Somedays    Somedays by Catalina Dudka

  

 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)