HT100 FlashFic Challenge #12: X Marks The Spot -- "Liberty"
Title: Liberty
Prompt: 12 - X Marks The Spot (crossover)
Timeframe: AU. Chris has been sent to Cedar Junction, and there he stays (and there is no death penalty.) Toby gets parole. If there is ever a Katharine or a Marion, they are long gone. *spits on Marion for good measure*
Authors Notes: AU crossover with Queer as Folk. I haven't written the Folks for so long that I had a real hard time getting this right. In the end, one can only do one's best. :D Also, ozsaur suggested I link to a photo of Debbie Novotny, here.
Word Count: 2095
Liberty
by Severina
Toby dejectedly pushed open the door of the diner. The place was small -- a few booths lining the walls, half a dozen or so stools next to a cluttered counter -- and smelled like fried chicken and burnt coffee. But it was quiet, only a few young customers stuffed into one of the booths, all of them hunched over and talking in low voices. After the cacophony of the bars he’d tramped in and out of in the course of the evening, the silence was a blessed relief.
“Kitchen’s closed, honey.”
Toby glanced over at the waitress, resigned to trudging back outside and trying to hail a cab. But the glum look on his face must have given her pause. She hesitated only briefly before smiling at him and waving him over to one of the stools.
“Got a few lemon bars here with your name on ‘em, though,” she said.
Toby shuffled to the counter and took one of the stools with a sigh of relief. His feet were killing him.
“Tough night?”
Toby glanced up from his study of the counter, met the woman’s eyes as she placed a white plate covered with several anemic-looking pastry items in front of him. The lemon bars, he presumed. He managed a small smile.
“Thank you--” he glanced at her name tag, almost buried beneath the dozens of gay-friendly buttons and badges that festooned her blue vest, “--Debbie. I’m not really in the mood for talking.”
“Sure, that‘s okay, sweetheart.” The waitress -- Debbie -- leaned her elbow on the counter and cupped her chin in her palm. Cracked her gum. Watched him huddled over the plate, elbows on the counter, prison posture obvious to anyone who knew what to look for.
He straightened his back and furrowed his brow.
And despite his internal protests that he would no longer do what others expected of him simply because they expected it, Toby sighed and picked up a fork. He picked at one of the lemon bars desultorily.
“You don’t want to talk, honey, we won’t talk,” Debbie said.
Toby cleared his throat. “Thank you.”
Debbie made a show of wiping down the back counter.
Toby crumbled a lemon bar into dust on his plate.
“I do understand,” Debbie said, tossing the rag over her shoulder and turning back to the counter. “Some nights are difficult. You don’t know what you’re getting into from one night to the next.”
Toby speared a slice of pastry and twirled it on his fork.
“I mean, for gentlemen of your profession” she said, casting a long look at the group of boys in the booth, “it can be a rough road.”
Toby shifted in his seat and scrutinized the boys. His eyes widened and he turned back to Debbie. “I’m not--” he started loudly, then took a breath and leaned forward over the counter. “I’m not a prostitute!” he hissed.
“Of course you’re not,” Debbie said with a delighted cackle. “But it got ya talking!”
Toby hung his head. “Jesus…”
Debbie looked him up and down deliberately. “Though the way you‘re dressed,” she said with a slow wink, “you can‘t blame a girl for considering it.”
Toby glanced morosely down at his clothing. The leather pants that had seemed hot and sexy in the showroom were now only hot and sticky, and he was pretty sure that he’d never be able to father any more children. His thin muscle shirt was plastered to his body, and while he’d done some working out in the past few years he still wasn’t quite able to pull that off. He can’t believe he’d actually put gel in his hair.
He huffed out a laugh. “What was I thinking?”
Debbie leaned on the counter. “Lemme guess,” she said. “Man trouble.”
Toby sniffed. “You don’t know the half of it.” He swiped a hand absently through his hair, looked at it in disgust, and snagged up a napkin to wipe it off before offering it to her. “Tobias Beecher.”
“Debbie Novotny.”
“Nice to meet you,” Toby said politely. He glanced down at his plate, now covered with a pile of dusty crumbs. “I… uh… I apologize for my behaviour.”
“And well you should,” Debbie scolded. “My lemon bars are famous up and down Liberty Avenue! And you!” Strong fingers ending in red-tipped nails clutched his jaw, turned his head back and forth. “You’re pale. And you’re too skinny. I’m going to get you two more lemon bars, and you’re going to eat them.”
“I can’t. I’m really not hungr--”
“I don’t want to hear it,” Debbie cut him off. She stabbed a finger at his face. “You’ll eat them and you’ll like it.”
