Smalltown, for Queue
For: qe2
Title: Smalltown
Fandom: Men With Brooms/Wilby Wonderful (Cutter/Duck)
Author: lamentables
Length: 1,800 words
Rating: mildly pornsome
Summary: There's only one good use for a small town: you hate it and you know you'll have to leave
Author's notes: Massive thanks to meresy and vsee for thoughtful commentary on the first draft and to china_shop for awesome nit-picking of the revised version.
When you're growing up in a small town
You know you'll grow down in a small town
There's only one good use for a small town
You hate it and you know you'll have to leave
- Lou Reed & John Cale
"Hey, MacDonald!" Cutter caught the door as MacDonald slammed out of the mostly empty
canteen. He watched MacDonald plunge headlong across the yard, heedless of puddles and
crates of discarded equipment. "Wait up!"
MacDonald paused at the fence and hooked his fingers through the mesh, head hanging.
Cutter strode after him, beer bottle still dangling loosely in his fingers.
They stood in silence for a while as Cutter drained the rest of the bottle. He didn't offer to
share. He'd never seen MacDonald drink and, in a place like this, any man who didn't drink
had to have good reason.
"You know, while I do admire your dedication to speaking the truth, I have to tell you that
you're not winning any friends in the Canadian oil industry, MacDonald."
"Yeah. Well." MacDonald shrugged, still not looking up.
"Why? Why'd you have to tell them it was you who made the complaint about Morley." Cutter
figured the guy for a loner, but this could make his life really tough.
"You can't let a drunk drive a 150 ton haul truck. And he's a mean drunk too."
"I didn't ask why you reported him. I asked why you blabbed about it. Learn to keep your
mouth shut, MacDonald." Cutter dug out a couple of cigarettes and handed one over.
---
Cutter looked at the stats again and sighed. The yield was down for the third week in a row,
which meant the writing was pretty much on the wall for this project. If he couldn't pull
something out of his ass in the next month, he'd better figure out which country he wanted to
not see much of next. Somewhere with sun would be good - Kuwait, Saudi Arabia - though
he'd be competing with half the engineers in the industry, the way OPEC was cutting back
production.
He rubbed at his eyes and decided to go check on the night shift over at the separation cells,
looking for inspiration. He stopped round the back of the plant, intending to have a quiet
smoke.
"MacDonald. Walter MacDonald. That new guy. Skinny. Don't say so much. Maritimer."
Cutter didn't recognise the voice, but he sure as hell recognised the tone and he didn't like it.
"Yeah, I know him. It's him that got Morley fired?" This voice Cutter did know. Jardine was
behind every kind of trouble that went down at the site. He did the stirring and the setting up,
but he was never there when the beatings happened or the goods got stolen.
"It's him. Told Pasternak he'd done it."
"Heard he's a faggot too." Shit. MacDonald's life could turn out even tougher than Cutter first
feared.
"Who told you that?"
"Johnny in payroll. Said that's how come MacDonald ended up here. Sent packing when his
Pop caught him going down on a guy." MacDonald had a beating coming; Jardine was going
to make sure of it. Cutter wasn't sure why it mattered so much to him, but he had to find a
way to help the guy.
"Figures. A faggot and a snitch. Probably hoping to get a raise by sucking some management
dick."
"Well he won't be sucking much after Morley and the boys have finished with him."
Cutter strode noisily round the corner. "Hey, fellas. Either of you got a light?"
---
"I want a word." MacDonald's voice was soft, as he slid his tray onto the table and sat down
across from Cutter. "Why'd you do it?"
"Couldn't help myself. Triumph of hope over experience." Cutter looked down at his plate.
"One day they might put actual meat in the food and I don't want to miss it."
"Jerk." MacDonald picked up his spoon, twirling it between his fingers. "Why'd you tell Jardine
and Butler that you reported Morley?"
"I did report Morley," Cutter deadpanned.
"Why?"
