Fandom: Due South
Summary: A Mountie, a gun, a few serious thoughts.
Spoilers: Due South, the Pilot Movie
Author’s Note: This was triggered by the RSY onlist discussion about the differences between the Fraser in the pilot and in the series and why Fraser didn’t get a permit for his gun in the US. Also, a bit of inspiration came from Janice R. Sager’s heartbreaking poem, The Pain Never Stops. Though these listsibs can in no way be held accountable for what I chose to do with this. It’s just one take on the subject. Thanks: As always to Marilea for the beta read.
I held the gun to his face. How could my hand be so steady when my soul was shaking apart? I could feel shards of myself falling away. I could kill him. I could do this. Here, now, in this moment . . . he would die.
He deserved to die. This would be justice.
Not the law, some tiny voice argued . . . But justice, I answered back.
You mean revenge.
No!
The son-of-a-bitch deserved this.
The bastard killed my father. His friend.
“He was your friend,” I say out loud. Did I shout it? Scream? Maybe whisper? I can’t tell. The words are lost in the roar — not of wind, but of rage.
My . . . rage . . .
I’ve never given in before.
Not to rage.
Not since . . . Not since I was a boy.
I see my son, gun pointed at the son-of-a-bitch Gerrard.
Good, I think. You got the bastard.
“He was your friend, you son-of-a-bitch,” he says.
Go ahead, son. Pull the trigger. Nail the treacherous, murdering bastard. He betrayed me, betrayed the force.
He doesn’t deserve to wear the uniform, doesn’t deserve to live. What he did was beyond disgrace. It was a total corruption, a perversion of all that we stood for, all that we believed — at least all I believed.
Look at him, standing there poisoning your mind. Trying to fling his dirt onto me. Telling you I was corrupt when it was him. It was always him.
The worst of it was that I trusted him, trusted him for years. Took him into our home. Encouraged you to look up to him. I let him befriend you, son.
It was all a lie. He was a lie from beginning to end.
Pull the trigger, Ben.
End the man.
Avenge my death . . . your father’s death.
Pull the trigger, Ben . . . now.
Now . . .
Be like me.
Do what I did.
Avenge . . .
You let the gun drop down . . . unfired.
Thank God, Ben.
You didn’t listen to me.
Maybe it’s better that you can’t hear me, can’t see me, after all.
I can’t believe the relief that floods through me. You’d think that being dead I’d be immune to “feelings.” No such luck, son.
But right now I’m glad that I can feel this. I’m glad.
You’re a better man than I.
I let the gun drop to my side . . . unfired.
I’m sorry, Dad. I’m sorry.
The End
