Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain

by Tanya Reed

Here is the last bit that takes place in the past. In the next chapter we'll be brought back to the present.

Disclaimer: Due South is still not mine.

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June 7, 1917

Margaret Yonge sat at her kitchen window, staring out into the darkness. Her heart felt like lead. She was so tired. It had been ages since she had been able to sleep, but the weariness in her came from something else. Loneliness, possibly. Pain, probably.She knew how she looked. Every day, her mother told her, "Margaret, you're not eating,"; "Margaret, the bags under your eyes are big enough to use as luggage." The comments made her want to scream and stamp her feet in temper like a child. No one seemed to understand.

If she closed her eyes, she could see him. He looked as he had when he left. His curly brown hair had been clipped short, and that uniform they gave him fit like a glove. Benton had been smiling, Margaret remembered. His smile was a rare and beautiful thing. Just thinking of it made her heart beat faster.His eyes had looked at her adoringly. Maybe that's why she loved his eyes so much, they always looked at her with such love. Her mother had warned her not to marry Benton, but she couldn't say no to those eyes.

Then, six months later, he was gone.

She had not cried when he got on the train. Instead, she remembered the taste of his last kiss and the way he said, 'Don't worry. There's nothing that will stop me from coming home to you.' Knowing he believed this, Margaret had forced herself to smile. Her last glimpse of Benton had been him saluting from the train window. She had saluted back.

A year had gone by. It was a hard year. She missed Benton with a passion her mother said bordered on obsession. Margaret didn't care. She wrote him faithfully twice a week, and his occasional letters home--filled with the 'I love yous' he rarely said in person--were enough to keep her going. Then--six months ago--the letters had stopped.

She had waited eagerly for the postman, meeting him on the street every day, but time had dragged on without a letter. When a letter did finally come, it had almost stopped her heart.

Margaret looked down at the crumpled paper in her hand. Every night, she sat at this window reading the letter then crumpling it. Somehow, she could never bring herself to throw it away. Burning it might have been cathartic, but she was always stopped short by her last memory of Benton. This letter was a piece of him.

She remembered the way it felt the first time she read the letter: missing in action, presumed dead. At first, there was an otherworldly feeling. It wasn't her Benton who was lost--dead?--out there. It was someone else's. Her mother had come to her, taking the letter out of her numb hands. She herself read it and then she spoke. Margaret hated her for speaking. It was a dark, burning hate that was fed every night by the rereading of the letter. If her mother hadn't spoken, it wouldn't have become real. Margaret knew this was foolish, but she had to hate something. Besides her mother, the only thing there was to hate was Canada, and Margaret couldn't do that. Benton had loved his country too much.

After the disbelief had come the pain. It was ripping, tearing pain and tears refused to come to soothe it. Margaret discovered that she had lost the ability to cry. In its place was this heavy feeling that settled on her chest like a weight. It was hard to breathe, hard to talk, hard to function with the weight pressing down and down. The only thing she seemed able to do was sit in front of this damned window and relive their last day together. One of these days, the memories were going to suffocate her. This she believed with what was left of her heart.

Margaret's attention was called from her memories by the movement of the dog at her feet. She looked down and almost smiled. It seemed like Bug's was the only company she could bear these days. He was Benton's dog and had never taken to anyone else--until her. Benton had tried to tell her that that was how he knew she was the one he was meant to be with.

"I guess it's just the two of us, hey, Bug?"

The dog whined, getting to his feet. Margaret scratched him behind the ears, thankful for the slight lull in her grief that he brought. His ears and tail both perked up.

"You seem lively tonight, old friend. What is it?"

The dog almost danced as he looked at her with intelligent, eager eyes.

"Oh no. It's too late to play tonight. We'll wake Mother, and you know how she is..."

Margaret trailed off as a sound from the front door came to her. Fear tightened her stomach, and her hand stilled in Bug's hair. The sound came again--a banging. It was faint at first, and then louder.

Bug went forward carefully, inching towards the door.

"Is someone there?" Margaret's voice came out in a whisper. She cleared her throat and tried again. "Who's there?"

Had she locked the door?

Clenching her jaw in an effort to fight fear, she moved towards the sound.

"Hello?"

Margaret almost screamed as the door opened. She gripped the windowsill. Her knuckles turned white as she prepared to give Bug an order. The order never came.

"Meggie?"

Her mouth fell open, but nothing came out. Quickly, she scanned the person in front of her. Green hat, blue eyes, strong jaw, green jacket, wooden cane, black boots. In disbelief, her eyes went over him again, hungrily taking in every inch of him.

She finally found her voice. "B...Benton?"

"I hope so, or Bug's not doing his job." Then he smiled.

Margaret's stomach felt like it did three turns before coming to rest somewhere around her collarbone. Shaking began at her toes and wound its way up her body.

"But...But..."

"I told you I'd come home. Have I ever lied to you?"

"They said..."

He slowly came forward, limping slightly. Raising a hand, he stroked Margaret's face. His eyes seemed to be drinking in her features.

"I could never leave you, Meggie."

She let out a heart wrenching moan and threw her arms around him. He was solid. Margaret could feel him through his uniform. He felt thinner but he was so real. None of her dreams had been this real.

Margaret continued to shake. Benton's arms tightened, and he made soothing sounds in her hair. Her body relaxed for the first time since Benton had left almost two years before. With the relaxation, the wall she had built up for protection came crashing down.

Softly, Margaret began to cry.