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Title: Alternate Thinking
Author: Sasscat
Bu-to-y
Rating: PG-13
Codes: Fraser/Thatcher, Kowalski/Thatcher, Alternate Universes
Parts 1-5
Teaser: Meg finds herself in situations she could never have predicted...
Disclaimer: Alliance owns all.
Alternate Thinking
(c) Sasscat Bu-to-y 1999-2000
Meg flexed her arm cautiously, and winced as the raw underside of her wrist scraped against the chain that bound her to the top of her desk. Not her desk, she reminded herself. Fraser's desk. Or at least, the desk of the Fraser in this bizarre alternate universe. So far, he didn't seem to have guessed she wasn't 'his' Margaret Thatcher, and she wanted to keep it that way until she could find a way to get out of this weird place and back home to her own Fraser. 'Her Fraser'. That didn't sound too bad, she thought with a slight smile.
"Was something amusing, Constable?"
She almost shivered as the soft voice cut across the room. "No, sir," she said carefully. There was no telling what he might do if she annoyed him.
"Ah, I see." There were sounds of movement, then he walked into view.
Meg caught her breath. Every single thought she'd ever had about Fraser in red, she'd revised not long ago to include black leather pants. *Tight*, black, leather pants. Definitely a well-deserved revision. And-- Oh, god, a whip. She wasn't sure whether to be more frightened or stunned. And the vivid blood red of his shirt - was that *silk*, she wondered - and his hair just slightly spiked, and that childlike, hurt look on his face that always... Damn.
"I understand you spoke to Mister Kowalski yesterday," Fraser said, in that polite, velvet voice. "Was that true, Constable?"
"Yes, sir," she said, because she didn't know what else to say. She'd just been trying to figure out what the hell was going on, and Ray had been the first person she'd seen...
Fraser looked disappointed. "I see." He sounded disappointed too. "I must say I'm surprised, Constable. I was under the impression that we had an understanding of a sort, and I can't think what might have caused you to break it."
They had an understanding? Meg tried to think what the hell she could say. "I--" He cracked the whip near her face, and she flinched away.
"I apologise," he said immediately; "I have no intention to frighten you. But you have been acting... Hmh. 'Strangely' isn't quite the word I was looking for... Perhaps 'unusually'."
Oh hell, maybe he had noticed. She stayed silent this time, and guessed it was the right thing to do when he continued.
"First you speak to a convicted felon. Then you come into my office without knocking, for no apparent reason and out of uniform. Then you question my orders, address me without permission... In short, Constable, you have provided me with substantial cause for concern." Fraser stroked her cheek gently. "Perhaps if you explain exactly what the problem is, I could be of some assistance."
Meg tried not to pay attention to the hand moving on her cheek and studied a spot on the wall just above his left shoulder. "Permission to speak, sir?"
"Certainly, Constable." His hand trailed down to rest on her jaw, thumb brushing across her lips. "I would be more than happy to hear what you have to say."
Meg struggled to remain coherent with his thumb moving like *that*. "I... I just wanted to please you," she started, then stopped as his thumb dipped between her lips.
"I see. Please, continue," Fraser encouraged.
"I... I didn't know how, and I guess I just... made mistakes," she improvised frantically. Hell, where was the real Fraser when you needed him?
"Ah. I believe I understand," Fraser said.
Meg looked up at him, hoping she'd said the right thing or she was dead, and was he *smiling* at her? "You do?"
Fraser nodded. "I appreciate you sharing that with me. Thank you kindly."
She stared at him for a moment at the words, then he was bending towards her and she could feel her lips parting in anticipation as his thumb slid away, then he was kissing her and for an instant she wished *her* Fraser was more like this, before surrendering to the kiss, and to him.
He drew away after a moment and looked into her eyes, still poised above her. "Is that what you want, Margaret?"
"Yes," she breathed. "Oh, yes..."
"Then may I ask you a question?" he asked, in that same soft tone.
"Of course." If he'd just *kiss* her again and be done with it!
"When you said that you just wanted to please me, did you mean that to explain all of your unusual behaviour? Because - on the surface at least - it would not appear that speaking to a felon is the best way to please me."