Toby swallowed around a smile. “Yes ma’am.”
“Now,” Debbie said, once the fresh lemon bars were safely deposited in front of him, “what the fuck is your problem?”
Toby blinked. “My--”
“You dragged your ass in here looking like someone just carved up your puppy and ate him for Thanksgiving. But even if you didn’t… I’m a mother. I can tell.” She leaned her hip on the counter. “So spill.”
Toby sighed, shrugged, speared a slice of lemon bar with his fork and chewed. His brow raised appreciatively. “Good,” he said around a mouthful.
“Stop stalling.”
Toby fidgeted on the stool. “It’s a long story.”
“I don’t have any pressing engagements this evening,” Debbie said primly.
Toby sighed again. “It’s my… boyfriend?”
Debbie arched a brow. “You don’t sound very sure about that.”
“It’s just…” Toby shrugged helplessly. “I’m actually not sure I’m… gay.”
“Uh huh,“ Debbie said. “You just like sucking dick and taking it up the ass.”
Toby had the grace to blush.
Debbie shook her head. “Did you two have a fight?”
Toby pictured shattered limbs, sharpened shanks piercing warm yielding flesh, the snap of bones, blood and pain and anger. Hate and love, all mixed up together so you can’t tell which is which anymore.
“You could say that,” he said dryly.
“Can you make it better?”
Toby looked at her warily. “It’s not that easy.”
“Honey, I been around a lot of years, and I’m telling you right now that’s what every fight between couples comes down to. Doesn’t matter if you’re gay or straight, black, white, or purple, registered Democrat or crazy motherfuckin‘ Republican.”
“Not this time.”
“Oh yeah?” Debbie said sceptically. “What makes you so different?”
Toby didn’t intend to tell her the whole story. And he didn’t -- but even the lowlights left his mouth dry and made his skin crawl. He left out some the most damning parts… he still couldn’t talk about Metzger. And she didn’t need to know about the Schillinger boys. But the basics… yeah. He got it out. Kathy Rockwell; Vern; recovering from the broken arms and legs for months. Chris saving his life... twice… and then telling him to stay away. To stay away forever.
At some point Debbie crossed to the coffee pot, poured him a steaming mug, and he wrapped his hands around it to still their shaking.
And when he was done, there was only silence. Toby realized that the boys had left sometime during his recital. He hadn’t even noticed.
“Your life is like something out of a movie,” Debbie finally said.
Toby looked up sharply. “You don’t believe me,” he said flatly.
“I do--”
“No,” Toby said. “You don’t.” He set his fork down, flattened his palms on the counter. “Fine.”
“Sweetie,” Debbie said, placing a calloused hand gently on his. “I believe you, Tobias.”
“Toby,” he said, and surprisingly found himself choking back tears. Because no one touched him anymore. He missed touch. He missed it so much.
He bent his head. “Everyone calls me Toby.”
“Toby, then,” Debbie said softly. “You really love your Chris, don’t you?”
“You’re wondering how that’s possible, aren’t you?” Toby sniffed, ran a hand through his hair. “God knows my family doesn’t understand it. My mother looks at me across the breakfast table like I’m some kind of strange creature that slunk in during the night, dragging its stink behind it. My father thinks that if I just work hard and put my shoulder to the grindstone, all of this will just go away. And I’ve tried to do the right thing, to get on with my life. I tried to drown the memory of him in alcohol and drugs and men. Women. And now tonight, back to men.” He huffed out a dry laugh. “It doesn’t work. Nothing works. I don’t want to be with anyone but him. I don’t understand why I love him. I don’t even want to love him! I just… do.”
“And he loves you.”
“I think so,” Toby said. He closed his eyes, remembered Chris’s frantic attempts to prove it. Remembered holding Chris in his arms and Chris being unable to hold him back because of the chains around his waist, wrists, feet. Remembered watching Chris walk out the door after sacrificing everything for him. “Yes,” he said firmly. “He loves me.”
“Then fuck your parents,” Debbie said. She patted his hand one final time before releasing him. “Fuck what anybody else thinks, including Chris. You go out there and you get him back.”
“I can’t.”
“You like that word, don’t you?” Debbie said dryly.
Toby sighed. “It’s complicated. Chris… has a long time left on his sentence.”
Debbie cocked her head. “What, two or three years?” When Toby said nothing, she raised a brow. “Ten?”
“Forty five.”
“Years?” Debbie squawked. “What the fuck did he do, kill someone?”
Toby looked at her.
Debbie swallowed. “Oh fuck.”
“Yeah,” Toby agreed.
Debbie blew out a breath. “Okay,” she said. “Well, you have a big decision to make, Toby. You think you can make it work with him still being inside?”
