Fandom: Due South
Summary: Sequel to A Better Man.
Sequel to: A Better Man
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.
Packing the last of these material belongings. Hammering the final nails into the slats that will turn this cabin into a silent tomb. Nothing but memories will remain, and those scant and chilly.
The last home of real warmth I can recall was the one my mother made. She kept it warm with her loving presence.
Gran and Grandpa saved my life, gave me a home . . . well, homes. They gave me the strength I would need to survive. Instilled the love of knowledge. Fanned the devotion to duty. Cultivated the worship of justice. And, I know, they loved me . . . in their fashion. But it was a chilly love, tasking and demanding. I struggled to meet with their expectations.
Still do.
My mother’s love had been unconditional. She delighted in who I was; everything I did was just right for her. Her love had been the one and only warmth in my life. Until that other time, once in a lonely mountain crag, when another woman’s warmth saved my life.
This is all irrelevant. All of them are gone now. One way or another. It’s only me . . . and Dief. And exile.
This Chicago. How am I going to live there? How can I give up all that I know? But the alternative — the only one I can see — would be to leave the force and that is simply not a consideration. The RCMP is all that I have left. The last tie to my identity and to my father.
Dad.
I sent the trunk ahead. Everything I have left of you . . . of Mom . . . of our small . . . dwindling . . . almost extinct family.
Your journals. They’re in there too. Except for the one in my coat pocket. I’ll read that on the trip.
Do you realize, Dad, that’s the most you’ve ever talked to me in my life? Reading one of your journals is like having the conversations I dreamt of every day of my childhood . . . every day of my life . . . older I merely admitted it less often.
Your rifle. My gun. What do I do with these?
I won’t have a permit in the States. Don’t want to apply for one either. Not after . . .
Oh, Dad.
Do you realize how close I came?
It scares me how much I wanted to pull the trigger. I don’t know how I found the strength to stop myself. I don’t know where. Maybe it was from you.
I won’t give in again. Not to that kind of rage. Maybe this Chicago will be good for me. Maybe I’ll be better off without my gun.
What if I had killed him?
If I had given in, would you have been ashamed? I think you would.
Or did you want revenge?
Did I fail you? Should I have shot him?
The ghost of Hamlet’s father egged him on. Pushed him to the edge of action. Murder. Retribution.
But you upheld the law your whole life. Even died for it.
I don’t believe what Gerrard said . . . about the money. I don’t believe that account was really yours.
I’m sorry I let myself doubt you when he told me . . . even for a few hours. Gerrard was smart about that. It worked long enough for him to escape alive. The doubt. The fear that you would have betrayed your life. . . and mine. . . and Mom.
I’m sorry for those few hours. I know that money wasn’t yours. It couldn’t have been. Because then I would have lost you more completely than to death.
There, it’s done. Nothing more left to pack, or close or carry.
Oh, Dief. Do you have to be such a baby? You don’t see me complaining about my arm, do you?
All right. I’ll carry you out to the sled.
I did thank you for saving my life again, didn’t I? All right, okay, I guess a little babying won’t hurt.
Ah, Benton.
I wish you hadn’t boarded up the windows. I miss the air and light.
I guess it’s only fitting since I left you alone so much of your life. How did you find your air and light?
I’m glad you didn’t shoot Gerrard . . . at least I think I am. Much as I want him dead, I’m glad my son isn’t a killer . . . like his father.
I’m sorry I’m not the man you think I am. At least, I wasn’t. Maybe I can be now. I’m not sure. I don’t know how this death thing works. Maybe there’s a chance for repair work. Maybe not.
I guess I’ll give it a go. Don’t seem to have much choice.
Wish you’d left the windows open.
I guess you’re not to be blamed, though.
You can’t know that I’ve decided to stay up here awhile. Just for awhile, son.
Until I get my bearings.
I’ll look for you soon. I promise.
I’ll try to be there if you need me.
Just not ready to leave right now.
Okay, Dief. I’ll be right out. You don’t have to whine.
That’s it, then.
The jacket, journal in pocket.
The guns.
One last look around.
Goodbye to the past.
Goodbye, Dad.
Goodbye, Son.
The End