Meg groaned quietly as he stood up again. This was going to take some getting out of.
"On the other hand," he continued, straightening and stepping away from her, "it does seem to have got my attention. Was that what you wanted, perhaps?"
Um... "Yes?" she guessed.
He looked at her for a moment, expressionless. "That would be 'yes, sir'," he corrected softly. "I am... concerned about you, Margaret. I do consider myself your friend; I trust you are aware of that."
Oh, was she ever. Meg bit her lip, wondering what she could say that wouldn't make things worse, and wasn't she supposed to be waking up right about now?
Fraser sighed infinitesimally, and walked to the door with regretful steps. His aide met him instantly; Ovitz, Meg realised, twisting her head to see.
"Would you be so kind as to escort Constable Thatcher to her room," Fraser asked, and somehow managed to make it not sound like an order. Ovitz nodded and walked to Meg, bending to unfasten her bonds.
"Thank you kindly," Fraser said with a slight nod, and looked at Meg. Escape was not an option, his eyes told her. He left without speaking again.
The aide finished unfastening Meg's bonds and helped her off the desk. She stumbled slightly, but shook off the steadying hand on her elbow. She was going to walk by herself, and she was going to find a way home.
Somehow.
--
As she heard the door lock behind her, Meg picked herself up off the floor. Okay, so not everyone was as polite as Fraser. 'Shouldn't have come back from Bermuda'? She'd never *been* to Bermuda. She rubbed her wrists and looked around.
It looked like an ordinary Consulate office, only stripped bare of its furniture. She crossed to the window and peered downwards... and downwards... and downwards... All right, then, she wouldn't try to climb out the window. It was locked, anyway, she discovered, rattling its handle.
So was the door. She paced around the bare floorboards for several minutes, then tried the door and window again. Still locked, what a surprise.
She sat on the wooden boards and leaned against the wall, composing an explanation for the bizarre Fraser who inhabited this universe. /'No, really, I was only speaking to this felon because he was kind enough to invite me over for dinner...' Sure, that's going to convince him./
With a sigh, Meg pulled herself up and began pacing again. Had Consulate offices always been this small? She was beginning to get distinctly claustrophobic. Window - still locked. Door--
The door. Opened.
Meg pulled it open a little further, peering nervously along the corridor. No one was in sight. Heart pounding, she crept along the dark blue carpet towards the staircase and, hopefully, escape.
Halfway there she heard Fraser's voice, and ducked against the wall. Not now, dammit... She was so close!
She'd just begun to creep back the way she'd come when he rounded the corner, in an animated discussion with a large black wolf about God only knew what. He stopped when he saw her.
Uh oh.
"Off you go, Diefenbaker," he said quietly, turning his head so the wolf could see. 'Diefenbaker' left, tongue lolling, and Fraser looked back at her.
"Were you looking for me, sir?"
She stared at him for a moment, then let the realisation sink through her that he wasn't wearing leather anymore. Somehow, whatever had moved her into that first damn universe had moved her into another one. And Diefenbaker was black here, she thought, fixating on what had to be the most trivial thing she knew.
("Bermuda Triangle" -- the story of "that first damn universe" continues....)
Oh, right. Was she looking for him? Um... "I don't think so--" she hesitated when she realised she didn't know his rank, and finished lamely, "--Fraser. I was just... going to get something to eat."
His face cleared in understanding, and he nodded. "Of course, sir. Shall I let the kitchen staff know you're on your way?"
Where was the kitchen? Her Consulate didn't have a kitchen. Not one with regular staff that had to be notified she was stopping by; just a few of those garish junk food dispensors. She wondered idly if Fraser ever ate from those. Probably not; wouldn't be nutritious.
Focus, Meg, she told herself sharply. He was going to think she'd gone dim if she kept this up. "That's all right, Fraser; I'm not that hungry. Just... wandering." Oh, yeah, that was going to convince him. She sounded almost as sane as that bag lady who lived on the corner of Ray's block.
Fraser nodded and turned away, then turned back to her. "Ah... Did you need anything else, sir?"
