I'mLearning     
Warnings: This is a short fic of what may have gone on in Fraser's mind
after the "bluff" with Ladyshoes at the end of Odds. If you don't believe
there is more to Fraser than his goodness, or you were really upset by
that, you will not like this -- so please Go Away from this now. 

Disclaimers: Alliance Communications Inc. owns Due South and the
characters of Constable Fraser, Ray Kowalski, Ray Vecchio, and Denny
Scarpa. Warner Brothers US owns the character of Rick Blaine and the film
Casablanca. No copyright infringement is intended nor is this for
commercial use. 
  

I'm Learning 

As loathsome as it was, as utterly unchivalrous and un-Mountie-like as it
was, I could not stop myself from doing it. 

It was a terrible thing to do. I should be pitched off a four story
building myself for having done it. 

But of course, no one will do that. I'm Constable Benton Fraser, a Dudley
Do-right to most people. They can not conceive of me even being capable of
such capricious cruelty. 

Neither could I, before tonight. 

I wonder if Ray knew... what he would think. He would probably tell me
"It's not a big deal, Frase, it happens." As his fits of anger -- summer
storms, they seem to me, intense but brief -- sometimes get the better of
him. Punched walls. Roughed up suspects. Even punching your partner and
friend. "It happens." 

But it doesn't happen to me. 

Or so I thought. 

And Ray doesn't know I held Denny Scarpa's hand as she dangled four
stories above a very hard, poured-concrete sidewalk... 

And let it go. 

Oh, I knew I would catch her hand with my other hand. There was never any
doubt in my mind. 

What I wanted was to see the doubt in her mind. On her face. On that
perfect, symmetrical, smooth, seductive face. 

I'm so ashamed. It came over me in such a flash. That calculating look in
her eye, even as her life dangled almost literally by a thread-- 

It so angered me, I pretended I would let her go. Drop her four stories to
what would have been a very messy, and probably not immediate -- possibly
a prolonged -- death. And very ugly. The skull, the cranium, can not
withstand such an impact. So much for her perfect face. 

And the worst of it all is... the most horrible thing... the most
detestable aspect of it, of me, is... 

I enjoyed that look of sheer terror that came to her face. I distinctly
remember a feeling of warmth burning slowly up from my stomach to my
heart... spreading across my chest with satisfaction. It was physical
pleasure I felt, not just emotional. 

I'm not even worthy of the Serge anymore. My God, how could I have done
it? In all my previous cases, on the trail of my father's killers, I never
abused my power over a criminal. I even protected Gerrard, much though it
sickened me to do so. 

Why her? Why Ladyshoes? 

Oh, it's all so obvious now. Of course it is. 

But at the time, I could only think of showing her, in the most brutal and
unsubtle way, that I was no fool. That, for once, I was not duped. That,
for once, such an attractive and alluring woman had no hope of deceiving
me about her true motives. I had to prove it in the most corrupt, vile way
possible. 

But what does that mean to her? She's doubtless encountered many men who
were quickly wise to her deceptions, in her line of "work". She's a liar,
an easy liar. It is probably all she knows how to do, and so ingrained in
her that my watershed moment wouldn't change her in the slightest. It will
just make her realize she miscalculated on this one -- make her wary of
seemingly naive, innocent, Good-Samaritan-like men she may encounter in
the future. It won't have taught her any lesson but that. 

And that's just another terrible fruit borne of my lack of self-control.
In the future, this woman (who doubtless will need compassion and
assistance when she is released from prison) may encounter a seemingly
good man. And then she'll think of me. And think that, really, underneath,
he's not a good man, after all. 

As I am not. 

But the true meaning that moment had for me, Denny will never know. I
wouldn't tell her if she wanted to know, though she might easily guess the
general thrust of it. 

I wonder if Ray -- or Ray -- would figure it out as easily as she might?
Probably not. 

