update: Not the Same (WW)
Jul. 15th, 2005 12:56 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
visionshadows
Written for the ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
freeversefic challenge. Huge thanks to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
dayse, tigs, and fayemeadows for beta work. They are wonderful gals. :) The story is available on my site [here] as well.
Not the Same
Wilby Wonderful; Duck, Buddy (GEN); Pre-movie, no spoilers.
“Bet you missed having a MacDonald sitting at your bar,” Duck slurred, swaying a bit. “We’re good at giving away our paychecks. Guess I should work on getting a paycheck again.”
What would your heart be
if our chests were open
and sky were water?
How would we
find our way home?
Duck MacDonald returned to Wilby on a Tuesday sometime after dinner. He wasn’t quite sure of the time, just that he was tired, he’d been wearing the same rumpled suit for three days, and he really needed a drink.
The Loyalist was the same as it had been when he was 18 and left Wilby for university. His father had bought him a beer and said that a young man like himself needed to be careful in the big city. Duck had nodded and drank the beer, accepting that was his father’s way of saying he knew, he understood, and he wanted him to be happy.
Duck was 32 now and his father was long gone so he sat down at one of the stools and ordered a shot of whiskey and a beer chaser by himself. He kept his shoulders hunched over as he drank, his eyes focused on the splotch of blue paint on the inside of his left wrist.
He finished the first beer and ordered another along with a cheeseburger. He drank the beer and ignored the burger, emptying his glass and getting a refill. His eyes started to blur as he swiped his fries through a puddle of ketchup on the plate and he squeezed them shut tightly.
Duck had cried enough over the past week, the past month, hell the past fucking year, for the rest of his life. He was not going to break down in tears in the middle of the Loyalist. He was stronger than that.
Duck pushed himself up, leaning on the bar heavily to keep from falling over. The bartender – a man named Rusty that Duck was pretty sure he’d sucked off at the Watch when he was 17 and Rusty was in his mid-30s – eyed him for a moment before wiping off another glass.
“You driving, Duck?”
Duck looked at him and shook his head. “Nah. Fucking car is almost out of gas anyway. I’ll get it tomorrow.”
Rusty set the glass on the bar and continued to look at him skeptically. “You want me to call your mother? She knows the way.”
“Bet you missed having a MacDonald sitting at your bar,” Duck slurred, swaying a bit. “We’re good at giving away our paychecks. Guess I should work on getting a paycheck again.”
Rusty just grunted and went back to the stack of glasses that needed to be wiped down. “Suit yourself, Duck. Just don’t get behind the wheel.”
“Whose gonna stop me? *Stan*?”
“I will.” Duck turned to the voice, swaying a little. He squinted and his eyes managed to focus on Buddy French wearing a cop’s uniform and looking serious. “C’mon, Duck. I’ll give you a ride home.”
Duck nodded a little, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. He tried to light it, his hands shaking. Buddy reached out with his lighter and Duck stared at it for a long time before leaning in. He kept leaning forward until Buddy put a hand on his shoulder.
“Careful there, Duck. I’m sure Rusty doesn’t want to be cleaning you up off his floor,” Buddy said with a hint of a smile in his voice. “You need anything from your car?”
Duck shook his head, looking at his lit cigarette and Buddy’s hand on his shoulder. “Why are you touching me?”
“Because I don’t want you to fall on your face before I get you home,” Buddy said simply. He shoved his hands in his pockets, searching for his keys. “Your mother’s expecting you.”
Duck leaned against the side of the police car, looking up at the sky. Buddy smoked his own cigarette and waited patiently for Duck. So unlike the old Buddy, Duck thought as he stared at the stars. When they were kids, Buddy couldn’t sit still.
“You can’t see the stars in Toronto,” Duck said after a few more minutes. “Too many buildings, too much light.”
Buddy moved to lean against the car as well, looking up at the sky. He lit another cigarette for himself and another for Duck as well whose fingers still weren’t working with the lighter.
“How did you know I was at The Loyalist?” asked Duck softly.
“Your mother called me. Said you’d be in sometime in the next couple of days. To keep an eye out for a car with Ontario tags.” Buddy flicked ash off his cigarette. “I told her I’d bring you home safe.”
“You’re going to drive me back to Toronto?” Duck asked humorlessly.
“Nope,” Buddy said, pushing away from the car. “But I’ll take you back to her.”