"He's a drunk. A drunk driving a 150 ton haul truck round an oil sands extraction site." He
sniffed dubiously at a forkful of stew. "Too many lives at risk. Not to mention the potential
property damage."
MacDonald tapped the spoon impatiently on the edge of the table. "Why did you tell them?"
Cutter shrugged. "You're new. Inexperienced. Thought I'd handle it for you." He shovelled up
more of his dinner. "Not bad, actually, the stew."
---
"MacDonald! Come with me." Butler and the other guys backed off, but made little attempt to
conceal what was going on. MacDonald stood where he'd been pinned against the massive
wheel of a haul truck and raised an eyebrow.
"Sorry gentleman, I hope it won't inconvenience you, but there's an urgent repair job needs
doing." Cutter strode off in the direction of his office, trying for exactly the right measure of
arrogant swagger, not daring to check that MacDonald was following.
He carried on past the weathered prefab that housed his office, towards the tailings ponds at
the edge of the site, not pausing until they were well out of sight of the plant. "Smoke,
Walter?"
"Duck." MacDonald spoke for the first time. "My friends call me Duck."
"Smoke, Duck?" Cutter held out the packet. "My friends call me Cutter. Everyone calls me
Cutter these days. My mother was the only one who called me Chris."
They smoked in silence, watching a skein of geese fly over the site. Cutter hadn't thought
beyond getting Duck away from the immediate danger, and he couldn't work out what came
next.
"Your mother. She died?" Duck squatted and pushed his cigarette stub into the grey earth.
Cutter nodded as Duck squinted up at him. "That when you came here?"
"No. I was doing this already. Needed a job that got me away from my dad. Wanted
something with travel opportunities. Sick of the small town thing." He surprised himself with
the mention of his father - it certainly wasn't part of his standard response.
"Not much different here. Everybody knows your business. Nowhere to hide." Duck
straightened up again, shoving his hands in his back pockets.
Cutter dug his heel into the oily mud, twisting it, watching the way it curled and clung to his
boot. "What about you? What are you running from."
Duck shook his head. "Not running." Cutter shot him a sceptical look.
"Just drifting. My dad died when I was a kid. I don't think anyone was sorry about that. He was
okay when he was sober, but so long as there was money he was drunk." He paused to light
another cigarette. "My mum was worn out by the time he died: too many crappy jobs and
night shifts. So there's just me; nobody to run from."
Duck's voice tailed off and he shrugged. Cutter stared down at his hands, rubbing at an old
scar, not interrupting.
"Running from the island maybe." Duck continued. "Looking for someplace where I fit in."
Cutter laughed. "What the fuck made you think you'd fit here?"
Duck smiled ruefully. "I'm here for the money. Six months working and keeping my mouth
shut and I'll have enough to get to the next place."
"And you're doing such an excellent job of keeping your mouth shut." Cutter caught himself
staring at Duck's mouth and looked away quickly. "Better be getting back, before someone
comes looking for you."
---
"So, why'd you need to run away from your dad?"
Cutter looked up from the production reports, and returned Duck's smile, pleased to see him
and pleased to see the coffee he was offering. "I was just…Christ, I didn't realise it was so
late." He tried to ignore the flush of warmth to his face. "Fuck. I really need a beer. But
coffee's good, thanks." He ran a hand through his hair, feeling suddenly adrift.
"Is he a drunk, your father?" Duck went on.
Cutter scrabbled for the familiar, anchored himself with his feelings for his father. "No, no. No
nothing like that. He's just an immature, commitment-phobic, controlling, emotionally-retarded
pain in the ass. And every minute I'm with him, I'm terrified that I'm just like him. Or if I'm not, I
will be."
Duck smiled. "I don't think so."
"You don't know me." Cutter was a scientist, always wary of confusing correlation and
causation. He re-examined the evidence and concluded - again - that Duck's smile was to
blame for the blushing and for the outbreak of butterflies in his stomach.
