Wilby Wonderful fic: "The Epiphanies of Dan Jarvis"
Title: The Epiphanies of Dan Jarvis
Author: Signe
Fandom: Wilby Wonderful
Pairing: Duck/Dan
Rating: R
Word count: 3,570 words
Notes: This was my 'proper' yuletide story, written for villainny. Betaed by the very wonderful vegetariansushi, who is a real treasure.
The Epiphanies of Dan Jarvis
Dan has had a ridiculous number of epiphanies in the space of a week. He thinks you're probably meant to have one a year; fewer, even, maybe half a dozen in a lifetime, especially if they're as huge as his. And he's not even an epiphany kind of guy. He's the sort of person who gets on with life quietly, and life has always let him. Probably hasn't even noticed him, so it's more than a bit of a shock when he keeps having blazing realizations that things have to change.
The first is a slap to the face - literal and metaphorical - Val telling him she hopes he'll rot in hell. No matter what else she says to him, he's always going to hear that as a refrain underneath, I hope you rot in hell, Dan Jarvis. He can't even tell himself it's not true or not deserved, because at that point he thinks he hated himself even more than Val did. Thing is, he actually thinks he'd rather rot in hell than rot in Wilby, so he decides he may as well get there sooner rather than later. No point hanging around (he's always been fond of bad puns, and that's probably his worst yet).
He's never been a great one for planning, but he's never had such a string of disasters either. It shouldn't be this difficult to kill yourself - other people manage it all the time, and while he can't deny he's clumsy at times, he's not stupid or incompetent. He ought to be able to get this right.
But all the failed attempts add up, so by the time he has his second epiphany, standing on a chair in Buddy's mom's old house, noose around his neck, he's convinced that he's not meant to die after all. Hell can wait. He can still feel Duck's hand against his face, kindly and wanting, and the sharp-sting of Val's slap has faded under the sense-memory of Duck's calloused fingers, enough that Wilby doesn't seem worse than hell after all. It seems like somewhere he can have a future. Maybe a good future, even, and it seems like a hope worth holding out for. When the chair breaks under him, he could cry with disappointment that everything's gone wrong yet again.
It's a shock when he wakes up and sees sunlight. The good kind of shock, and that's when he knows he was right about wanting to live after all, because otherwise he wouldn't feel such overwhelming relief, such joy at the sight of the sun slipping in through the window and catching warm and bright on his blankets. It's like being on a high - not that he's ever been high, but he thinks this is what it must be like - and it lasts through Duck's visit and on into the next day. A glorious high where everyone seems beautiful and life feels wonderful and even hospital food doesn't taste half bad.
Carol comes to see him. It's desperately awkward. She has flowers, a huge bouquet that overwhelm Duck's offering but look out of place in the jam jar, which is all the nurse can find. Carol stumbles around an apology, and Dan stumbles around thanking her and reassuring her (he knows about the cupboard under the stairs, but he doesn't blame her, and if it weren't for her, he'd be dead) and then she's crying, quietly but messily, tears and snot on her face and she's muttering nonsense about coffee and smoking and Buddy and just wanting a future, and Dan isn't sure she even remembers he's still in the room. She hides her face in the blankets on his bed, and he pats her uncomfortably on her hair. A few minutes later, she gets up, finds tissues on his bedside table, cleans herself up, and says a tight goodbye as though none of it had happened.
Buddy comes to see him too, and Sandra, and they're kindly and slightly awkward, like anyone would be. After all, what do you say in a situation like this? Dan doesn't mind though - he even welcomes the visits - despite the silences and the fumble for words. He doesn't mind, because he's on a high and he's oddly happy. He's had the worst week of his life, and he's come through it, and he's even gotten something good out of it. He's got Duck McDonald looking at him as though he's someone special, someone desirable, and he's never felt that way before.
He could happily live forever feeling like this.
*
He doesn't expect the third epiphany. He thinks he's through with them, at least for a while. But he wakes up to it, the third day in hospital, the day he's going to be discharged. Wakes up to the loss of the high he's been on. Wakes up to whispers outside his door that he can't fully hear, just odd words: newspaper, the Watch, one of them. Even though he can't catch all the words, the tone is obvious, and it doesn't take much to make sense of them. That's when he realizes that he's not a brave man. He doesn't want a parade, he doesn't to be different, he doesn't want to stand up for his rights, and he certainly doesn't want to be stared at every time he goes out his house. He doesn't want any of that, and he doesn't think he can deal with any of that. If that means he has to run away, then so be it. He can cope with being a coward easier than he can cope with being the island sideshow.
He goes straight back to the Wildwood Motel when he's discharged from the hospital. It's brown and bare and miserable, and even the music on the radio is soulful stuff that doesn't help any. It feels even less like home than the hospital did. It's empty, and anywhere else he could go will be empty. He's never been on his own before, not for more than the odd few days once, not long after they were married, when Val went to visit her family on the West Coast and Dan couldn't afford to take the time off work to go with her. He's not quite sure how he's going to manage. He's always liked the peace and quiet, liked having odd moments on his own, no one around to nag him if he day-dreamed a bit. But this isn't a peaceful quiet, it's more of a dead quiet, and it's not an odd moment, it's-it's however long it will be. It might be his whole lifetime even, because Dan's not a great one for going out and meeting new people, and he doesn't want another Val, because he'll only mess up again, he knows he will. And he doesn't think he can have Duck, not really. He's not brave enough to take what Duck is offering.
