to stay here this evening?"

Thatcher paused only long enough to glare at him. "My car is stranded, and it's raining out there as if these were the days of Noah. Of course I'm going to stay here. I intend to sleep in the Queen's Bedroom."

That sounded logical enough to Fraser. The Queen's Bedroom was the one quest room the Consulate held available for any visiting dignitaries or upper level staff. "I see."

Thatcher went on as if he hadn't spoken. "I'm sure Turnbull would have a fit if he found out, but I suppose what he doesn't know won't hurt him." The last few words trailed off as she finally finished her wild search and stood, hands on hips in a most disgusted stance.

"May I help you find something?"

The Inspector shook her head. "I was certain I had an extra change of clothes here at the Consulate. But I was obviously mistaken."

Fraser took in her appearance once again. She was indeed soaked, and considering it was late autumn, she was likely chilled as well.

"I may have something that will suffice, Sir. No doubt the size will be inappropriate, but it will be dry."

The Inspector met his gaze and for a second Fraser was convinced he caught a soul-felt weariness there. But then the window was closed, and she was the dispassionate superior officer again. Without waiting for a word of approval or disapproval, Fraser went to the small office that also doubled as his home these days. He located the pair of RCMP training sweatpants and shirt quickly. He returned to her office.

"Thank you," Thatcher said tersely as she took the clothing.

Fraser headed for the door, but a thought caused him to turn back just before leaving. "Excuse me, Ma'am, but have you eaten? I was just about to prepare some soup for myself. There's plenty, if you would like some."

The Inspector stared at Fraser as if he had just asked her a question of the gravest importance. After a long silence, her gaze flicked to where the fine leather briefcase lay atop her organized desk. Fraser found himself wondering, just how often did Thatcher allow responsibilities of the job to follow her home? Was it every evening? Did her nights consist of nothing more than solitary meals and RCMP files before she found sleep at some horribly late hour? Standing there drenched from the rain, chilled, and obviously tired, she suddenly looked a tiny, frail thing to him.

"Thank you, Constable, but I'm not hungry," finally was the feeble reply.

It was polite, if still a lie, and for some reason he did not care to analyze, Fraser was tempted to press the issue. But something in that unreadable face was almost pleading him not too. And so, he simply smiled instead.

"Good night, Inspector."

"Good night, Constable."

Fraser quietly closed the door behind him.

Diefenbaker was resting languidly beside his now empty bowl when Fraser returned to the kitchen. He gave the wolf a somewhat reproachful look for having devoured the food so quickly, but then merely shook his head in exasperation. The Mountie set to the task of heating his own meal, and was about to remove the pan from the stovetop when he heard the quiet voice behind him.

"Does that offer for some hot soup still stand?"

Thatcher was standing in the doorway looking anything but her customary, businesslike self. It appeared that she had toweled most of the dampness from her hair and attempted to comb it, but the dark strands evidently had a mind of their own. The blue, oversized clothes hung off her frame in a most ridiculous way. The sleeves were pushed up, and Fraser guessed they would have nearly covered her entire hand at full length. The bottom of the shirt hit somewhere around mid-thigh and the pants gathered in bunched folds at her ankles. He noticed that her small bare feet exposed perfectly manicured toenails, the same frosted ivory shade as adorned her fingertips. For a brief instance his only thought was that she had never looked lovelier.

"Ah-- of course," he managed, and moved toward the cupboard for another can.

Accustomed silence held between them as Fraser added the additional soup and finished preparing the simple meal. Thatcher opted to make herself useful by searching out bowls and silverware from the cabinets. She located tea bags and filled two mugs with hot water before finally sitting down at the small circular table. Fraser ladled portions of the steaming soup and joined her.

The pair made polite small talk as they ate, but Fraser soon became aware that his superior's mind was elsewhere. There was a fatigue about her that seemed attributable to more than job stress or even the added frustrations of the weather. Fraser watched as she finished the last of her soup, her unfocused gaze drifting away into places unknown. The silence was growing more tense by the moment, and he decided if he did not address the situation it would certainly plague him the rest of the night.

"Inspector," he began softly, "I don't mean to pry, but I couldn't help noticing you seem terribly distracted this evening. Is anything the matter?"

Thatcher shook her head absently at the comment and Fraser wondered if she had even heard what he had asked. The Mountie was considering repeating the question, perhaps a bit more forcefully, when he thought he detected a faint tremble of her lower lip just before she quickly pulled it over bottom teeth and bit it. Her eyes suddenly squeezed tight. Before he could even think to speak another word, Thatcher inexplicably burst into tears.