Toby tried to imagine the rest of his life, all of it separated into bi-monthly chunks and dreary treks to a bleak grey visiting room. Seeing Chris for only one hour every two weeks, and having to be satisfied with so little. He sighed again. “I don’t know.”
“You want to try?”
“Even if I want to,” Toby said patiently, “it’s not that easy.”
“Sure it is,” Debbie insisted. “You hop on a bus--”
“I can’t!” Toby insisted. “My parole restrictions--”
“Didn’t you say you were some kind of high-falutin’ lawyer?”
“I never said high-falutin’,” Toby muttered.
“Get your pert little ass to a judge and get those parole restrictions lifted. THEN get that same ass on a bus and get yourself to Massachusetts.” Debbie smiled. “I hear it’s real nice this time of year.”
“I ca--”
“I swear to God, Toby, if you say you can’t one more time I’ll have your balls for earrings.”
“I need my balls,” Toby said. He raised his hands, palms up in a gesture of surrender. “I give up.”
“Good boy.”
Toby laughed. “You know,” he said, “if you were sent to Oz, you’d run that fucking prison.”
“You’re damn fucking right I would,” Debbie said proudly.
Toby got up, tugged a wrinkled twenty out of the hideous leather pants, and placed it carefully on the counter. “Thank you,” he said.
“Any time,” Debbie said. She pointed a finger at him as he walked toward the door. “I want you to come back and tell me how it all turns out!”
“I will,” Toby promised.
“And Toby?”
Toby looked over his shoulder.
“Massachusetts allows same-sex marriage,” Debbie said with a knowing smile. She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. “You think about that.”
* * *
Toby was able to flag down a taxi only a few doors away from the Liberty Diner, and as he settled back into the vinyl seat he went over his options.
Judge Matheson was a stickler for procedure, and Judge Lima (the cunt, his mind continued to fill in automatically) was out for so many obvious reasons, but Judge Harper always gave off a sympathetic vibe, and was a member of his father’s country club to boot. He could make an appointment for next week, and once his request was officially on the record he could start making the arrangements to get his name on the Cedar Junction visitors list. He’d need to arrange for his mother to be responsible for the kids all weekend when he finally made the trip, of course, and--
Toby blinked. He was really going to do this.
For the first time since his release, he felt like he could breathe easily again. He felt free.
I can do this, he thought.
I can.
.
Prompt: 12 - X Marks The Spot (crossover)
Timeframe: AU. Chris has been sent to Cedar Junction, and there he stays (and there is no death penalty.) Toby gets parole. If there is ever a Katharine or a Marion, they are long gone. *spits on Marion for good measure*
Authors Notes: AU crossover with Queer as Folk. I haven't written the Folks for so long that I had a real hard time getting this right. In the end, one can only do one's best. :D Also, ozsaur suggested I link to a photo of Debbie Novotny, here.
Word Count: 2095
Liberty
by Severina
Toby dejectedly pushed open the door of the diner. The place was small -- a few booths lining the walls, half a dozen or so stools next to a cluttered counter -- and smelled like fried chicken and burnt coffee. But it was quiet, only a few young customers stuffed into one of the booths, all of them hunched over and talking in low voices. After the cacophony of the bars he’d tramped in and out of in the course of the evening, the silence was a blessed relief.
“Kitchen’s closed, honey.”
Toby glanced over at the waitress, resigned to trudging back outside and trying to hail a cab. But the glum look on his face must have given her pause. She hesitated only briefly before smiling at him and waving him over to one of the stools.
“Got a few lemon bars here with your name on ‘em, though,” she said.
Toby shuffled to the counter and took one of the stools with a sigh of relief. His feet were killing him.
“Tough night?”
Toby glanced up from his study of the counter, met the woman’s eyes as she placed a white plate covered with several anemic-looking pastry items in front of him. The lemon bars, he presumed. He managed a small smile.
“Thank you--” he glanced at her name tag, almost buried beneath the dozens of gay-friendly buttons and badges that festooned her blue vest, “--Debbie. I’m not really in the mood for talking.”
“Sure, that‘s okay, sweetheart.” The waitress -- Debbie -- leaned her elbow on the counter and cupped her chin in her palm. Cracked her gum. Watched him huddled over the plate, elbows on the counter, prison posture obvious to anyone who knew what to look for.
He straightened his back and furrowed his brow.
And despite his internal protests that he would no longer do what others expected of him simply because they expected it, Toby sighed and picked up a fork. He picked at one of the lemon bars desultorily.
“You don’t want to talk, honey, we won’t talk,” Debbie said.
Toby cleared his throat. “Thank you.”
