Wilby Wonderful fic
Title And Even the Angels Would Weep
Author hanarobi
Fandom Wilby Wonderful
Characters Duck/Dan
Rating R
Warnings none
Length 1772 words
Notes I just discovered this movie about 10 days ago. This is my first Wilby fic. It takes place right after Duck visits Dan in the hospital.
There sure hadn’t been much sleep last night, none actually, and it didn’t seem like much work was going to take place today, not after all that went on last night, so Duck left the hospital, getting in his truck and heading for home.
He didn’t know if they kicked him out because it wasn’t visiting hours, because there was a limit to how long any one person could stay, because Dan needed rest, or simply because there were two homos in the room touching each other. All things being Wilby, he was kinda surprised they had let him stay as long as they did.
The exhaustion ate away at him, making him feel slightly ill. He considered stopping at Iggy’s for coffee, but Sandra would be there. Sandra, being kind, would ask questions about Dan, but he wasn’t about to accept the role of being Dan’s spokesman. If Wilby wanted to know about Dan Jarvis, they could figure out how to ask him themselves. Besides, he didn’t have any answers about anything anyway. Just because he knew what he wanted didn’t mean he knew what Dan wanted. Not exactly. Not enough to go around telling people. And since it was unlikely that Sandra would ask him what he wanted, which was the only question he felt qualified to answer, coffee just seemed more trouble than it was worth.
He needed sleep. Just a couple of hours would hold him. He needed to get home. But he found himself driving around. It was like those days when the work was hard and he worked too many hours. He would come home and find himself watching hours of TV, fighting to stay awake when all he really wanted or needed was to sleep.
He never understood why he just didn’t go on to bed, but he didn’t. Sometimes when he was that tired, he ended up digging through piles of junk out at the shed, or sorting through old shoeboxes full of family photos that he had inherited when his mother had finally passed on.
Once upon a time, Wilby had been full to bursting with MacDonalds. Somehow, they had all just kinda passed out of existence, one way or another. He barely recognized most of the people in the photos, but still, on those nights of exhaustion, he would sit there at the kitchen table, chain-smoking and fighting sleep, shifting through the crackled black and white photos, trying to remember names.
He lit another cigarette and flinched from pure weariness. Still, he didn’t drive home. He drove to the motel, thinking somehow that it was important to see it again. This was where he had last been with Dan, before it all happened, where Dan had almost let him kiss him. This was where he obviously hadn’t been enough since Dan had left him here and gone immediately to the old French house to try to kill himself.
Duck frowned and tried to shake the tightness out of his neck and shoulders. It really had been a long night. He lit another cigarette and looked at the door to what had been Dan’s room and then glanced at the room where Emily and her prick boyfriend had been. He had been young and stupid, too. Once. Forever ago. Gotten older but was still stupid. Still pissing off the wrong people and still holding out hope. Just want to love and be loved. Who did he think he was, acting like some sort of wise old man, handing out answers?
He snorted, then, imagining what he would have said if someone had said that to him when he was Emily’s age. The boyfriend might have been a prick but Duck wasn’t that much different at that age. Duck had already discovered the things that men could do to one another and his wants drove him to do some extremely stupid things. And here he was, so many years later, still being stupid, taking risks and being hopeful. He thought he had learned better.
He rested his head against the back of the seat and closed his eyes. Could he even remember his first time? And which first time? The first kiss, the first grope? The first handjob or blowjob? The first fuck? The first time his father caught him and had beaten the holy crap out of him? The first time he had fallen in love?
He straightened up in the seat and cranked the ignition. He really needed to go home. Then he realized that Dan’s car was not here. It wouldn’t be. Dan’s car would be at the old French house. He should probably go check on it. They weren’t letting Dan out for three days. Mandatory in attempted suicide cases, Dan had told him, embarrassed. Duck had just smiled, stroked his cheek, and promised to bring him flowers every day. Somehow he doubted Carol French wanted Dan Jarvis’ car parked in front of her dead mother-in-law’s house for the next three days. Buddy would probably have it towed. Dan would get stuck with the bill.