Initially perplexed by the outburst, Fraser soon recovered and fetched a linen napkin from a nearby drawer. He offered it to her as he sat down again.

"Is it something you want to talk about?" The voice was deep, yet tender, like a comforting embrace.

The emotional eruption was short-lived, and already Thatcher had regained some semblance of her normal composure. She shook her head in the negative as she wiped tears away. "I want to apologize," Thatcher began, her voice unexpectedly strong and steady.

"I'm afraid I don't understand," Fraser admitted.

"For this most inappropriate display," she added.

"No apology is necessary," the Constable assured.

Her expression left no doubt that she considered otherwise, but Thatcher said nothing more.

Fraser rose to refill their mugs with hot water and fetched fresh tea bags, allowing the small task to give him opportunity to gather his thoughts. When he sat, and placed the mug of tea before her, his face bore nothing less than the most serious concern and affection.

"I only want you to understand that I'm willing to listen if you need to talk about something."

The honest offer seemed to threaten her control again, but no additional tears fell. After what seemed an eternal silence the Inspector finally met his eyes.

"Do you ever think about Detective Vecchio?" Her voice was soft and low; a fragile whisper amidst the sound of rain, pounding its precipitation patterns on roof and windows.

The question took him by surprise, but Fraser was intent to follow wherever this led. "Most all the time," he answered truthfully.

She seemed to consider that for a moment. "You have no way of contacting him? Or even of knowing the status of his situation?"

Now his voice fell to that low, almost imperceptible register. The pain was distinct. "No."

Brown eyes fell, gazing into the simple mug as she repeatedly immersed the tea bag. "I received word this afternoon, regarding the death of a friend."

"I'm sorry." It was simple, but full of sincerity.

"She was killed in the line of duty," the Inspector went on.

Fraser simply waited, allowing Thatcher freedom to tell the story as she needed.

"Rachel and I were in RCMP training together. At first, I never really paid her any undue attention. Well, that is, no more than any of the others. Then one morning she received word that her mother, who had cancer, had passed away. Two hours later I received word that my father had been killed in an accident."

Her eyes misted slightly and she looked away again, with that distant gaze when one looks to places and times long gone.

"I suppose you could say it forced us into something of a bonding experience. We grieved together. We trained together. It was as simple as that." There was another pause, as her gaze returned to the present.

"We even served our first post together. But our paths separated after the first year. While never exactly what you would call close friends, we did always keep in contact." Now the barest hint of a smile tugged at the corners of Thatcher's mouth.

"We were so different. I'd always known that I wanted to work my way up in the ranks, whereas Rachel was content to simply fulfill her duty as a RCMP member. She preferred the rural setting, and I was the city girl. She was the strong, quiet type, while I was the loud and outgoing one."

Thatcher met his eyes. "You would have liked her."

Fraser offered a slight smile, but still said nothing. Sometimes, the best thing to do was simply to listen.

"By the time I received notification, it was too late to make travel arrangements for the funeral. But I did send my condolences to her father. Rachel had several brothers and sisters, so they all have one another for comfort." The half-smile tugged again. "That was another difference. I was an only child."

An easy silence held between them while Thatcher sipped her tea.

"Are you upset about not being able to attend the funeral," Fraser asked at last.

"No, I don't think so," she admitted. "Certainly it would be good to have the closure, but Rachel and I had corresponded recently. There was no unfinished business or unspoken words between us."

Fraser caught her gaze again, and saw the truth mirrored there. "But we still miss them," he said knowingly.

"Yes." There was another quiet pause, disturbed only by the sound of rain. "You know, I had always heard the stories of your father. It seems he was something of a legend."

Fraser shifted in his chair, as if the physical movement would aid his mind with the shift in conversation. Thatcher had never spoken of his father before. Fraser knew she was aware of the details, if not from stories then certainly from his personnel file. Still, the acknowledgement felt slightly unsettling to him.

The Inspector was continuing. "I remember I saw a photo of him once. I don't recall what it was for, I think an official recognition or some such. But I never forgot the broad, genuine smile, and they way the picture seemed to capture the depth of his eyes while still hinting at a twinkle there. And I remember wondering what it would be like to meet Sergeant Robert Fraser." She took another sip of tea and then said very straightforwardly, "I imagine he was very proud of you."