"I know you a little." Duck walked over to the door, closed and locked it, then turned and gave
Cutter a considering look. Cutter stared back, poised between caution and desire. In the end,
it was Duck's hand that made up his mind. He'd watched Duck's hands busy with cigarettes,
hooked in a mesh fence, but seeing that hand steady, curled around the door knob, made him
yearn to be touched. He clicked on the small desk lamp, walked over to where Duck waited,
and flicked off the buzzing fluorescent light.
"Yeah, I know you a little." Duck tilted Cutter's chin and then leaned forward to kiss him softly.
"You're not doing this to pay me back?." Cutter pulled back, suddenly cursed with guilt.
Duck looked down at himself. "Not obligation I'm feeling." He leaned in for another kiss, still
gentle, still questioning. Cutter pushed back in response, his tongue against Duck's lips, his
hands reaching for Duck's hips.
Duck held Cutter's face steady while his body pushed forward, dizzying Cutter with the
contact made and the possibilities withheld. "Still want me to keep my mouth shut?" Duck
whispered.
Cutter swallowed. "No. That wasn't what I had in mind." He closed his
eyes and breathed deeply as Duck rolled his hips. "God. Please."
Duck grinned and kissed him harder, opening his mouth, letting Cutter push in. He hung on to
Cutter's shoulders, biting at his neck and jaw, as Cutter unzipped their pants and fumbled his
hand around them both. Duck added his long fingers to complete the grip and together they
pulled and twisted until they both came. Urgently. Messily.
---
Duck ignored the rain and leaned on the fence next to Cutter, stealing the half-smoked
cigarette from between his fingers. "I'm leaving at the end of the month. Earned enough to get
me to the next place."
"Know where that is yet?" Cutter would miss Duck, but he'd be moving on soon as well. He
was hopeful about a couple of the job applications he'd sent off last week.
"Yeah." Duck flicked the butt into a puddle. "I'm going home. I think that's where I don't fit the
best."
Title: Smalltown
Fandom: Men With Brooms/Wilby Wonderful (Cutter/Duck)
Author: lamentables
Length: 1,800 words
Rating: mildly pornsome
Summary: There's only one good use for a small town: you hate it and you know you'll have to leave
Author's notes: Massive thanks to meresy and vsee for thoughtful commentary on the first draft and to china_shop for awesome nit-picking of the revised version.
When you're growing up in a small town
You know you'll grow down in a small town
There's only one good use for a small town
You hate it and you know you'll have to leave
- Lou Reed & John Cale
"Hey, MacDonald!" Cutter caught the door as MacDonald slammed out of the mostly empty
canteen. He watched MacDonald plunge headlong across the yard, heedless of puddles and
crates of discarded equipment. "Wait up!"
MacDonald paused at the fence and hooked his fingers through the mesh, head hanging.
Cutter strode after him, beer bottle still dangling loosely in his fingers.
They stood in silence for a while as Cutter drained the rest of the bottle. He didn't offer to
share. He'd never seen MacDonald drink and, in a place like this, any man who didn't drink
had to have good reason.
"You know, while I do admire your dedication to speaking the truth, I have to tell you that
you're not winning any friends in the Canadian oil industry, MacDonald."
"Yeah. Well." MacDonald shrugged, still not looking up.
"Why? Why'd you have to tell them it was you who made the complaint about Morley." Cutter
figured the guy for a loner, but this could make his life really tough.
"You can't let a drunk drive a 150 ton haul truck. And he's a mean drunk too."
"I didn't ask why you reported him. I asked why you blabbed about it. Learn to keep your
mouth shut, MacDonald." Cutter dug out a couple of cigarettes and handed one over.
---
Cutter looked at the stats again and sighed. The yield was down for the third week in a row,
which meant the writing was pretty much on the wall for this project. If he couldn't pull
something out of his ass in the next month, he'd better figure out which country he wanted to
not see much of next. Somewhere with sun would be good - Kuwait, Saudi Arabia - though
he'd be competing with half the engineers in the industry, the way OPEC was cutting back
production.
