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tanyareed in fraser_thatcher

Rage, Chapter 5

Title: Rage
Pairing: Fraser/Thatcher
Rating: I'd say PG 13 for violence
Summary: What happens when a person who suppresses his emotions loses control?
Note: This is a multi-chapter story, with a sequel. It takes place between "Red, White, or Blue" and "Flashback".
Disclaimer: Due South belongs to Alliance.



For the first time, not wearing the uniform made him feel free. Constable Benton Fraser was so much of who he was that when he wasn't wearing the uniform, he usually felt incomplete. Now, he didn't want to be The Mountie, he wanted to be just Ben Fraser--a man trying to protect someone he cared about.

As he approached Glen Burrell's apartment, the scenes continued to torment him. He saw flesh hitting flesh, a delicate face etched in pain. The sounds filled his ears, loud and insistent. They blocked out the physical world around him, flooding him with anger. Clenching his fists, he fought to control it. He just wanted the pictures to stop.

Taking a deep breath, finally mastering himself, Ben knocked on the door. It was opened almost immediately by a tall, good looking man with a pleasant smile. Fraser was grateful for his training, it was all that kept him from busting in without finding out if he was in the right place.

"Mr. Glen Burrell?"

"Yes," the handsome man answered, the smile remaining on his face.

He looked so friendly, so benign. Ben could have trusted this man, he could have taken him for a friend. It wasn't right. Someone who hurt people shouldn't look so...so normal. "May I help you?"

Ben nodded politely, offering his hand. "My name is Benton Fraser. May I talk to you a moment?"

Glen shook it, then gestured for him to enter. "Certainly, come in."

Ben walked in casually, looking around the man's apartment. It was neat and nicely furnished, a touch Spartan but at the same time open and welcoming . There were pictures of children on the coffee table.

"I've wanted to talk to you for several days," Ben lied smoothly, forcing his own face to remain pleasant.

"Really?...Now that you mention it, your name sounds familiar. Do we have a mutual friend?"

"Yes, we do," Ben admitted, turning from him. "You have a nice apartment."

"Thank you. Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Fraser?"

Ben wasn't listening to him, he was watching the scenes in his head. Was she here? Is this where it happened--this seemingly benign and cheerful room? Was it that coffee table that she sliced her collarbone on? Had her face hit that wall? Rage, more rage than he had ever felt before stirred in his belly, releasing his tenuous grip on control. Once it ignited, it blazed outwards, quickly claiming his veins. From there, it raced through his entire body, enflaming him right to his core. This man had hurt Meg. His Meg. The woman whose greatest fear was loss of control or dignity. He had stolen both from her and given her bruises as some sort of trophy.

He had enjoyed mastering her, taking away everything she valued about herself. He had hurt her body, and something that would not heal as quickly--her soul. This man...This man... Fraser was shaking. He slowly looked down at his hands, releasing his remaining thread of control.

He will never hurt her again.

With this thought, he whirled and put his fist firmly in Glen's stomach. The man let out a satisfying grunt as Ben demanded, "So, you like to hit women, eh?"

Glen doubled over, and Fraser didn't give him the chance to straighten. He hit him again.

"How does it feel?"

Ben reveled in the feel of his knuckles striking the other man's cheek. Glen fell heavily, the look on his face one of surprise and fear.

"Who are you?"

"I told you. My name is Ben Fraser, and I don't like men who hit women."

Glen ducked Ben's next swing, rolling away from him on the rug.

"What are you talking about?"

His next punch didn't miss. It landed squarely in Burrell's eye, throwing him against the side of the coffee table. The pictures fell unnoticed to the floor.

"Meg Thatcher."

As the businessman tried unsteadily to rise, he asked, "Are you the reason she hasn't returned my calls? I thought there was someone else. Our last date ended..."

The rest of his sentence was cut off as his breath whooshed out of him in response to a boot to his diaphragm. Fraser grabbed a hold of his gasping body and dragged him to his feet. He shook him violently then pushed him onto the couch.

"Tell me what happened." Ben's voice was steel.

"What...what do you mean?"

"What did you do to her?"

"Nothing," Glen protested. "Did she tell you some bull story about me? I know our date was bad, but..."

Fraser reached forward and gripped the man's chin in his hand. He could feel the man's jaw through his fingers and wondered if it was possible to break it just by squeezing.

"Tell me."

"I never hit her."

Ben's eyes narrowed as he observed Glen's face. The man was lying. It was written there plainly. That lie made what he had done all the worse. To take away all that a person was and then lie about it...

With a swift flash of his fist, Glen's head lashed back. Blood, red as Ben's serge, poured from his nose, running down his face. Finally deciding to fight back, Glen rose and threw a punch of his own. Fraser ducked it easily, elbowing the man in the sensitive area below his ribs. The time for questions was over. As Glen doubled over, Ben used the same elbow on the side of his head.

"What's going on?"

The voice behind Benton startled him and allowed Glen to hit him with a tackle. The two of them fell to the floor, Burrell's blood dripping on Ben's face. They grappled for a moment, while Ben tried to ignore the figure of his father standing nearby.

"What are you doing, son?"

"Nice of you to drop by, Dad," Ben gasped, managing to throw Burrell off of him. When the millionaire tried to come back, he kicked him in the groin.

"Is this the man that..."

"Shut up," he told his father, getting to his knees. Glen was curled in a little ball, groaning. The blood flow from his nose was starting to slow.

Using a chair, Ben pulled himself to his feet. Shaking his head as if for clarity, he went over and kicked Glen in the ribs.

"I didn't teach you to kick a man when he's down. Honour, son, honour."