Yeah. Where was the toilet? Oh, that was going to sound so strange... Well, if she was lucky she'd be out of here soon anyway. "My memory's going," she said sheepishly. "You're going to think this is very strange, but... where's the... you know...?" Oh, much better. Now she sounded not only strange, but pathetic. 'The you know'. Very adult, Meg.
Fraser smiled politely. "We all have our little lapses, sir. Right this way."
Well, thank God for that. She was beginning to like this universe.
He lead her along the corridor and stopped in front of a plain wooden door. Meg put on a face of enlightenment. "Of course... I feel so stupid."
"There's no need for that, sir. As I said, we all have our little lapses." He opened the door for her - okay, now *that* was weird, Meg thought - and gave a slight bow.
This... was not a toilet. Meg stared at the bed - pink, for God's sake! - and started to turn back around. Fraser was shutting the door behind them and, oh God, she was being kissed by a Fraser for the second time that day, and he had the most talented lips--
She grabbed hold of her last coherent thought and clung to it, pushing Fraser away from her. Not here, not now, not this Fraser. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" she demanded.
He stared at her, slightly bewildered. "Well, sir, you asked me to lead you here and I could only assume I was the one whose services you required - of course, if I was mistaken I'll be happy to locate whoever you wish to--"
"*Fraser*," she interrupted, blushing. ('Services'? What the hell kind of Consulate *was* this?) "I meant the *toilet*, not... here..." She waved her arm around the room with distaste.
"Oh," he said, looking mildly embarassed. "Well, I must admit, I do feel quite the goose. I apologise, sir. I do hope you'll be able to forgive me, although it was quite a horrendous mistake and I must say I'm more than a little ashamed to have made it. I should have realised--"
"Fraser," she interrupted, more gently this time. "Just tell me where the toilet is."
He cast her an odd look, and she realised that her 'little lapse' really should have passed by now... Well, as long as he wasn't going to chain her to a desk, she was happy. Or at least, - and more to the point - not entirely helpless.
"This way, sir," Fraser said politely, opening the door again. Meg straightened her top a little self-consciously, then followed.
--
Meg collapsed into the chair behind her desk, glad that *that* debacle was finally over. This universe was rapidly beginning to lose its appeal. She wasn't sure which was worse; the embarrassment of Fraser... misinterpreting her, or the helplessness of Fraser chaining her to a desk.
Meg had never been big on homesickness, even when her parents had sent her on that stupid camp-- but she was certainly beginning to feel homesick now. She was having a very strange day. Maybe she should just call it a night.
She made it out of the Consulate without running into Fraser, and was halfway down the steps when it occurred to her that she had no idea where her car was parked. Or even if she had a car. Or an apartment, for that matter.
She pulled her keys out of her pocket and pressed the locator -- because if whatever car her counterpart possessed here didn't respond to the locator, it wouldn't respond to the rest of her keys either, so there was no point in trying to find it.
A bleep came from her left, and she relaxed, jogging along the street to unlock it and drop into the driver's seat. Now, to find out if she had somewhere to sleep.
It didn't take long for her to reach the street her apartment was on. It also didn't take long for her to realise that that wasn't where she slept. The entire block was burned to the ground, charred rubble. She sighed and started heading back to the Consulate.
--
She dropped into the chair behind her desk again, rubbing her head tiredly. Okay. Short of humiliating herself in front of Fraser again, how could she find out where her apartment was?
No, she hadn't thought she'd think of anything. She stared blankly at her computer screen. --Computer screen... She straightened and logged on impatiently, wishing the Consulate budget had stretched to those faster computers the marketeers had been so excited about. She wondered if iMacs even existed in this universe.
Personnel files. Margaret Thatcher. Restricted information-- What the hell? "Okay, Meg," she muttered, "it wants a password. What would you choose? It can't be that hard to guess--"
She typed something in, then winced as the discordant alarm rang out. Damn. What kind of paranoid lunatic locked her own address on her own computer, anyway? Meg switched it off at the back, in hopes of triggering an end to that infernal noise, but to no avail.
Fraser burst in, followed by a couple of security guards who faltered when they saw her. "I, uh, sir," Fraser said in surprise. "I'm sorry; the alarm went off and I could only assume..."