He wondered where the keys were and if Buddy would let him drive it away. He could park it at his house. There was room. And he didn’t think that Dan would object. He wasn’t being presumptuous, just taking care of a good friend’s car.
The first thing would be to see if the car was still there. Maybe the keys would even be in it. That would simplify things. Except then his truck would end up parked in front of the house. Mrs. French probably wouldn’t like that any better-the local handyman’s truck ruining the look when she was trying to sell the house.
Seven years. The woman had been married to Buddy French for seven years, had lived on Wilby for seven years. And she called him Walter when nobody had called him that in over thirty years. It would be one thing if she were just being proper and felt like nicknames were too familiar but Duck was pretty sure she only knew him by the name she used when she wrote out the checks for services rendered. Seven years and she always seemed to need a moment or two to remember who he was. He had grown up with her husband. Hell, he had even made out with her husband one sweaty humid summer night when Buddy was in his short-lived rebellion phase and Duck was just beginning his much lengthier get-fucked up-and-fuck phase. Maybe if he told her about that she would remember him next time.
He chuckled to himself about how she would react to that little bit of news and then remembered Dan’s wife’s reaction. He flicked his cigarette out the window and focused on his driving.
He turned the corner of the street where the French house sat. Sure enough, Dan’s car was still there. He parked across the street and crossed over. The car had been vandalized. Obscenities were spray painted on it, the driver’s window shattered. Turds, probably dog, were flung all over the hood. Realizing the pointlessness of the gesture, he still looked inside to see if there was any chance of the keys being in the ignition. They weren’t.
He stood back from the car and rubbed his hand all over his face, hard. It actually made him feel better. He looked up and down the street, his hands shoved in the back pockets of his jeans. He needed to deal with this. Get it taken care so Dan didn’t have to. Were the keys with Dan’s things back at the hospital or did Buddy have them? Or had the stupid vandals taken them? Then again, how had the fuckers even known that it was Dan’s car parked in front of the French house? Duck blew out a deep breath and looked up at the sky. The gossip mill in Wilby was impressive.
He would need to find Buddy. Buddy would help him get the car, find the keys. It would have to wait though, at least until the afternoon, after he had gotten some sleep.
As he drove to the Watch, the smoke from yet another cigarette got in his eyes and made them burn. He resisted closing them because he was pretty sure if they ever closed he wouldn’t get them open again for hours. He rubbed at them, knowing all he was really doing was making them red. Not that it mattered. There wouldn’t be anyone at the Watch to see them. Not this time of day. Besides it was all blocked off with that yellow plastic police tape. Tended to keep people away. But he needed the Watch right now. Needed to stand there and look out at the sea. Remember how it had started with Dan, what it felt like when they had first connected. How good it had been. The terror and despair in Dan’s face when the Watch was raided and Dan got caught.
He remembered feeling so helpless, watching Dan being led away in handcuffs. Dan wouldn’t look at him. So he just stood there, off to the side, watching. Buddy had pulled him over, singled him out from the group of men who had been caught and quietly told him to get the hell out of there and go home. And Duck had just stood there, stupidly, looking at Dan being shoved into a police van. Buddy had glanced back and given a hard jerk of his head, making it clear that Duck needed to clear out.
Sweaty humid summer nights come with long memories.
He sat at his kitchen table, a glass of water in front of him, the ashtray overflowing. He was going to go to bed in just a minute. He wanted to finish this last cigarette and drink some water, and then he would sleep. Just for a couple of hours. He needed to find Buddy and deal with Dan’s car. He wanted to clean the house up a bit, maybe buy some groceries, make sure there were clean sheets, for the bed and for the couch, because he just wasn’t sure what Dan would want. Not even sure Dan would come here when he got out of the hospital, but he kinda thought Dan would. Duck MacDonald was in his mid-forties and had learned to live without expectations and to be content. But now, on this beautiful summer morning, he had hope, a real chance this time. He pushed the glass of water and the ashtray away from him, laid his head down on his folded arms, and slept.