"I like to think so," Fraser replied honestly. He took a drink from his own mug. That oddly disconcerting sensation was still there. But if the Inspector had been open enough to share about her friend, then turn about was fair play. "I'm afraid we were never terribly close. Living and serving in the Territories-- well, I never saw him that much."

"Really?" The woman leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. It appeared she was genuinely interested in hearing about this side of the man who served under her command. "Do you regret that?"

The question struck close and true, and Fraser allowed his gaze to fall away.

"I'm sorry," she apologized, pulling back again. "I shouldn't have--"

"No," he interrupted. The blue eyes came up again and he allowed some of the familiar grief, so seldom revealed, to unfold. His voice was laden with a ragged honesty. "It's just that so few people ever ask me about it, and the truth is I do regret it. I regret it a great deal."

Thatcher's eyes shone with compassion. "My father and I were very close. In some ways, it made his death more painful for me. But in other ways, I think because of that relationship, it was much easier."

He nodded in understanding. Somewhere, in the light of her gaze, Fraser felt a safe, sheltered moment settle around him. "I loved my father. But I was never able to tell him."

Fraser was a little surprised by the warm touch of her hand on his. It was such a simple gesture, but in that instant it spoke volumes.

"I'm sorry, Ben. I-- I'm sure he knew how you felt."

Time passed, played out in the hushed reverence of mutual solace. A glimpse of awareness lingered between them. Somewhere, in the distance, an echo of thunder rolled.

"It's getting late. I have files I should look over," she murmured, standing to her feet.

He rose, restrained her with a gentle hand. "Stay?" His voice, clear and calm still hinted of a pleading urgency. "We seldom have an opportunity to just talk. And there's so much about you I don't know."

If the confession disturbed her, there was no outward sign. Benton forced himself to hold her gaze, and when he released her hand she sat down again.

"Constable," she began.

He sighed. "Does it always have to be RCMP titles? For once, can't we simply speak as friends?"

Thatcher's expression took on a slight edge. Her tone carried a strange mixture of questioning, accusation, and longing. "Friends?"

The barb found its aim, and Fraser looked away as one rightly sentenced.

"Fraser, we both know that path is best left untraveled." The warmth had returned to her voice, but there was no mistaking the sober meaning behind the words.

Fraser knew the truth of the argument. It was one he'd played out in his own mind a thousand times before. But tonight he only sought to affirm that one final conviction, that one injustice that he could no longer deny.

"Sometimes what I know and what I want are two different things."

Fraser locked his eyes with hers, silently daring her to deny it. He watched the emotions war within her, a familiar battle. The Mountie realized they were both terribly vulnerable in this moment, having displayed such private feelings of loss so openly. But perhaps this is what was necessary. Maybe this would provide the impetus to either move things forward, or else end something that had scarcely been started. Fraser held steady as the dark eyes swirled with the fury of it all before finally finding repose with the one thing he had not anticipated; despair.

"Then tell me what we're supposed to do?" The plea came out in a desperate whisper.

Fraser sighed and ran a hand through his hair in frustration. The slight distraction allowed her opportunity to pull away again, turning her eyes from him. He knew she was fighting back tears now. Slowly, deliberately, Fraser moved around beside her, and took her in his arms.

"I'm sorry, Margaret," he breathed into her hair. He could feel her tears where they made damp splotches on his shoulder and he sought to make his voice a balm to her pain. "I wish I knew what we were supposed to do, so I could give you the answers that would stop this crazy roller coaster ride between logic and feeling. I wish the situation didn't have to be so complicated. I wish-- well, I wish lots of things, but mostly I wish you didn't have to cry. I'm sorry." He gently stroked her hair. "I'm so sorry."

Benton held her, in tender silence, even after the tears had stopped. She was still now, and he could feel the calm rhythm of her respiration as the breaths fell lightly across his skin. The feel of her in his arms was warm and satisfying. In that moment he was content to sit here with her forever.

With an almost imperceptible sigh, Margaret stirred. Her upturned face revealed traces of lingering tears, and Benton wiped them away with a gentle touch. The dark sienna eyes reflected deep, bottomless wells of feeling. And there was a searching there, an unspoken question. A petite hand raised to his face, fingertips lightly tracing across his forehead, down his jawline. Fraser marveled at how the simple sensation was enough the make his heart beat with passion. The delicate touch became more forceful as she reached around his neck, fingers entwining in the dark hair as she pulled him to her. Her kiss was soft, a silent beckoning and Benton succumbed to the invitation. He returned the kiss, deepening it, certain in that moment that her lips were the sweetest, most sublime thing he had ever known.

