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About a Girl
for vienna_waits
Author's Notes: Many grateful thanks to Sprat for organizing and hand-holding and cheerleading, and to akamine_chan for a lightning-fast, insightful, and encouraging beta. Couldn't have done it without you! \o/
She wasn't always a tomboy, all skinned knees and scabby elbows and a pugnacious scowl crinkling her nose, pushing her glasses up into her eyebrows. Once, her hair fell in shining, glossy curls instead of a tangled, unkempt braid, and she wore skirts and ankle socks instead of grass-stained overalls.
Her father still loved her. She still curled up in his lap at the end of the day, hiding her face against his chest and breathing in the scents of tobacco and leather and wool as they sat together in the wing-backed chair in his study. But because he was so quiet, because his arms tightened around her as if he was lost and powerless to do otherwise, she assured him that school was fine. That she had friends, that she was happy. She distracted him with perfect report cards and so he did not question the bruises on her shins. She changed from her school clothes as soon as she got home, hiding the smudges of ground-in dirt and frustrated tears at the bottom of the laundry basket.
One Saturday afternoon they took a walk together, meandering through the wood to the pond. Her father stood silently, hands shoved deep in his trouser pockets, as Meg picked up rock after smooth rock and side-armed them across the glassy surface of green water. The rocks tumbled one after another, skittering and skipping wildly, while the tightness she had carried in her chest for the past year loosened just a bit.
Her father did not ask, and Meg did not tell, that her skill had been refined by months of pelting sticks and stones in self-defense; because names did hurt, and bullies didn't hesitate to mock a motherless classmate - but they'd learned, eventually, a healthy respect for her aim and range.
*****
As she follows Fraser from the incubation room, sneaking after him in clinging silver jersey and stiletto heels through rows and stacks of boxed eggs, the familiar odors of leather and soap and sweat tease her olfactory memory. When the constable points out the small red target, it is a relief to focus on the ridiculous task at hand instead of the ludicrous picture she must make.
Though it has been years since she could point to a 1.3 ERA, Meg isn't surprised when her first missile lands true. The egg curves from her grip to speed through the air and smash messily upon impact; the next few minutes are a blur of adrenaline and giddiness, as together she and Fraser wreak egg-ish havoc upon the miscreants until they are befuddled, disarmed, and taken into custody by Detective Vecchio.
Afterward, she looks around at the countless shattered fragments of egg shell, the dripping splatters of yolk and albumen, evidence of the most bizarre fire fight in her entire law enforcement career - and laughs.
She can't remember when she's had so much fun throwing things.
For her tenth birthday, her father brought home a squirming, chocolate-colored ball of Dachshund puppy. Meg held him carefully in her lap as he wiggled and whimpered and licked her fingers and chin with the tiniest pink tongue she'd ever seen. She named him Winston.
"Churchill?" her father asked with a good-natured grin. Meg stuck her tongue out at him.
Winston slept on her bed, burrowing under the blankets in winter and flopping beside her head on the pillow in warmer weather. He would chase a ball with great enthusiasm, and occasionally bring it back. He uprooted flowers and potted plants, leaving muddy nose and paw prints on the porch and lower windows; he hated baths and would stare reproachfully at Meg as she lathered him up and rinsed him off on days when he wallowed as if there were pigs in his pedigree.
Winston turned the same wide-eyed expression upon her when she (inevitably) dressed him up, cutting down a knit vest of her father's into a smart, Dachshund-sized argyle coat, or sliding striped baby socks up his crooked, stubby legs to giggle as he rolled around on his back, growling and tugging them off one by one with his sharp white teeth.
Winston was her friend and playmate. He was the best dog, and she loved him so very much.
*****
Frowning at the budget reports in one hand, Meg pulls out her desk chair, wheels squeaking over the hard plastic mat underneath. A theatrical groan gives her pause; she tosses the sheaf of papers onto the desk and crouches down, eyeing the wolf tucked into the space at her feet.
Constable Fraser's wolf moans, inching onto his back to expose his belly. One cocked ear swivels in her direction as he peeks at her sidelong.
"I have work to do," Meg says gravely. The wolf blinks once, muttering mournfully.
Meg straightens up, hands fisted on her hips. Constable Fraser might be hoodwinked by his clever canine, tricked into believing the wolf feels under the weather - but Meg isn't fooled. The distended belly is most likely due to overindulgence; given his past history, and the trace evidence of orange powder dusting the wolf's lips and chin, Meg suspects that one of Detective Vecchio's notorious poker games is to blame.
"You should be ashamed of yourself," she tells Diefenbaker, who whimpers pathetically.