He rubbed at his eyes and decided to go check on the night shift over at the separation cells,
looking for inspiration. He stopped round the back of the plant, intending to have a quiet
smoke.
"MacDonald. Walter MacDonald. That new guy. Skinny. Don't say so much. Maritimer."
Cutter didn't recognise the voice, but he sure as hell recognised the tone and he didn't like it.
"Yeah, I know him. It's him that got Morley fired?" This voice Cutter did know. Jardine was
behind every kind of trouble that went down at the site. He did the stirring and the setting up,
but he was never there when the beatings happened or the goods got stolen.
"It's him. Told Pasternak he'd done it."
"Heard he's a faggot too." Shit. MacDonald's life could turn out even tougher than Cutter first
feared.
"Who told you that?"
"Johnny in payroll. Said that's how come MacDonald ended up here. Sent packing when his
Pop caught him going down on a guy." MacDonald had a beating coming; Jardine was going
to make sure of it. Cutter wasn't sure why it mattered so much to him, but he had to find a
way to help the guy.
"Figures. A faggot and a snitch. Probably hoping to get a raise by sucking some management
dick."
"Well he won't be sucking much after Morley and the boys have finished with him."
Cutter strode noisily round the corner. "Hey, fellas. Either of you got a light?"
---
"I want a word." MacDonald's voice was soft, as he slid his tray onto the table and sat down
across from Cutter. "Why'd you do it?"
"Couldn't help myself. Triumph of hope over experience." Cutter looked down at his plate.
"One day they might put actual meat in the food and I don't want to miss it."
"Jerk." MacDonald picked up his spoon, twirling it between his fingers. "Why'd you tell Jardine
and Butler that you reported Morley?"
"I did report Morley," Cutter deadpanned.
"Why?"
"He's a drunk. A drunk driving a 150 ton haul truck round an oil sands extraction site." He
sniffed dubiously at a forkful of stew. "Too many lives at risk. Not to mention the potential
property damage."
MacDonald tapped the spoon impatiently on the edge of the table. "Why did you tell them?"
Cutter shrugged. "You're new. Inexperienced. Thought I'd handle it for you." He shovelled up
more of his dinner. "Not bad, actually, the stew."
---
"MacDonald! Come with me." Butler and the other guys backed off, but made little attempt to
conceal what was going on. MacDonald stood where he'd been pinned against the massive
wheel of a haul truck and raised an eyebrow.
"Sorry gentleman, I hope it won't inconvenience you, but there's an urgent repair job needs
doing." Cutter strode off in the direction of his office, trying for exactly the right measure of
arrogant swagger, not daring to check that MacDonald was following.
He carried on past the weathered prefab that housed his office, towards the tailings ponds at
the edge of the site, not pausing until they were well out of sight of the plant. "Smoke,
Walter?"
"Duck." MacDonald spoke for the first time. "My friends call me Duck."
"Smoke, Duck?" Cutter held out the packet. "My friends call me Cutter. Everyone calls me
Cutter these days. My mother was the only one who called me Chris."
They smoked in silence, watching a skein of geese fly over the site. Cutter hadn't thought
beyond getting Duck away from the immediate danger, and he couldn't work out what came
next.
"Your mother. She died?" Duck squatted and pushed his cigarette stub into the grey earth.
Cutter nodded as Duck squinted up at him. "That when you came here?"
"No. I was doing this already. Needed a job that got me away from my dad. Wanted
something with travel opportunities. Sick of the small town thing." He surprised himself with
the mention of his father - it certainly wasn't part of his standard response.
"Not much different here. Everybody knows your business. Nowhere to hide." Duck
straightened up again, shoving his hands in his back pockets.