Duck finally looked away from the stars and at Buddy again. “Did you do this for my father too?”
“Sometimes,” Buddy admitted. “Most of the time your mother came to get him. She doesn’t like to drive at night now. I think her eyes are starting to go.”
“I’m not my father,” Duck said a little hollowly. “I’m not.”
Buddy put his hand on Duck’s shoulder again, guiding him into the passenger seat. He knelt down to look at Duck, his expression sympathetic. Duck looked away, feeling sick. Buddy just squeezed Duck’s knee once before getting up and shutting the door behind him.
“I can’t go there yet. Do you have to take me right home?”
“No,” Buddy said softly. “Where do you want to go?”
“Are people still getting up to no good at the Watch?” Duck pressed his forehead against the window.
“Most nights,” Buddy said as he started the car. “That where you want to go?”
“I want to see the water,” Duck said softly. “The waves against the rocks. I haven’t seen it in years.”
Buddy's hand was firm on Duck's elbow, guiding him through the trees towards the rocks, showing him the way to the water that Duck had never forgotten. Late at night, he had described Wilby to Mick while they lay in bed together. He'd traced the path from the road through the trees and down to the rocks that he'd taken as a child. Then the path that stopped in the trees when he was a teenager.
“We used to get up to no good,” Duck murmured to Buddy, leaning against him as they stood on the rocks, looking at the waves.
“Hmm?” Buddy looked over at him, his hand still on Duck's elbow.
“Nothing,” Duck said, thinking about stolen gropes, his back pressed against a tree, Buddy's flushed face. “It feels the same.”
“Wilby hasn't really changed,” Buddy said, looking back towards the trees. He was technically on duty still and Duck knew how hard it had to be for Buddy to keep from breaking up what was going on in the woods. “Still a small town with the same small town problems it always has had.”
Duck fumbled with his pack of cigarettes, managing to light one. He held the pack and lighter out to Buddy, an offering. Buddy hesitated, but took one, smoking quietly.
“Breaking the rules,” Buddy said after a few minutes. “Smoking.”
“Are you quitting?” Duck mumbled, his eyes glazing over as he looked at the ebb and flow of the water, the roll of the waves against the rock.
“The rules of the Watch,” Buddy clarified. He looked at Duck seriously. “I don't do that anymore, Duck. So you know.”
Duck looked at him, his expression haunted. “Neither do I.”
Duck closed his eyes, drifting slightly as he listened to the waves crash against the rocks. His eyes opened when Buddy’s hand rested on his elbow again, guiding him to sit on one of the rocks.
“You’re going to fall,” Buddy said as an explanation. He squatted next to him, lighting another cigarette. “You want one?”
Duck nodded, taking the offered cigarette. “How did my mother know I was coming?”
“She said your girlfriend called to tell her you were on your way up,” Buddy said, his voice amused. “Duck, I thought your mother knew.”
“She does,” Duck said, rubbing his forehead with the heel of his hand, catching sight of blue paint again. “She doesn’t know that you know.”
“What a tangled web…” Buddy murmured, reaching out to rub Duck’s shoulder briefly. “When are you going back?”
Duck chewed on the filter of the cigarette, shrugging slightly. “Don’t know if I am.”
“What about your work?”
“I haven’t painted in six months,” Duck said softly. “Except for four days ago when I painted a coffin blue.”
Buddy turned Duck’s hand, looking at the blue paint on his wrist. “Who did you bury?”
Duck pulled his hand away. “When did you become a cop? The Buddy French I used to know did everything he could to piss off the cops. Up to and including learning the rules of the Watch.”
“I got out of the program about six years ago,” Buddy said. “I decided to stop pissing away my life and do something with it instead.”
“By being a cop in Wilby?”
Buddy shrugged a little, stubbing out his cigarette. He looked back at the woods briefly, the sound of a stick breaking catching his attention. Duck turned to look as well, but his eyes weren’t used to the darkness of the woods, not like they used to be.
“I like Wilby.” Buddy stood up, his hand resting on Duck’s shoulder for balance. He sighed a little, shaking his head. “Why haven’t you been painting? The Duck MacDonald I used to know spent all of his free time with a sketchbook and paint splotches on his clothes.”
Duck looked up at him, the cigarette hanging from his mouth. “The suit’s a loaner.”
Buddy stared at him for a moment before he began to laugh softly, his shoulders shaking and his hand tightening on Duck’s shoulder. He sat back down again, his shoulder pressed against Duck’s.