Author hanarobi
Fandom Wilby Wonderful
Characters Duck/Dan
Rating R
Warnings none
Length 1772 words
Notes I just discovered this movie about 10 days ago. This is my first Wilby fic. It takes place right after Duck visits Dan in the hospital.
There sure hadn’t been much sleep last night, none actually, and it didn’t seem like much work was going to take place today, not after all that went on last night, so Duck left the hospital, getting in his truck and heading for home.
He didn’t know if they kicked him out because it wasn’t visiting hours, because there was a limit to how long any one person could stay, because Dan needed rest, or simply because there were two homos in the room touching each other. All things being Wilby, he was kinda surprised they had let him stay as long as they did.
The exhaustion ate away at him, making him feel slightly ill. He considered stopping at Iggy’s for coffee, but Sandra would be there. Sandra, being kind, would ask questions about Dan, but he wasn’t about to accept the role of being Dan’s spokesman. If Wilby wanted to know about Dan Jarvis, they could figure out how to ask him themselves. Besides, he didn’t have any answers about anything anyway. Just because he knew what he wanted didn’t mean he knew what Dan wanted. Not exactly. Not enough to go around telling people. And since it was unlikely that Sandra would ask him what he wanted, which was the only question he felt qualified to answer, coffee just seemed more trouble than it was worth.
He needed sleep. Just a couple of hours would hold him. He needed to get home. But he found himself driving around. It was like those days when the work was hard and he worked too many hours. He would come home and find himself watching hours of TV, fighting to stay awake when all he really wanted or needed was to sleep.
He never understood why he just didn’t go on to bed, but he didn’t. Sometimes when he was that tired, he ended up digging through piles of junk out at the shed, or sorting through old shoeboxes full of family photos that he had inherited when his mother had finally passed on.
Once upon a time, Wilby had been full to bursting with MacDonalds. Somehow, they had all just kinda passed out of existence, one way or another. He barely recognized most of the people in the photos, but still, on those nights of exhaustion, he would sit there at the kitchen table, chain-smoking and fighting sleep, shifting through the crackled black and white photos, trying to remember names.
He lit another cigarette and flinched from pure weariness. Still, he didn’t drive home. He drove to the motel, thinking somehow that it was important to see it again. This was where he had last been with Dan, before it all happened, where Dan had almost let him kiss him. This was where he obviously hadn’t been enough since Dan had left him here and gone immediately to the old French house to try to kill himself.
Duck frowned and tried to shake the tightness out of his neck and shoulders. It really had been a long night. He lit another cigarette and looked at the door to what had been Dan’s room and then glanced at the room where Emily and her prick boyfriend had been. He had been young and stupid, too. Once. Forever ago. Gotten older but was still stupid. Still pissing off the wrong people and still holding out hope. Just want to love and be loved. Who did he think he was, acting like some sort of wise old man, handing out answers?
He snorted, then, imagining what he would have said if someone had said that to him when he was Emily’s age. The boyfriend might have been a prick but Duck wasn’t that much different at that age. Duck had already discovered the things that men could do to one another and his wants drove him to do some extremely stupid things. And here he was, so many years later, still being stupid, taking risks and being hopeful. He thought he had learned better.
He rested his head against the back of the seat and closed his eyes. Could he even remember his first time? And which first time? The first kiss, the first grope? The first handjob or blowjob? The first fuck? The first time his father caught him and had beaten the holy crap out of him? The first time he had fallen in love?
He straightened up in the seat and cranked the ignition. He really needed to go home. Then he realized that Dan’s car was not here. It wouldn’t be. Dan’s car would be at the old French house. He should probably go check on it. They weren’t letting Dan out for three days. Mandatory in attempted suicide cases, Dan had told him, embarrassed. Duck had just smiled, stroked his cheek, and promised to bring him flowers every day. Somehow he doubted Carol French wanted Dan Jarvis’ car parked in front of her dead mother-in-law’s house for the next three days. Buddy would probably have it towed. Dan would get stuck with the bill.