Cutter dug his heel into the oily mud, twisting it, watching the way it curled and clung to his
boot. "What about you? What are you running from."
Duck shook his head. "Not running." Cutter shot him a sceptical look.
"Just drifting. My dad died when I was a kid. I don't think anyone was sorry about that. He was
okay when he was sober, but so long as there was money he was drunk." He paused to light
another cigarette. "My mum was worn out by the time he died: too many crappy jobs and
night shifts. So there's just me; nobody to run from."
Duck's voice tailed off and he shrugged. Cutter stared down at his hands, rubbing at an old
scar, not interrupting.
"Running from the island maybe." Duck continued. "Looking for someplace where I fit in."
Cutter laughed. "What the fuck made you think you'd fit here?"
Duck smiled ruefully. "I'm here for the money. Six months working and keeping my mouth
shut and I'll have enough to get to the next place."
"And you're doing such an excellent job of keeping your mouth shut." Cutter caught himself
staring at Duck's mouth and looked away quickly. "Better be getting back, before someone
comes looking for you."
---
"So, why'd you need to run away from your dad?"
Cutter looked up from the production reports, and returned Duck's smile, pleased to see him
and pleased to see the coffee he was offering. "I was just…Christ, I didn't realise it was so
late." He tried to ignore the flush of warmth to his face. "Fuck. I really need a beer. But
coffee's good, thanks." He ran a hand through his hair, feeling suddenly adrift.
"Is he a drunk, your father?" Duck went on.
Cutter scrabbled for the familiar, anchored himself with his feelings for his father. "No, no. No
nothing like that. He's just an immature, commitment-phobic, controlling, emotionally-retarded
pain in the ass. And every minute I'm with him, I'm terrified that I'm just like him. Or if I'm not, I
will be."
Duck smiled. "I don't think so."
"You don't know me." Cutter was a scientist, always wary of confusing correlation and
causation. He re-examined the evidence and concluded - again - that Duck's smile was to
blame for the blushing and for the outbreak of butterflies in his stomach.
"I know you a little." Duck walked over to the door, closed and locked it, then turned and gave
Cutter a considering look. Cutter stared back, poised between caution and desire. In the end,
it was Duck's hand that made up his mind. He'd watched Duck's hands busy with cigarettes,
hooked in a mesh fence, but seeing that hand steady, curled around the door knob, made him
yearn to be touched. He clicked on the small desk lamp, walked over to where Duck waited,
and flicked off the buzzing fluorescent light.
"Yeah, I know you a little." Duck tilted Cutter's chin and then leaned forward to kiss him softly.
"You're not doing this to pay me back?." Cutter pulled back, suddenly cursed with guilt.
Duck looked down at himself. "Not obligation I'm feeling." He leaned in for another kiss, still
gentle, still questioning. Cutter pushed back in response, his tongue against Duck's lips, his
hands reaching for Duck's hips.
Duck held Cutter's face steady while his body pushed forward, dizzying Cutter with the
contact made and the possibilities withheld. "Still want me to keep my mouth shut?" Duck
whispered.
Cutter swallowed. "No. That wasn't what I had in mind." He closed his
eyes and breathed deeply as Duck rolled his hips. "God. Please."
Duck grinned and kissed him harder, opening his mouth, letting Cutter push in. He hung on to
Cutter's shoulders, biting at his neck and jaw, as Cutter unzipped their pants and fumbled his
hand around them both. Duck added his long fingers to complete the grip and together they
pulled and twisted until they both came. Urgently. Messily.
---
Duck ignored the rain and leaned on the fence next to Cutter, stealing the half-smoked
cigarette from between his fingers. "I'm leaving at the end of the month. Earned enough to get
me to the next place."
"Know where that is yet?" Cutter would miss Duck, but he'd be moving on soon as well. He
was hopeful about a couple of the job applications he'd sent off last week.
"Yeah." Duck flicked the butt into a puddle. "I'm going home. I think that's where I don't fit the
best."