Meg sighed. "I mistyped a password," she said flatly. "Can you shut that damn thing off?" she snapped to one of the guards
"Of course, sir," he said hastily, hurrying out with his partner. Fraser looked after them for a moment, then switched his gaze back to her. Meg sighed slightly. Well, it hadn't been *that* bad.
"Coming to my rescue?" she asked Fraser with a smile.
"I must admit," he said, smiling back, "I'd hoped to fend off the marauding hackers. But..." He gestured expressively around her empty office.
"But," Meg repeated, "the only one here for you to fend off is me." She walked out from behind the desk.
Fraser looked at the floor then swung back up to regard her warmly. "Shall I take you into custody, sir?"
She laughed, before it hit her. She was flirting with him. Not that that was anything new; she always flirted with Fraser. But... this wasn't Fraser. He wasn't real, not *her* Fraser. Her smile faded and she turned abruptly to stare out the window, feeling again the pangs of homesickness.
"Inspector?" he asked softly from behind her. She shivered lightly.
She turned to him impulsively, knowing that if she thought about what she was doing she wouldn't be doing it. "What would you say if I invited myself to your apartment for the night?"
"Well," he said lightly, "I would have to consider that a presumption on your part... but not an entirely unwelcome one."
She kept her eyes fixed on his. Not her Fraser, not even her own universe. No consequences, no hassle, no guilt. If she told herself that firmly enough she might even believe it.
--
The sound of Fraser shutting the door was louder than she'd expected. Meg jumped slightly, then turned to face him with a forced smile. "Well," she said.
"Well," he echoed awkwardly. They were silent for a moment. With a start, Fraser said hastily, "Where are my manners? Can I get you something? Juice, wine--?"
"Juice'll be fine," Meg said automatically.
Fraser nodded and started opening the door again. "I'll just, ah, get some--"
"Don't be silly," she said, more sharply than she'd intended. She softened her tone and asked, "What have you got?"
He scratched his ear. "Ah... Water, sir."
Water. Of course. She glanced at the floor briefly and turned to walk further into the room. "Well..."
"Would it be out of line to ask why you came back from Bermuda early?" Fraser asked, presumably to fill in the silence.
What was this fascination her counterparts had with Bermuda? Meg didn't look at him. "It's a long story," she hedged. When Fraser didn't answer, she turned around.
He was gone.
Meg looked around the empty apartment, mind blank. This... This, she had not anticipated. She wasn't sure whether to be relieved or disappointed that she'd shifted universes before sleeping with Fraser.
Well, she'd better get out of this apartment, before he came home for the evening - if it was even his apartment here. It would be just her luck to get caught in the home of some Italian mobster. She crossed hastily to the door.
It wouldn't open. "You have got to be kidding," Meg told it. It refused to answer. She tried it again, and toyed briefly with the idea of kicking it down.
No, probably not a good idea. She turned away, then caught sight of the window.
That could work. She walked over to it and gave it an experimental push. It opened noisily, but at least it opened. She climbed out, with a great many contortions, and made her way down the fire escape.
There was a loud shout from along the alley and she swore under her breath. She jumped the last tiny distance to the ground, stumbled slightly, and felt a pair of strong hands lift her up.
"Can I ask what you were doing on that fire escape?" a police officer with unfriendly eyes asked.
"Um, getting out of my apartment," she offered. "The door was stuck."
"That her," the shouter said loudly, reaching them. "I hear her in his apartment. Kicking the door, making noise. Burglar," he glared at her. "Then I come out here to call police and she climbing down fire escape. At first I thought she one of his girls," he confided to the police officer, "but he *never* leave anyone in his apartment alone."
Meg smiled weakly.
"Good thing I was in the area," the policeman said. "Lady, if you'd come this way. You picked the wrong apartment to break into today."
It had to be Fraser's. Only Fraser could manage to have half the neighbourhood guarding his apartment in one of the worst areas in town. Meg cursed under her breath and wondered how she was going to get out of this one.
She hadn't come up with anything by the time they reached the precinct. "Don't I get a phone call?" she demanded as the officer pushed her towards a cell.
