This story is written for the private entertainment of fans. No infringement of any copyrights held by Due South c/o Alliance is intended. This story is not published for profit, and the author does not give permission for this story to be reproduced for profit. The author makes no claims on the characters or their portrayal by the creation of this story.

Rated G - m/f - Romance

Somedays...
(by Catalina Dudka - Copyright 1997)

Somedays all I want to do is kill him. Well, not literally ... not really. I'd settle for hurting him, just a little bit, just to see whether he is human after all. As if that would make it alright. If anything, affirming his humanity would make things worse. It's so much easier to keep him at arm's length while pretending he is 'perfect', while thinking of him as the epitome of honour. That's a hell of a lot easier than admitting to myself he feels, he hurts, he dreams. Oh, let's not go there. I certainly do not want to even imagine what he dreams of ... late at night ... when he's alone
... in his bed.

Sometimes I wish it was only his looks that affected me. It would be so much simpler. I could use excuses like, "It's my hormones." or "Damn biological clock!". But, no, he also turns out to be kind, honest, sincere, caring ... probably the last honourable man on Earth. No, that's unfair, there are many honourable men, but none of them work here.

He does.

Somehow I have to deal with this, with him. I can't spend every night rehashing the day, recalling his every appearance in my office with a report or duty roster in hand, with that particular serenity in his eyes. And at times, that particular hunger. I try my best to discourage him. Even if the hunger I see is only in my fevered imagination, I push him away. Hell, I shove him and slam the door in his face, when all I want to do is ... NO! That's not permissible. I will not think of him in any non-professional manner.

I will not wonder what he had for supper. I will not ponder on his nightly reading habits. I will not imagine what he may or may not wear to sleep. I will not hope for his hands to ease away my fear. I will not dream of what his mouth tastes like ...

... like heat, and sun, and home, and strength, and forever, and alive ... there in my arms ...

Somedays I wish I could hurt him ... just a little bit ... enough so that he would hurt me back ... and I'd know I was human still.

The End
Cat (cdudka@direct.ca)