The moments continued forward in soundless progress. The rain, unheeding, persisted in its natural course.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, some trace of wisdom murmured a warning. Slowly, reluctantly, Fraser pulled away.

"It's rather late," he managed in a husky voice. "And you've had a very difficult day. I think you should get some sleep."

The dismissal was obvious, and Fraser caught the hurt that momentarily flooded her eyes. Thatcher opened her mouth as if to speak, but any words were lost as she drew in a sharp breath and turned away from him.

Her tone was cool, the echo of an unwanted acceptance. "Understood."

The familiar phrase stung more intensely than any physical strike would have. Thatcher rose to silently exit the room and Fraser forced himself not to follow, even as his entire being screamed to do so. Long after she had gone, Fraser remained in the condemning emptiness, the pounding pattern of raindrops a mocking answer to the ache of his own heart.

* * *

Fraser paid the driver the required fee and offered his customary word of thanks. As the tow truck pulled away, he took a few moments to regard his surroundings. The rain had finally subsided during the early hours of morning, and sunshine was bathing everything in its misted glow. A nipping breeze, hinting at the coming of winter, rustled the branches of a lone bare tree. Fraser inhaled deeply. It was still early enough that traffic had not picked up and he could just make out a whisper of nature's sound, distant but ever present. He sighed. Something about this time of year, the change of season, always made him a little homesick.

Pushing back his melancholy, the Mountie trekked up the steps. Entering the Consulate he met Thatcher as she was coming down the foyer stairs. She was dressed in the sharp business suit from the day previous, and Fraser noted how even after a day of wear and being hung to air dry overnight it still appeared fresh and stylish on her petite frame. In her arms she carried, neatly folded, the blue RCMP sweats.

"Good morning, Constable," Thatcher said in her usual cool manner. She held the clothes out to him. "Thank you again for the use of these."

As Fraser took the bundle he noticed she hadn't quite met his eyes. "You're welcome. The tow truck service delivered your automobile this morning. I took the liberty to inspect the engine. Nothing appears to be damaged by the flooding, and the ignition responded fine." He fished in a pocket. "Here are the keys."

"Thank you." Again the indifferent tone and evasive expression. "I'm going home for a shower and fresh clothing, but I should be back to the Consulate within an hour and a half."

"Understood."

Thatcher turned towards her office. The conversation, such as it was, apparently over, Fraser headed towards his office as well. As the Inspector was still pointedly avoiding eye contact, by slight miscalculation, their shoulders bumped in passing.

Tension hung heavy as they both remained still, seemingly rooted to the floor. Fraser opened his mouth to speak, but Thatcher was quicker.

"Fraser, I want to--" her voice broke in hesitation. "I want to thank you."

"Ma'am?"

She finally met his gaze. "Last night--"

Fraser moved to speak again, but she halted his interruption with a raised hand. Her eyes were calm, her voice steady. But somewhere in it Fraser heard a touch of the warmth he had felt the night before.

"Last night I needed someone to talk to. I needed a friend, and you listened to me. I greatly appreciate that."

Fraser simply nodded in response.

The Inspector took a deep breath. "I also want to thank you for what you did not do." Her gaze faltered, but only for an instant. "Due to the loss of my friend Rachel, my overall emotional state was less stable than I would prefer. In that circumstance I was contemplating making choices that I believe I might have regretted later." Her voice had faded to be almost inaudible.

"I could not, I would not, ever want to take advantage of you, Margaret." It was a firm, confident sincerity.

Thatcher managed a smile and his heart seemed to melt at the sight.

"I know," she replied. "That's why I'm so grateful."

With a light kiss on his cheek, the Inspector turned again toward her office. Benton allowed his eyes to follow her, and he heard her gathering some papers and the briefcase. Quietly he made the way to his own small room. From the foyer he heard the sound of the front door closing as Thatcher headed out.

The Mountie retrieved the oversized, worn knapsack where he customarily put all dirty laundry. Just before he dropped the small bundle inside, a stray thought occurred. In a rare instance of sheer indulgence, he lifted the fleece sweatshirt to his face and inhaled deeply. It was there, her distinctive unperfumed scent. Eyes closed, he stood there, letting the seconds roll by in his undisturbed delight. Finally he deposited the pants into the laundry sack, but the shirt he folded with care and stored it in a corner of one drawer, a place all to itself. Then, with a smile for the coming day, the Mountie went to prepare his and Diefenbaker's breakfast.