Meg considers him for a long moment, toe tapping, then walks briskly to the storage closet. Stretching, she pulls down a soft Hudson Bay blanket and returns to her desk. Pointing at the wolf, she snaps her fingers. "Scoot."
With a self-pitying whine, the wolf hauls himself to his feet, claws scrabbling on the chair mat, and slinks out from beneath the desk, butting his head against her thigh before sitting back on his haunches. As she unfolds the blanket, a warm, wet tongue licks a stripe across her hand.
"None of that," Meg says, crouching again to slide the folded blanket into the recessed space. "And don't think I won't be having a word with Constable Fraser, when he returns."
The wolf does not deign to reply; he is already circling the blanket, digging at it with his paws before curling up once more as Meg retrieves the budget file and her laptop. She will work at the small conference table instead - just this once.
*****
She knew she ought to be grateful that Winston died peacefully in his sleep, comfortable in his dog bed while she was at school. When she found him, when she stroked his short, smooth fur with one shaking hand, his body had already cooled, his spirit long gone.
She was unprepared for the grief - for such searing pain, agony that clawed at her abdomen, loss that ripped through her lungs with each breath, leaving her empty and aching, stuffy-headed and bleary-eyed.
She couldn't remember crying so for her mother.
*****
Constable Fraser puzzles her. His record is full of oddities, unorthodox pursuits and improbable arrests throughout a gypsy-like traipsing from one post to the next. The man himself is unpredictable - verbose one moment, hopelessly tongue-tied the next, competent and professional while handling consulate affairs and then inexplicably turning up in women's attire.
It must be the American influence - Fraser's most bizarre predicaments usually occur when working with Detective Vecchio.
She tests him, and still Fraser proves a mystery. He dons the modern regulation uniform for one day before respectfully refusing to put aside his brown uniform; he declines the offer of a transfer that would set him back on home soil - something he is said to fervently desire. Fraser is alone in the world, apart from his friendship with Detective Vecchio and the companionship of his wolf.
Meg gathers up the budget documents and sets them aside, turning to her laptop and clicking into the personnel folder. She scrolls through Fraser's file again, ignoring the details of his career to delve more thoroughly into his personal history. And she wonders if he had been able to cry for his dead mother.
When she turned twelve, Meg hugged her father and kissed her grandparents and took Winston outside, clambering carefully into the string hammock stretched between two trees in the garden. While Winston snuffled with nonchalant innocence around the tulip bulbs, Meg closed her eyes, turned her face toward the sun, and thought about what to do with her life.
She knew she was smart (one more reason for her classmates to scorn and taunt the four-eyed, geeky loner in their midst) and that intelligence and ambition could someday whisk her to far-away places, among interesting people - an alluring contrast to the placid, settled life her father had sought out in his grief and clung to now, half a decade later, for comfort.
Brow furrowed in contemplation, near to dozing off in the warmth of midday, Meg eventually decided that she ought to strive to become a well-rounded person. Beyond academics and sport, so many pursuits, once mastered, could serve her well in future...
So instead of presents for her birthday or Christmas, Meg asked for lessons of all kinds: languages, dance, horsemanship, etiquette, marksmanship. Weekends were spent in paddock boots and jodhpurs, breathing hay and leather and clean-horse smell; or practicing how to sit correctly, with ankles crossed primly under the table and hands folded meekly in her lap, before tackling a mystifying array of silverware; or plastering a polite smile on her lips and gently tucking her fingers into the slightly sweaty palm of a fumble-footed waltz partner.
Her father took her to the firing range himself, bracing her arm and shoulder against his genial bulk until she learned how to school her body to compensate for a weapon's kickback.
Just before her eighteenth birthday, Meg's acceptance letter arrived, inviting her to the Sorbonne for a summer of study abroad.
*****
The second Detective Vecchio irritates Meg nearly as much as Constables Fraser and Turnbull, though for different reasons. He appears to lack even a modicum of propriety, flashing her irreverent, toothy smiles and throatily encouraging her to call him Ray - when he is not turning up on her consulate doorstep at all hours and absconding with her junior staff, or feeding Fraser's wolf messy snacks that are inevitably smuggled into her office and reduced to crumbs.
At times, when Meg feels most peevish, she is hard-pressed to resist trotting out her diplomas and stunning him into submission with a staggering display of her own talents. Fraser has discussed his partner's penchant for dancing (with the wolf, and really, the pair of them could hardly cry eavesdropping when the conversation took place during consulate hours and the Constable's office door gaped wide) and Meg - well. She has danced with diplomats and minor princes, with state ministers and rulers of lesser principalities; she is confident she could tango one prickly-haired Chicago detective into the floorboards.
This second Vecchio also claims to appreciate the art of painting. Meg scoffs at that; what critical analysis, what insightful tidbits he could offer, should she grant him a private viewing of the canvases from a handful of heady days she spent as Pierre's model...?