Duck flicked the end of the cigarette away, watching it disappear into the dark water. He leaned back against Buddy and listened to the waves break against the rocks.
Duck’s eyes were half-closed as Buddy turned down Mackenzie Drive, the headlights of the car illuminating the trees and houses. 732 Mackenzie Drive came into focus too quickly and Duck leaned forward, a hand on the dashboard.
Buddy pulled into the driveway, cutting the headlights. The car idled softly, filling the silence between them with something other than awkwardness.
“When are you going back?” Buddy asked quietly, knowing there was truth in Duck’s earlier answer.
Duck rolled the window down a crack and lit a cigarette, staring at his mother’s house. The lights were on downstairs and one of the curtains in the front window was drawn back slightly to reveal his mother’s face.
“I’m not,” Duck said, handing the cigarette to Buddy. “Mick’s dead.”
Buddy took the cigarette, regarding him with a serious expression. “You’re going to give up your whole life because he died?”
Duck opened the car door, swinging his legs out before looking back at Buddy. “Come talk to me again when you’ve been in love and watched that person die.”
Duck got out of the car, shutting the door behind him. He lifted his hand slightly, acknowledging his mother. The curtain fell shut and Duck started to walk to the house.
“Duck,” Buddy called out, leaning over to look at him through the passenger window. Duck turned to look at him. “If you change your mind, I’ll give you that lift back to Toronto.”
“How about giving me a lift back to The Loyalist in the morning?” Duck said in return. “I have to get my car.”
“I can do that,” Buddy said. He waved to Mrs. MacDonald before turning the headlights on and backing out of the driveway.
Duck turned to look at his mother standing on the porch, her bathrobe wrapped tightly around her nightgown. She held out a hand to him, her bathrobe sleeves too short and exposing the delicate curve of her wrist.
“Come inside. It’s late.”
Duck stepped forward, taking her hand. With a gentle tug, she pulled him to her, wrapping Duck in a hug so tight he forgot how to breathe as he stared at the blue terry cloth of her bathrobe. Her breath was soft in his ear, as familiar as the feel of her arms around him.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” she said quietly. “I knew you would come.”
Duck closed his eyes tightly. “I didn’t know where else to go.”
freeversefic challenge. Huge thanks to dayse, tigs, and fayemeadows for beta work. They are wonderful gals. :) The story is available on my site [here] as well.Not the Same
Wilby Wonderful; Duck, Buddy (GEN); Pre-movie, no spoilers.
“Bet you missed having a MacDonald sitting at your bar,” Duck slurred, swaying a bit. “We’re good at giving away our paychecks. Guess I should work on getting a paycheck again.”
What would your heart be
if our chests were open
and sky were water?
How would we
find our way home?
Duck MacDonald returned to Wilby on a Tuesday sometime after dinner. He wasn’t quite sure of the time, just that he was tired, he’d been wearing the same rumpled suit for three days, and he really needed a drink.
The Loyalist was the same as it had been when he was 18 and left Wilby for university. His father had bought him a beer and said that a young man like himself needed to be careful in the big city. Duck had nodded and drank the beer, accepting that was his father’s way of saying he knew, he understood, and he wanted him to be happy.
Duck was 32 now and his father was long gone so he sat down at one of the stools and ordered a shot of whiskey and a beer chaser by himself. He kept his shoulders hunched over as he drank, his eyes focused on the splotch of blue paint on the inside of his left wrist.
He finished the first beer and ordered another along with a cheeseburger. He drank the beer and ignored the burger, emptying his glass and getting a refill. His eyes started to blur as he swiped his fries through a puddle of ketchup on the plate and he squeezed them shut tightly.
Duck had cried enough over the past week, the past month, hell the past fucking year, for the rest of his life. He was not going to break down in tears in the middle of the Loyalist. He was stronger than that.
Duck pushed himself up, leaning on the bar heavily to keep from falling over. The bartender – a man named Rusty that Duck was pretty sure he’d sucked off at the Watch when he was 17 and Rusty was in his mid-30s – eyed him for a moment before wiping off another glass.
“You driving, Duck?”
Duck looked at him and shook his head. “Nah. Fucking car is almost out of gas anyway. I’ll get it tomorrow.”
Rusty set the glass on the bar and continued to look at him skeptically. “You want me to call your mother? She knows the way.”