Debbie made a show of wiping down the back counter.
Toby crumbled a lemon bar into dust on his plate.
“I do understand,” Debbie said, tossing the rag over her shoulder and turning back to the counter. “Some nights are difficult. You don’t know what you’re getting into from one night to the next.”
Toby speared a slice of pastry and twirled it on his fork.
“I mean, for gentlemen of your profession” she said, casting a long look at the group of boys in the booth, “it can be a rough road.”
Toby shifted in his seat and scrutinized the boys. His eyes widened and he turned back to Debbie. “I’m not--” he started loudly, then took a breath and leaned forward over the counter. “I’m not a prostitute!” he hissed.
“Of course you’re not,” Debbie said with a delighted cackle. “But it got ya talking!”
Toby hung his head. “Jesus…”
Debbie looked him up and down deliberately. “Though the way you‘re dressed,” she said with a slow wink, “you can‘t blame a girl for considering it.”
Toby glanced morosely down at his clothing. The leather pants that had seemed hot and sexy in the showroom were now only hot and sticky, and he was pretty sure that he’d never be able to father any more children. His thin muscle shirt was plastered to his body, and while he’d done some working out in the past few years he still wasn’t quite able to pull that off. He can’t believe he’d actually put gel in his hair.
He huffed out a laugh. “What was I thinking?”
Debbie leaned on the counter. “Lemme guess,” she said. “Man trouble.”
Toby sniffed. “You don’t know the half of it.” He swiped a hand absently through his hair, looked at it in disgust, and snagged up a napkin to wipe it off before offering it to her. “Tobias Beecher.”
“Debbie Novotny.”
“Nice to meet you,” Toby said politely. He glanced down at his plate, now covered with a pile of dusty crumbs. “I… uh… I apologize for my behaviour.”
“And well you should,” Debbie scolded. “My lemon bars are famous up and down Liberty Avenue! And you!” Strong fingers ending in red-tipped nails clutched his jaw, turned his head back and forth. “You’re pale. And you’re too skinny. I’m going to get you two more lemon bars, and you’re going to eat them.”
“I can’t. I’m really not hungr--”
“I don’t want to hear it,” Debbie cut him off. She stabbed a finger at his face. “You’ll eat them and you’ll like it.”
Toby swallowed around a smile. “Yes ma’am.”
“Now,” Debbie said, once the fresh lemon bars were safely deposited in front of him, “what the fuck is your problem?”
Toby blinked. “My--”
“You dragged your ass in here looking like someone just carved up your puppy and ate him for Thanksgiving. But even if you didn’t… I’m a mother. I can tell.” She leaned her hip on the counter. “So spill.”
Toby sighed, shrugged, speared a slice of lemon bar with his fork and chewed. His brow raised appreciatively. “Good,” he said around a mouthful.
“Stop stalling.”
Toby fidgeted on the stool. “It’s a long story.”
“I don’t have any pressing engagements this evening,” Debbie said primly.
Toby sighed again. “It’s my… boyfriend?”
Debbie arched a brow. “You don’t sound very sure about that.”
“It’s just…” Toby shrugged helplessly. “I’m actually not sure I’m… gay.”
“Uh huh,“ Debbie said. “You just like sucking dick and taking it up the ass.”
Toby had the grace to blush.
Debbie shook her head. “Did you two have a fight?”
Toby pictured shattered limbs, sharpened shanks piercing warm yielding flesh, the snap of bones, blood and pain and anger. Hate and love, all mixed up together so you can’t tell which is which anymore.
“You could say that,” he said dryly.
“Can you make it better?”
Toby looked at her warily. “It’s not that easy.”
“Honey, I been around a lot of years, and I’m telling you right now that’s what every fight between couples comes down to. Doesn’t matter if you’re gay or straight, black, white, or purple, registered Democrat or crazy motherfuckin‘ Republican.”
“Not this time.”
“Oh yeah?” Debbie said sceptically. “What makes you so different?”
Toby didn’t intend to tell her the whole story. And he didn’t -- but even the lowlights left his mouth dry and made his skin crawl. He left out some the most damning parts… he still couldn’t talk about Metzger. And she didn’t need to know about the Schillinger boys. But the basics… yeah. He got it out. Kathy Rockwell; Vern; recovering from the broken arms and legs for months. Chris saving his life... twice… and then telling him to stay away. To stay away forever.
At some point Debbie crossed to the coffee pot, poured him a steaming mug, and he wrapped his hands around it to still their shaking.
And when he was done, there was only silence. Toby realized that the boys had left sometime during his recital. He hadn’t even noticed.
“Your life is like something out of a movie,” Debbie finally said.