It sounds so trite. There should be someone here like Rick Blaine from
that film classic, Casablanca. As when he -- Rick -- dismisses Ilsa's
tragic explanation of how she came to betray him with his cynical
response. "I heard a story once too. It went along with the sound of a
tinny piano playing downstairs in the parlour... 'Mister, I met a man...'
" 

But there it is. 

I met a woman. 

She all but destroyed me. 

I would have thrown away everything -- my dignity, my reputation, the
honor of being a Mountie, my friendship with Ray which I was so
pathetically grateful to have, yet paradoxically so pathetically ready to
forsake for... for what? "Love"? Is that what it was? 

I don't know anymore. 

All I do know is that Victoria marked me. Changed my life. Apparently much
more for the worse than even I knew, until now. Not that it wasn't bad
enough that I could hardly bring myself to discuss her -- it -- the whole
situation -- with Ray afterward. I couldn't face it. I, Benton Fraser, was
too much of a coward to discuss with Ray what I would have let happen to
him -- all for the love of a woman. In a thousand ways since then, I've
tried to make it up to him, praying that he would see it for what it was:
my penance. 

All for the love of a woman. 

Surely, though, that's nothing Denny Scarpa is capable of feeling: love. 

But how would I know? How, really, would I know? I'm about as experienced
with love as a colt on new legs is experienced at walking. When I'm not
running, I fall all too easily. There are only two ways to go about it --
get close, or run away. Surely I can't be blamed, after what I went
through with Victoria, for always opting for the latter. 

Besides, if Denny Scarpa could feel love... it could only be in the most
self-serving way. Of that I am certain. 

But I am just making excuses for myself. Rationalizing. Justifying and
rationalizing that for which there is no rationale, no justification. 

I let my emotions completely control my behavior. That is what I did. Even
though I know better. I've spent my entire adult life helping to weed such
people out of the general society, for the good of all the others... only
to find such a person in myself. 

I am utterly despicable. Unworthy of redemption. To have stooped so low...
to have sunk to that level... What made me do it? Why couldn't I stop? 

It was in her face. Not just that look of terror. 

But that sudden, gut-wrenching expression of need, life-and-death need.
She needed me, desperately. Not for the reasons I might have needed
Victoria, but with the same intensity and fear for her life. 

For once, I got to see that naked fear and need on someone else's face,
instead of trying to hide it on my own. 

And it pleased me to cause her fear. It pleased me. Beyond reason. In a
deep, dark, sick part of myself, it pleased me. 

Though it sickens me -- I sicken myself -- now. 

Mother, it is good you died. I never thought I would say that or think it.


But this is not the boy you meant to raise, of that I am sure. You would
not want to see what he has become. Something happened between the time
when I was your little boy and now... Well, many things happened. I didn't
think they'd changed me that much. I didn't even think they had really
touched me that much. 

Yet I am not the man I wanted to be. Or you would have wanted me to be. Or
Dad would have wanted me to be. 

A man, a real man, a whole man, does not need to affect the lives of those
around him for the way it makes him feel inside. Does not need to impress
upon others how great his power over their lives is. 

Only a very small man needs to do that. 

I am not sure how I could be so much more stunted than I had thought. 

I will have to backtrack over many things to figure this out. Do what must
be done to purge this loathsome aspect of my self. If it can be purged. 

Mother, for once, I pray you can not see me now from where you are. 

It seems such a little thing -- so minor -- if one says, "it was a bluff".


Yes, it was a bluff. But a life and death bluff. 

"I thought you said you didn't bluff," she gasped, after I had released
her hand with one hand and then swiftly grabbed it with the other. Just
enough of a jerk and a drop to bring her stomach, her heart, into her
throat. That roller coaster feeling when the bottom drops out. Except this
roller coaster was a sheer drop of four floors, with no safety belt, no
tracks under her, no net. Nothing but air and the hand of a conflicted man
holding her up. A hand that could no longer be trusted to continue to
support her. 

"I'm learning." 

How do I unlearn? 
  
  
  
  

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