Not that she ever would.
But on occasion, when the detective riles Turnbull into either mania or melancholy, or hounds Fraser until the Constable's complexion matches his serge, or plays tackle-fetch with the wolf in the consulate receiving rooms and hallways, imagining his shocked expression - even better if the paintings rendered him speechless - is enough to put a smug glint in Meg's eye. Which, more often than not, provokes a suspicious scowl from "Call me Ray" Vecchio before Fraser wisely drags him off the premises.
For all her scholarly preparation, despite a healthy degree of self-confidence and savoir-faire following Paris and university, and in spite of the fact that she graduated at the top of her class at Depot - Meg found herself badly unnerved by Henri Cloutier's unwelcome advances.
Everything should have been perfect. She was highly regarded by her superior officers, immediately posted to Ottawa and assigned to important work with significant legislative influence. The cosmopolitan flair of the city appealed to Meg's sense of adventure, and certainly provided an appropriate environment to suit her ambitions - yet it was all spoiled because one lecherous middle-aged goat couldn't keep his grabby paws to himself.
At first, Meg resolved to simply ignore Cloutier's not-so-subtle whispers of admiration. Little touches followed not long after; pats on her back as he came up unexpectedly from behind, leaning into her personal space in the elevator, taking her elbow in a firm grip or winding a heavy arm around her shoulders whenever an opportunity arose to use chivalry as a shield.
She knew she should say something, knew that Cloutier behaved as he did because in all likelihood no one ever had said something; but no one else seemed to notice anything amiss. Cloutier was highly respected, with an impeccable public reputation and service record - and in perfect position to end her career before it even began.
Meg stuck it out for nearly eight months, until the evening when she was actually chased around her very own desk by the pompous octopus-in-a-mansuit. The absurdity of it stopped her dead in her tracks, and when Cloutier seized his prize in triumph, she brought the very sharp heel of her pumps down upon his very vulnerable instep with a significant amount of force. And to ensure there had been no miscommunication, Meg followed up with an echoing slap that left a clear red imprint upon Cloutier's fleshy jowl.
By the time he hobbled from the office, hunched-over and groaning with one hand pressed dramatically to his face, Meg had filled out her transfer request, Form 132/WATE in triplicate and placed it precisely in the center of his desk blotter.
*****
It is an unpleasant surprise to see Cloutier again, though Meg does have the satisfaction of facing him on her own territory, partnered with the knowledge that it is Fraser causing consternation for his government, rather than a mistake or misstep on her own part.
She is, however, shocked and disgusted by two things: that Cloutier dares again to insult her with his insinuations, and that yet again she says nothing. Worse, she actually hides behind Fraser, using her subordinate officer in a cowardly ruse to circumvent Cloutier simply because she panicked and didn't immediately confront him with his behavior.
The lawsuit requiring Cloutier's presence is an irritant, unfortunate and unlikely to cause Ottawa to look upon either herself or Fraser with approval - but she has acted against Fraser in nearly the same manner as Cloutier's impropriety. It is a sobering realization; Meg is furious with herself, and ashamed.
Fraser's gracious acceptance of her earnest, though stilted, apology only marginally eases the pangs of her remorse.
Ultimately, Meg acknowledges and even appreciates the irony that it is Fraser's determined persistence in the pursuit of Muldoon, rather than her own lifelong ambitions, which places her squarely in the spotlight with the home office. Not that her own actions - coordinating the search and marshalling Frobisher's command of green Mounties to capture nearly two dozen international terrorists and confiscate canisters of deadly nerve gas and a Russian nuclear submarine - weren't worthy of note, or merit; but without Fraser and Ray Kowalski, the day would hardly have been saved.
Fraser seems oddly hesitant about his future plans, when Meg broaches the subject in conversation that evening. He must be heartened by the prospect of returning to Canada as a hero, and given the media coverage, with his choice of any posting. Yet he gazes steadily into the flickering flames of the campfire, and demurs. Fraser seems content simply to be back in Canada... or perhaps the Constable will return to Chicago, declining a third opportunity for transfer to remain where his heart and duty lie. Either choice would be an honorable calling.
Constable Fraser is, and ever has been, a puzzle wrapped in an enigma - a unique individual utterly unlike anyone Meg has ever known. He is a good man, and because of him she has become a better officer. She is proud to call him a friend and comrade in arms, and hopes - believes - he thinks the same of her.
Meg pours the dregs of her coffee into the snow, rinses her mug with more snow, and seeks out her tent. Tonight, as she once did so long ago, she will lie back and think about the course of her future.
In the morning, when the home office calls for her report, she will make her choices.
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