Toby looked up sharply. “You don’t believe me,” he said flatly.
“I do--”
“No,” Toby said. “You don’t.” He set his fork down, flattened his palms on the counter. “Fine.”
“Sweetie,” Debbie said, placing a calloused hand gently on his. “I believe you, Tobias.”
“Toby,” he said, and surprisingly found himself choking back tears. Because no one touched him anymore. He missed touch. He missed it so much.
He bent his head. “Everyone calls me Toby.”
“Toby, then,” Debbie said softly. “You really love your Chris, don’t you?”
“You’re wondering how that’s possible, aren’t you?” Toby sniffed, ran a hand through his hair. “God knows my family doesn’t understand it. My mother looks at me across the breakfast table like I’m some kind of strange creature that slunk in during the night, dragging its stink behind it. My father thinks that if I just work hard and put my shoulder to the grindstone, all of this will just go away. And I’ve tried to do the right thing, to get on with my life. I tried to drown the memory of him in alcohol and drugs and men. Women. And now tonight, back to men.” He huffed out a dry laugh. “It doesn’t work. Nothing works. I don’t want to be with anyone but him. I don’t understand why I love him. I don’t even want to love him! I just… do.”
“And he loves you.”
“I think so,” Toby said. He closed his eyes, remembered Chris’s frantic attempts to prove it. Remembered holding Chris in his arms and Chris being unable to hold him back because of the chains around his waist, wrists, feet. Remembered watching Chris walk out the door after sacrificing everything for him. “Yes,” he said firmly. “He loves me.”
“Then fuck your parents,” Debbie said. She patted his hand one final time before releasing him. “Fuck what anybody else thinks, including Chris. You go out there and you get him back.”
“I can’t.”
“You like that word, don’t you?” Debbie said dryly.
Toby sighed. “It’s complicated. Chris… has a long time left on his sentence.”
Debbie cocked her head. “What, two or three years?” When Toby said nothing, she raised a brow. “Ten?”
“Forty five.”
“Years?” Debbie squawked. “What the fuck did he do, kill someone?”
Toby looked at her.
Debbie swallowed. “Oh fuck.”
“Yeah,” Toby agreed.
Debbie blew out a breath. “Okay,” she said. “Well, you have a big decision to make, Toby. You think you can make it work with him still being inside?”
Toby tried to imagine the rest of his life, all of it separated into bi-monthly chunks and dreary treks to a bleak grey visiting room. Seeing Chris for only one hour every two weeks, and having to be satisfied with so little. He sighed again. “I don’t know.”
“You want to try?”
“Even if I want to,” Toby said patiently, “it’s not that easy.”
“Sure it is,” Debbie insisted. “You hop on a bus--”
“I can’t!” Toby insisted. “My parole restrictions--”
“Didn’t you say you were some kind of high-falutin’ lawyer?”
“I never said high-falutin’,” Toby muttered.
“Get your pert little ass to a judge and get those parole restrictions lifted. THEN get that same ass on a bus and get yourself to Massachusetts.” Debbie smiled. “I hear it’s real nice this time of year.”
“I ca--”
“I swear to God, Toby, if you say you can’t one more time I’ll have your balls for earrings.”
“I need my balls,” Toby said. He raised his hands, palms up in a gesture of surrender. “I give up.”
“Good boy.”
Toby laughed. “You know,” he said, “if you were sent to Oz, you’d run that fucking prison.”
“You’re damn fucking right I would,” Debbie said proudly.
Toby got up, tugged a wrinkled twenty out of the hideous leather pants, and placed it carefully on the counter. “Thank you,” he said.
“Any time,” Debbie said. She pointed a finger at him as he walked toward the door. “I want you to come back and tell me how it all turns out!”
“I will,” Toby promised.
“And Toby?”
Toby looked over his shoulder.
“Massachusetts allows same-sex marriage,” Debbie said with a knowing smile. She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. “You think about that.”
* * *
Toby was able to flag down a taxi only a few doors away from the Liberty Diner, and as he settled back into the vinyl seat he went over his options.
Judge Matheson was a stickler for procedure, and Judge Lima (the cunt, his mind continued to fill in automatically) was out for so many obvious reasons, but Judge Harper always gave off a sympathetic vibe, and was a member of his father’s country club to boot. He could make an appointment for next week, and once his request was officially on the record he could start making the arrangements to get his name on the Cedar Junction visitors list. He’d need to arrange for his mother to be responsible for the kids all weekend when he finally made the trip, of course, and--
Toby blinked. He was really going to do this.
For the first time since his release, he felt like he could breathe easily again. He felt free.
I can do this, he thought.
I can.
.