"Sure, fine, one call," he groused. "Make it quick."
Meg dialled the Consulate gratefully, then cursed as the answering machine cheerfully asked her to leave a message so Inspector Thatcher could get back to her. She sighed. "Look, whoever gets this message, could you please come down to the 27th? And you can wipe that look off your face. Just get here quickly, and bring bail money."
She hung up with a glare at the officer. He took her arm and she jerked it free. "I can walk myself, thanks."
"Whatever. This way." He guided her none-too-gently along the hall, pausing in front of a cell. Meg regarded its inhabitants in dismay as he pulled out a key.
"Waitaminute," she said hastily, "you're not going to put me in *there*, are you? With *them*?"
"Oh no," he reassured her, "we've got a nice private suite for you just down the hall. Get in there," he growled, giving her a shove that almost sent her sprawling. She regained her balance as he locked the door again.
"I bet your parents were cousins!" Meg yelled after his retreating form, gripping the bars tightly. She let her head thump onto them with a sigh. "I've spent far too long in America."
"Well, now," a man drawled, laying a hand on her arm. He was dressed in what would, on anyone else, have been a stylish Gucci dress. "What's a honey like you doing in here with the likes of us, hmm?"
Meg turned her head to regard him icily. "If you don't get your hand off my arm, I'm going to break every bone in your puny little body."
"Oho, she's a feisty little thing," one of the other men crowed. "I hope you're planning to share, Pierre."
"I think there's plenty of her to go around." 'Pierre' stuck his face into Meg's, smiling coquettishly. "You want my dress? It's authentic polyester."
She wouldn't have wanted it even if it *had* been Gucci. Meg smiled politely. "Your hand's still on my arm."
"Yeah. It is. You got a problem with that?"
"I think I already told you that."
"Well, I wouldn't want to offend a lady. How's about I just move it over here-- Nyaggh!" he yelped as Meg grabbed his arm, flipped him onto his back, and stepped on his neck.
"I just love stilettos, don't you?" she cooed, bearing down on his throat. "Just think, if my foot had been an inch or two further in that direction, I could have pierced your neck. I guess this is your lucky day."
"Yeah," he choked as she released him, "swell day." He staggered to the other side of the cell, rubbing his neck.
Meg glanced around briefly. "Anyone else want a turn?" The offer was met by resounding silence, and she made her way to the bench. The man who'd spoken before moved aside for her. "Thank you kindly," she told him. "A little courtesy is all a woman wants."
"Courtesy," he muttered, watching her warily. "Right."
Meg leaned her head against the wall, closing her eyes. It was going to be a long wait.
--
"Maggie, Maggie, Maggie."
Meg's eyes flew open at the unwelcome voice. Kowalski stood on the other side of the bars, smirking at her. Christ, the last time she'd spoken to him a leather-clad Fraser had chained her to a desk and-- Okay, so it hadn't been entirely unprofitable. "What do you want, Detective?" she said bluntly.
He unlocked the cell and beckoned her towards him. Meg looked at him for a moment, then complied, enjoying the expression on his face as the various creeps in the cell backed away from her.
"Watch yourself, Detective," Pierre advised. "This one's got a foot like a ton of bricks."
"Really," Kowalski said, looking at her with interest. "Maybe she'll tell me about it over dinner?"
"Go to hell, Detective," she snapped, waiting for him to lock the door behind her. "Thanks for getting me out and all, but I can take it from here."
"Being a little hasty, don't you think, Maggie?"
"That's 'Inspector', and what the hell are you talking about?"
"Well," he drawled, "technically speaking I haven't actually got you out yet."
"Oh, come on," Meg objected, "you know I didn't break into that apartment, Detective."
"Well, I sure as hell don't remember inviting you in there."
She blinked at him in surprise. "What?"
"Nya, didn't think I'd checked whose apartment it was, did you? You see, Meggie, I heard you were in a little cell in my station and I thought it might be a good idea to get you out before you did some serious harm to the decor or something. So I do a little digging, trying to get the guy who owned the apartment to drop the charges - and imagine my surprise when it turns out it was *my* place you broke into." He smirked at her. "Funny, I didn't think they had panty raids in Canada."
