Title: Ride Forever
Fandom: Due South
Characters: Buck Frobisher, Bob Fraser
Rating: G
Word Count:800
Summary: Buck goes on a journey

AN #1 : In memory of the late, beloved Leslie Nielson.
AN #2 :For tagging purposes: written in less than an hour. (49 minutes.)Can't believe I hit a round number! And it took nearly as long to post it correctly as it did to write. D'oh!
AN#3 Written for the 'Old Friends' challenge.

You never want to look weak, not to your children, so Buck didn't call Julia. He was expecting to get better, after all, and she was busy being a mother herself. Patty had hit those teenage years, struggling with exams, and boys, and expectations. Experimenting with hair, and makeup. For a while, her hair had been pink. Now, she was a goth. Buck smiled, despite everything, remembering his reaction when he saw his granddaughter last. Pink hair he had been prepared for. Patty walking in looking like the undead, however, had come as a bit of a shock. She had enjoyed his reaction, though, which he had played up for comedy value. Most people would be offended to be called a 'zombie.' She had a badge made.

Oh, damn. It hurt to laugh. He put his hand to his chest, tried to take a breath, and remembered. That long evening reassuring Julia that Patty would 'straighten out.' "All kids rebel," he had told her. "I never did," she replied. He'd sighed, and said, "yes, I know." "You sound sorry," "Well, you probably missed out on some fun." Good Lord, even Bob's dear boy, Benton, had rebelled. Buck remembered the manhunt that he and Bob had gone on, the second time his friend's son went missing. That boy was a magnet for trouble, even then. All things considered, he was glad that Julia hadn't got her man. Benton would have been a good son-in-law, but he wouldn't have been happy.

Yes, he should phone Julia. He would be grateful for a loving face, a friendly face right now. Even his gothicised granddaughter. She was still his princess underneath all that makeup.

To be honest, he didn't feel like he had quite the energy to talk on the phone right now. He really didn't think he could get out of bed. What had started as a cold had sunk, with alarming rapidity, into his chest. Now he felt... both burning, and damp in his lungs. Wet face, as though he'd been running, although he was beginning to suspect he would never run again. Each breath made a crackling sound, like leaves on a bonfire, but he was soggy with it. Sodden smoke. He wondered if this was what it felt like to drown, or to choke to death in a burning building.

Ah, damn. It was getting harder to breathe.

He tried to roll on the bed, reached out for the phone, and dropped his hand. He could wait another few hours. Martha was coming around later today, she could phone for him. He wanted to sleep. Maybe he would feel better when he woke up.

He dreamt of snow. The cold burned his chest with each inhalation, and the burning pain blew out as steam into the air like smoke. But the cold was good. It brought down the heat in his face. He tried to stoop, to take a handful of white into his hand so that he could sip it, soothe his dry mouth, but dreams bring their own paralysis. He couldn't even stick out his tongue for a flake to quench his thirst. He simply stood, as though waiting for someone.

He waited in the cold, and rattled and crackled with each breath, waiting for release.
A long way distant, he saw two horses. A fleck of red, riding the back of one of them. He stood, feeling like a young man again, standing guard. He couldn't glance down at himself, but he knew, intuitively, that he too was wearing the red serge. He could feel the stetson on his head. He stood straighter. This was not the uniform for the weather, but he didn't feel cold, or hot, or any discomfort anymore. Blessed cool. His breathing no longer hurt.

Finally horse and rider came to a halt in front of him, the second, riderless horse stamping his feet, and tossing his mane.

"Buck," Bob said. He was smiling, his chestnut hair curling, slightly longer than regulation length, his breath silvering against the sky. "Time to go."

Buck smiled, put his foot in the stirrup, and sprang back onto his old, dear horse. He hadn't realised, over the years, how many aches and pains had crept upon him. Now that they were shed away he realised that he had never, perhaps, felt as young as he did today. His hand, as he stroked the glossy mane was smooth. No liver spots.

"Where are we going?"

Bob grinned, all blue-eyed mischief, and kicked his feet against his horse's side, springing away across the snow. Buck flicked the reigns, leant forward, and chased him. "Come and see," Bob laughed over his shoulder.

Buck saw, and smiled.