“Bet you missed having a MacDonald sitting at your bar,” Duck slurred, swaying a bit. “We’re good at giving away our paychecks. Guess I should work on getting a paycheck again.”
Rusty just grunted and went back to the stack of glasses that needed to be wiped down. “Suit yourself, Duck. Just don’t get behind the wheel.”
“Whose gonna stop me? *Stan*?”
“I will.” Duck turned to the voice, swaying a little. He squinted and his eyes managed to focus on Buddy French wearing a cop’s uniform and looking serious. “C’mon, Duck. I’ll give you a ride home.”
Duck nodded a little, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. He tried to light it, his hands shaking. Buddy reached out with his lighter and Duck stared at it for a long time before leaning in. He kept leaning forward until Buddy put a hand on his shoulder.
“Careful there, Duck. I’m sure Rusty doesn’t want to be cleaning you up off his floor,” Buddy said with a hint of a smile in his voice. “You need anything from your car?”
Duck shook his head, looking at his lit cigarette and Buddy’s hand on his shoulder. “Why are you touching me?”
“Because I don’t want you to fall on your face before I get you home,” Buddy said simply. He shoved his hands in his pockets, searching for his keys. “Your mother’s expecting you.”
Duck leaned against the side of the police car, looking up at the sky. Buddy smoked his own cigarette and waited patiently for Duck. So unlike the old Buddy, Duck thought as he stared at the stars. When they were kids, Buddy couldn’t sit still.
“You can’t see the stars in Toronto,” Duck said after a few more minutes. “Too many buildings, too much light.”
Buddy moved to lean against the car as well, looking up at the sky. He lit another cigarette for himself and another for Duck as well whose fingers still weren’t working with the lighter.
“How did you know I was at The Loyalist?” asked Duck softly.
“Your mother called me. Said you’d be in sometime in the next couple of days. To keep an eye out for a car with Ontario tags.” Buddy flicked ash off his cigarette. “I told her I’d bring you home safe.”
“You’re going to drive me back to Toronto?” Duck asked humorlessly.
“Nope,” Buddy said, pushing away from the car. “But I’ll take you back to her.”
Duck finally looked away from the stars and at Buddy again. “Did you do this for my father too?”
“Sometimes,” Buddy admitted. “Most of the time your mother came to get him. She doesn’t like to drive at night now. I think her eyes are starting to go.”
“I’m not my father,” Duck said a little hollowly. “I’m not.”
Buddy put his hand on Duck’s shoulder again, guiding him into the passenger seat. He knelt down to look at Duck, his expression sympathetic. Duck looked away, feeling sick. Buddy just squeezed Duck’s knee once before getting up and shutting the door behind him.
“I can’t go there yet. Do you have to take me right home?”
“No,” Buddy said softly. “Where do you want to go?”
“Are people still getting up to no good at the Watch?” Duck pressed his forehead against the window.
“Most nights,” Buddy said as he started the car. “That where you want to go?”
“I want to see the water,” Duck said softly. “The waves against the rocks. I haven’t seen it in years.”
Buddy's hand was firm on Duck's elbow, guiding him through the trees towards the rocks, showing him the way to the water that Duck had never forgotten. Late at night, he had described Wilby to Mick while they lay in bed together. He'd traced the path from the road through the trees and down to the rocks that he'd taken as a child. Then the path that stopped in the trees when he was a teenager.
“We used to get up to no good,” Duck murmured to Buddy, leaning against him as they stood on the rocks, looking at the waves.
“Hmm?” Buddy looked over at him, his hand still on Duck's elbow.
“Nothing,” Duck said, thinking about stolen gropes, his back pressed against a tree, Buddy's flushed face. “It feels the same.”
“Wilby hasn't really changed,” Buddy said, looking back towards the trees. He was technically on duty still and Duck knew how hard it had to be for Buddy to keep from breaking up what was going on in the woods. “Still a small town with the same small town problems it always has had.”
Duck fumbled with his pack of cigarettes, managing to light one. He held the pack and lighter out to Buddy, an offering. Buddy hesitated, but took one, smoking quietly.
“Breaking the rules,” Buddy said after a few minutes. “Smoking.”
“Are you quitting?” Duck mumbled, his eyes glazing over as he looked at the ebb and flow of the water, the roll of the waves against the rock.
“The rules of the Watch,” Buddy clarified. He looked at Duck seriously. “I don't do that anymore, Duck. So you know.”