Meg blushed furiously, but couldn't find an answer. This was bad. This was very bad. "You're not going to press charges, though. Are you?"
Kowalski's smile widened. "You raise a very interesting question, Maggie, to which the answer is: why don't we discuss it over dinner?"
"Why don't I break your arm?" she retorted.
"Now, Megster, you're not being very friendly. I got you out of that cell, didn't I?"
She sighed, finally realising that there was no way around this. Okay, no need to panic. It was just dinner. Dinner with *Kowalski*. She shuddered internally, and squared her shoulders. "Fine."
"Oh," he put his hand to his heart, "that was touching, Maggie. Just the tearful acceptance I was looking for."
"I'm happy for you," she said sweetly. God, it had to be the middle of the night by now. All she wanted to do was go to bed, safe and sound in her own universe, and dream about her own Fraser, and she was stuck having dinner with one of the most repulsive men she'd had the misfortune to meet. "Can we get this over with?"
"Sure, whatever. See you, Lieutenant," he called across the room. "Okay, Maggie, let's return to the scene of the crime." He held the door open for her and she walked through, seething.
--
Meg had come to the conclusion that she was, if not the most, at least one of the most unluckiest women of the face of the earth. Whichever Earth this happened to be.
The dinner with Kowalski seemed to drag on for an eternity. His eyes were constantly raking over her body, his voice filled with innuendo. Okay, it was flattering, but she was beginning to think it would have been a better idea to have stayed in the holding cell.
...Except that the next time the universe shifted she'd be stuck in there while the Chicago PD tried to figure out what to do with her, and by the time they'd got through the paperwork she'd have shifted universes again and the whole thing would begin *all over again*. In retrospect, putting up with Kowalski until she shifted would be better than spending the rest of her life in a holding cell in the 27th precinct.
Probably.
She was beginning to wonder. This man was Fraser's *partner*? Well, not in this universe, obviously. Because Fraser would certainly have taught him that this was *not*the*way*to*treat*a*lady* and if he didn't stop looking at her like that she was going to take her sharpest pair of stilettos and slice that--
With a slight sigh of regret Meg realised that her sharpest pair of stilettos were at home, in her own universe, and that being trapped in a holding cell for murdering a cop was going to be just as annoying as being trapped in a holding cell for breaking out of said cop's apartment.
"So, Maggie, you gonna tell me what you were... *doing* in here last night?"
She almost choked on the innuendo, tempted to plunge her fork into his eye. Instead she carefully put it down and retorted, "Well, whatever it was, I sure as hell wasn't thinking of *you* at the time."
"Yeah, I guess even perfection gets dull from time to time," he grinned.
"Go to hell," Meg snapped.
His grin faltered slightly. "Meg - not that I care or anything - but are you okay? Y'nno, your vocablary-- vocabulary's been a little limited this evening."
He actually sounded slightly worried. And he called her *Meg*, which he hadn't done before. She hesitated, wishing she knew a little more about whatever twisted relationship he seemed to have with this universe's version of herself.
Oh, hell, it couldn't hurt to try.
"Look," she began, putting her hands on the edge of the table, "this is going to sound very-- no, *extremely* strange, but I--" Actually it could hurt to try. She thought fast. "--don't actually know who you are. Back in the cell, I think," she gestured vaguely. "I don't know, I hit my head... I don't..." she trailed off, trying to judge his expression.
"So," Kowalski said slowly, "all those times you said you had a lot of work to do...?"
She feigned a nervous look. "I do have a job, don't I?"
His eyes narrowed slightly. "Okay, and you just call me 'Detective' because it sounds pretty." He grinned suddenly. "You're really unhinged, you know that, Maggie? Doesn't matter, I think your games are cute. How's the food?" he added, asking for the umpteenth time that evening.
"Delicious," she said sourly, pushing her chair back from the table and standing up. "Look, thanks for dinner and all, but I wasn't kidding when I said I have a lot of work to do and--"
Kowalski bounded after her and caught her before she reached the door. "Hey, Megster, you know I love it when you play hard to get, but you walk out that door and it's gonna be awful hard for me to 'get' *any*. And if you want me to drop those charges..."