He wondered where the keys were and if Buddy would let him drive it away. He could park it at his house. There was room. And he didn’t think that Dan would object. He wasn’t being presumptuous, just taking care of a good friend’s car.
The first thing would be to see if the car was still there. Maybe the keys would even be in it. That would simplify things. Except then his truck would end up parked in front of the house. Mrs. French probably wouldn’t like that any better-the local handyman’s truck ruining the look when she was trying to sell the house.
Seven years. The woman had been married to Buddy French for seven years, had lived on Wilby for seven years. And she called him Walter when nobody had called him that in over thirty years. It would be one thing if she were just being proper and felt like nicknames were too familiar but Duck was pretty sure she only knew him by the name she used when she wrote out the checks for services rendered. Seven years and she always seemed to need a moment or two to remember who he was. He had grown up with her husband. Hell, he had even made out with her husband one sweaty humid summer night when Buddy was in his short-lived rebellion phase and Duck was just beginning his much lengthier get-fucked up-and-fuck phase. Maybe if he told her about that she would remember him next time.
He chuckled to himself about how she would react to that little bit of news and then remembered Dan’s wife’s reaction. He flicked his cigarette out the window and focused on his driving.
He turned the corner of the street where the French house sat. Sure enough, Dan’s car was still there. He parked across the street and crossed over. The car had been vandalized. Obscenities were spray painted on it, the driver’s window shattered. Turds, probably dog, were flung all over the hood. Realizing the pointlessness of the gesture, he still looked inside to see if there was any chance of the keys being in the ignition. They weren’t.
He stood back from the car and rubbed his hand all over his face, hard. It actually made him feel better. He looked up and down the street, his hands shoved in the back pockets of his jeans. He needed to deal with this. Get it taken care so Dan didn’t have to. Were the keys with Dan’s things back at the hospital or did Buddy have them? Or had the stupid vandals taken them? Then again, how had the fuckers even known that it was Dan’s car parked in front of the French house? Duck blew out a deep breath and looked up at the sky. The gossip mill in Wilby was impressive.
He would need to find Buddy. Buddy would help him get the car, find the keys. It would have to wait though, at least until the afternoon, after he had gotten some sleep.
As he drove to the Watch, the smoke from yet another cigarette got in his eyes and made them burn. He resisted closing them because he was pretty sure if they ever closed he wouldn’t get them open again for hours. He rubbed at them, knowing all he was really doing was making them red. Not that it mattered. There wouldn’t be anyone at the Watch to see them. Not this time of day. Besides it was all blocked off with that yellow plastic police tape. Tended to keep people away. But he needed the Watch right now. Needed to stand there and look out at the sea. Remember how it had started with Dan, what it felt like when they had first connected. How good it had been. The terror and despair in Dan’s face when the Watch was raided and Dan got caught.
He remembered feeling so helpless, watching Dan being led away in handcuffs. Dan wouldn’t look at him. So he just stood there, off to the side, watching. Buddy had pulled him over, singled him out from the group of men who had been caught and quietly told him to get the hell out of there and go home. And Duck had just stood there, stupidly, looking at Dan being shoved into a police van. Buddy had glanced back and given a hard jerk of his head, making it clear that Duck needed to clear out.
Sweaty humid summer nights come with long memories.
He sat at his kitchen table, a glass of water in front of him, the ashtray overflowing. He was going to go to bed in just a minute. He wanted to finish this last cigarette and drink some water, and then he would sleep. Just for a couple of hours. He needed to find Buddy and deal with Dan’s car. He wanted to clean the house up a bit, maybe buy some groceries, make sure there were clean sheets, for the bed and for the couch, because he just wasn’t sure what Dan would want. Not even sure Dan would come here when he got out of the hospital, but he kinda thought Dan would. Duck MacDonald was in his mid-forties and had learned to live without expectations and to be content. But now, on this beautiful summer morning, he had hope, a real chance this time. He pushed the glass of water and the ashtray away from him, laid his head down on his folded arms, and slept.