Duck looked at him, his expression haunted. “Neither do I.”
Duck closed his eyes, drifting slightly as he listened to the waves crash against the rocks. His eyes opened when Buddy’s hand rested on his elbow again, guiding him to sit on one of the rocks.
“You’re going to fall,” Buddy said as an explanation. He squatted next to him, lighting another cigarette. “You want one?”
Duck nodded, taking the offered cigarette. “How did my mother know I was coming?”
“She said your girlfriend called to tell her you were on your way up,” Buddy said, his voice amused. “Duck, I thought your mother knew.”
“She does,” Duck said, rubbing his forehead with the heel of his hand, catching sight of blue paint again. “She doesn’t know that you know.”
“What a tangled web…” Buddy murmured, reaching out to rub Duck’s shoulder briefly. “When are you going back?”
Duck chewed on the filter of the cigarette, shrugging slightly. “Don’t know if I am.”
“What about your work?”
“I haven’t painted in six months,” Duck said softly. “Except for four days ago when I painted a coffin blue.”
Buddy turned Duck’s hand, looking at the blue paint on his wrist. “Who did you bury?”
Duck pulled his hand away. “When did you become a cop? The Buddy French I used to know did everything he could to piss off the cops. Up to and including learning the rules of the Watch.”
“I got out of the program about six years ago,” Buddy said. “I decided to stop pissing away my life and do something with it instead.”
“By being a cop in Wilby?”
Buddy shrugged a little, stubbing out his cigarette. He looked back at the woods briefly, the sound of a stick breaking catching his attention. Duck turned to look as well, but his eyes weren’t used to the darkness of the woods, not like they used to be.
“I like Wilby.” Buddy stood up, his hand resting on Duck’s shoulder for balance. He sighed a little, shaking his head. “Why haven’t you been painting? The Duck MacDonald I used to know spent all of his free time with a sketchbook and paint splotches on his clothes.”
Duck looked up at him, the cigarette hanging from his mouth. “The suit’s a loaner.”
Buddy stared at him for a moment before he began to laugh softly, his shoulders shaking and his hand tightening on Duck’s shoulder. He sat back down again, his shoulder pressed against Duck’s.
Duck flicked the end of the cigarette away, watching it disappear into the dark water. He leaned back against Buddy and listened to the waves break against the rocks.
Duck’s eyes were half-closed as Buddy turned down Mackenzie Drive, the headlights of the car illuminating the trees and houses. 732 Mackenzie Drive came into focus too quickly and Duck leaned forward, a hand on the dashboard.
Buddy pulled into the driveway, cutting the headlights. The car idled softly, filling the silence between them with something other than awkwardness.
“When are you going back?” Buddy asked quietly, knowing there was truth in Duck’s earlier answer.
Duck rolled the window down a crack and lit a cigarette, staring at his mother’s house. The lights were on downstairs and one of the curtains in the front window was drawn back slightly to reveal his mother’s face.
“I’m not,” Duck said, handing the cigarette to Buddy. “Mick’s dead.”
Buddy took the cigarette, regarding him with a serious expression. “You’re going to give up your whole life because he died?”
Duck opened the car door, swinging his legs out before looking back at Buddy. “Come talk to me again when you’ve been in love and watched that person die.”
Duck got out of the car, shutting the door behind him. He lifted his hand slightly, acknowledging his mother. The curtain fell shut and Duck started to walk to the house.
“Duck,” Buddy called out, leaning over to look at him through the passenger window. Duck turned to look at him. “If you change your mind, I’ll give you that lift back to Toronto.”
“How about giving me a lift back to The Loyalist in the morning?” Duck said in return. “I have to get my car.”
“I can do that,” Buddy said. He waved to Mrs. MacDonald before turning the headlights on and backing out of the driveway.
Duck turned to look at his mother standing on the porch, her bathrobe wrapped tightly around her nightgown. She held out a hand to him, her bathrobe sleeves too short and exposing the delicate curve of her wrist.
“Come inside. It’s late.”
Duck stepped forward, taking her hand. With a gentle tug, she pulled him to her, wrapping Duck in a hug so tight he forgot how to breathe as he stared at the blue terry cloth of her bathrobe. Her breath was soft in his ear, as familiar as the feel of her arms around him.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” she said quietly. “I knew you would come.”
Duck closed his eyes tightly. “I didn’t know where else to go.”