Damn him. Meg looked wistfully at the door, wondering if she could make a break for it and hide from the police until the next shift. Assuming there *was* a next shift. It had been a while since the last one... The last thing she wanted was to become a wanted felon - a wanted *American* felon, for God's sake. If she had to be on the run she'd much rather do it in Canada.
"Muuuch better," Kowalski drawled. "So, Maggie honey, I bet you've had enough dinner now, huh?"
"You know, I'm suddenly remarkably hungry," Meg said, making for the table. Kowalski stopped her, eyes gleaming.
"Oh... so am I..."
This was a really really crappy universe, Meg decided. She'd have to remember to boycott it next time round. God...
*God*... the man could *kiss*! She let him push her back against the wall, suddenly uncaring as to how much of a pig this Kowalski was. No consequences, after all... mmm...
They were stumbling towards the bedroom, Meg remembering enough to put up at least a token fight - if not much more - and his attentions were leaving her definitely flustered. She'd never look at Kowalski the same way again - if she ever *looked* at him again. Not in the eyes, probably. She was about to sleep with her subordinate's American partner from an alternate universe. This was not a situation usually covered in RCMP training.
She landed on the bed with a thump, wincing slightly at Kowalski's weight on top of her. He shifted almost immediately, though - hell, he was almost being considerate. His fingers tugged impatiently at the buttons of her blouse, and she decided that now might be a good time to fumble with his belt. And keep kissing; kissing was important too.
Her blouse was fully unbuttoned; she could feel the air on her heated skin. She gasped in protest as Kowalski slid his talented mouth away from hers, then gasped for an entirely different reason as his tongue found her stomach. She arched towards his touch, incidentally giving him an opportunity to work her skirt off her hips. She wanted to moan something; she had no idea what to say.
The sensation of his mouth disappeared briefly as he finished tugging her skirt off, and she held in her frustration with the thought that it would return in a moment.
Where the hell was it? She sat up slightly and discovered a figure lying on the bed beside her, breathing rhythmically. The son-of-a-bitch had fallen asleep-- Oh god, it wasn't Kowalski.
She didn't want to look. This little jaunt through universe after universe could only get so bizarre, but that didn't mean she wanted to know exactly how bizare that was. She took a breath to brace herself.
Fraser. How... ironic? Appropriate? Meg was too tired to think about philosophy, not to mention frustrated. It had just been getting good, dammit-- Okay, so the whole thing had been good. God, she was ready to scream. She slid off the bed instead and started buttoning her blouse.
That was when she realised her skirt hadn't shifted universes with her.
Oh, god. You know, it was bad enough-- bad enough she had to be torn from her home and everything familiar, flung into a neverending ring of other universe, other lives. Bad enough every time she turned around it was to discover some other annoyance. Bad enough she'd actually considered sleeping with *Kowalski*-- but now she'd gone and lost her *fucking* skirt!
The harsh language - even if it was only in the silence of her mind - made Meg feel a little better. She bit her lip and looked at the sleeping figure in the bed, wondering what the hell to do now.
It basically came down to two things. If there'd been a Meg here already, then she was in the clear - if she could pull off the impersonation. But if there *hadn't* been anyone here with Fraser, she was screwed.
Actually she wasn't screwed, and that was half the problem. Kowalski certainly knew what he was doing, and her body was unwilling to give up on the hope that maybe someone would consider finishing the job, so to speak. And standing here wearing nothing more than a blouse and underwear, staring at a half-naked Fraser, was hardly helping matters.
--It occurred to her that he might be more than just half naked under that sheet. Oh, yeah, *that* image was helping. She shook her head fiercely.
She tried to think, but it was freezing in Fraser's apartment. Had the man not *heard* of central heating? Reluctantly she admitted that he probably preferred the cold. Dammit. Shivering, heart hammering nervously, she slid under the sheet - she would *not* think about being in bed with Fraser, she *wouldn't*. She would just get warm, so she could think.
Mmm... warm...
--
End part five
Continue with Alternate Thinking
Bermuda Triangle