Glen grabbed Fraser's boot, trying to pull him down. Fraser tottered but didn't fall. As soon as he was sure of his footing, he kicked the man again, with his other foot.

"Get up!"

When he didn't, Ben took his arm and pulled him to his feet once more. Then, he hit him with his fist again, depositing him in the chair recently used for leverage.

"Stop it." Bob Fraser's voice was firm. "You'll kill him."

Fraser hissed. "So what if I do?"

"Are you prepared to live with the consequences?"

With a rough backhand, Ben gave Burrell's lip a cut to match his broken nose.

"He hurt her."

"I know that, son. He hurt her body. He hurt her pride. That's no excuse for murder."

"He deserves to pay."

Ben was standing over Glen, who was blinking blearily. He clenched and unclenched his hands several times, wondering if he would indeed kill this man.

"But vigilante justice?"

"The only justice. She will never report him. She's too ashamed. He knew that, damn him."

"It's still wrong, Benton."

Drawing in a shaking breath, Fraser softly asked, "What would you have done if it were Mom?"

The older Fraser frowned in puzzlement. "I don't see what that has to do with...Oh."

Ben saw the understanding come to his eyes. "Go away, Dad."

With a sigh, he nodded. "Understood."

Turning his attention back to Burrell, Ben noticed that the man had slipped into unconsciousness. Looking at him this way, the anger slowly started to drain from Ben. His father was right, this was wrong. But he was sure Glen Burrell would never hurt Meg again.

Taking several more deep breaths, Ben slowly pulled the tattered remains of his control inward. As they settled into place, his hands ceased their trembling and his face resumed its mask. The pictures continued to play in his head.

He walked unsteadily towards the door, noting for the first time the sting in his cheek. Burrell had managed to cut him slightly as they grappled on the floor.

Ray was waiting for him in the hallway. Somehow, Ben knew he would be, though why this was so he couldn't say.

"Are you all right, Benny? What happened?"

"I'm perfectly fine, Ray. Have you found the prostitute's killer?"

"Not yet. I was waiting for you."

"Then let's head back to the station, shall we?"

Ray said something in the affirmative, but Fraser wasn't sure what. He headed to the Riv, lost in his thoughts, and so he didn't realize his face was full of blood or notice Ray go forward to look wide-eyed into Glen Burrell's apartment.

XXX

Meg sat huddled at the end of her couch. Slowly, she sipped her tea--boiled, not steeped, just the way her mom used to make it--trying not to look at the room around her. She should have stayed at work. At least there, the furniture didn't mock her and remind her of remembered pain. She could not look at her coffee table without thinking of the way it bit into her flesh. Just the sight of the entertainment centre seemed to make her shoulder throb.

Her hands tightened on her cup. The voice in her head began chiding her again, and Meg closed her eyes. That only seemed to make things worse. In her mind, she could see him looming over her, his face completely changed by drink.

"A bath," she told herself softly, "A nice hot bath will make you feel better."

She got up slowly, because her body still ached, and placed her cup on the floor. Meg refused to touch the coffee table.

Moving to the back of the apartment, the band around her chest seemed to loosen slightly. He had never been this far. It became almost easy to breathe, and Meg gave a sigh of relief as she dug in her drawers for some comfortable clothes. Finding these, and a towel and facecloth, Meg moved to the bathroom just down the hall. She closed the door firmly, a knot suddenly forming in her stomach. Just when she had been starting to unclench--it couldn't be called relaxing because she found it impossible to relax--she remembered the mirror.

Meg had always loved the floor length mirror that came with her apartment. It allowed her to model new outfits and admire all parts of a male companion's form--in the rare times she actually had one with her in the bathroom--but now it seemed like a device set there to torture her. She hadn't been brave enough to look in it yet, knowing what she would see there. Tonight, though, tonight she would force herself to do it.

"You have to face this sometime," she whispered, ignoring the voice that was telling her what a wimp she was.

Meg turned and faced the mirror, then slowly and deliberately began to undress. She winced as the first bruise at her collarbone was uncovered but kept on, purposefully undoing the rest of the buttons on her shirt. She bit her lip as the fabric slid away, revealing her mottled skin. She examined it closely, noting the purple, black, blue, and yellow marks. There were so many.

Gently, she touched the tender spot where her ribs joined.

"Look what he did to you."

The rest of the clothes came off more easily, though what was uncovered was no more pleasant. Again the impotent anger burned inside of her and her eyes began to sting. She refused to cry.

Once naked, her brown eyes took in the whole of her body, investigating every bruise as if it were an important clue in a case. Some of them were fading. Some were mingled with cuts and scratches. Some looked like her skin could never possibly turn white again.

What a fright you are, the voice said, and she wondered idly if it was Henri Cloutier speaking to her from so far away. She realized that that's who the voice sounded like--the voice that haunted her every minute of the day, pointing out her weakness.

Meg reached nearby to the small shelf that held her hairbrush. She picked it up, feeling her hands began to tremble once more. Letting the anger come, she felt it well up, burning through her limbs. She lashed out violently, her hairbrush smashing into the glass of the mirror. Three times, she pounded, ignoring the shards of glass that pierced her skin.

"You make me sick," she hissed. "I never want to see you again!"

The mirror destroyed, Meg backed away, sitting on the floor by the tub. Like a turtle going into its shell, she pulled herself into a tight little ball, forgetting all about her bath.
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Comments

*sits and waits for more*.... *looks at watch* Don't worry... I won't time you or anything.. ;P

Sooo good. Soo sad, but soo good. And *cheers* that there's more. Woot!
mountie love

October 2015

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