Besides, Dan doesn't know what to make of Duck. He can't figure out why Duck would follow him around, why he'd bother to come visit him, why he'd like him even (because the liking is obvious, even to Dan, and he knows he can be oblivious at times). It's not that Dan's not grateful (he is), and it's not that he doesn't like Duck (he does), it's just that he doesn't understand. He can't understand anyone wanting him, and it seems like there's been too much going on in his life that he doesn't understand, or can't control.
Duck left his phone number scribbled on the back of a crumpled receipt from Shelburne's, left it on the bedside table under Dan's water jug the second time he visited. Dan slipped it in his pocket when he left, and now he smoothes it out, wearing the cheap paper soft and smudging the pencil, before he throws it in the trash. The cleaner's due round in a few minutes; if he goes out for a drive now, he won't be tempted to change his mind and pull it out.
He remembers the number anyway though. He just doesn't call it, doesn't know what he could say if he did. He knows what he wants to say, but that's a whole other matter. Wanting something doesn't make it easy or possible, and it certainly doesn't make it the right thing to do. Dan's always been big on doing the right thing, leastways up until the day he decided to kill himself, but that was just one day. One day doesn't count, not if you put it behind you and try to forget it.
He has stuff to deal with, the house to sell - he leaves that all in Carol's hands, and she even sorts out Val's share for him. He puts the video store on the market too, and gets an offer just the next day. He doesn't take it though: says it's too low, says he needs to think about it more.
He thinks about it in a rented bachelor on the mainland. Thinks about a lot of things. Val phones - she's gone back to her home town - and reminds him to sign the divorce papers, even though he did so the moment he'd gotten them. He says yes and no at the appropriate places, apologizes a lot, and can't remember a time when he used to love the sound of her voice. She hangs up on him eventually, with one last angry don't forget, even though he's told her the papers are in the post. He guesses she didn't hear him.
He gets a job easily enough, store clerk in a Value Village. Dull, and for a while it's hard getting used to being told what to do instead of being his own boss, but it pays the rent and basics, and that's all a single man really needs. At least, that's what he tells himself when he's sitting in the apartment - he doesn't call it home - sprawled out on the sofa with no one to complain that his legs are too long and he takes up too much space. No one to brush up against, no one to share a beer with. But then a man doesn't need those things. It's just that even a small place seems awful large when you're the only one in it.
*
He gets up one day in November and is dressed for work before he realizes it's Monday and his day off. He goes out anyway, gets in his car, and before he knows it, he's buying a ticket for the ferry across to Wilby Island. The journey across the water is longer than he remembered. Shorter too. By the time the ferry's shuddering to a stop, he's had long enough to think about where he's going, but nowhere near long enough for his heart to stop racing with nervousness.
He parks at the harbor so he can stretch his legs for a bit. He has no particular destination in mind, but left leads to The Watch and his old house, and they're not what he came here for. He didn't come to wallow in what he's lost, or remind himself of all the mistakes he's made. So he goes right, planning to walk for a while, but as he passes Iggy's he slows down, slower, until he finds himself turning.
There's a full menu behind the counter now, rounded chalk capitals, but it's too early for anything more than coffee and a muffin. He means to ask for them to go, but forgets, and when Sandra pushes the plate towards him he automatically takes a seat on the nearest stool.
She nods at him, like she's looking him over and liking what she sees. "You're looking good," she tells him. "Life on the mainland suiting you?"
He nods his answer, a yes, because he's not one to say he's anything other than fine if asked, whatever the truth, and takes a bite of muffin. It's good, moist and still slightly warm, rich with blueberries, and he compliments her through his mouthful.
She laughs. "Got the kitchen going properly now. Even got a real chef for dinners."
She's proud, he can tell.
"I'll have to come back later. For dinner," he says.
"You're staying a while?" Sandra asks, and he's about to say no, to deny being here for more than a few hours, when he realizes this is the best he's felt in ages. The most alive. Less than an hour back on the island, and he's feeling like he's home. This is why he came, to see how it would feel, and it feels good. Better than good.
It seems like a waste to spend the life he's saved on not feeling alive.
"Yes," he says. "I'm coming back. I'm going to open the store again," he adds, and it doesn't feel like a spur of the moment decision; it feels like he's been leading up to this all along. The rented studio, the job, all were just placeholders for this.
She smiles at him like it's the best news she's heard all day, and he can feel his own grin matching hers.
"It'll be good to have you back," she says. And then she adds, slyly, "And Duck'll be pleased to see you."
Dan can feel his blush, but he doesn't mind too much, because Sandra sounds like someone who's found what she's been looking for, and wants everyone else happy, too. And because it means Duck is still single, and Dan might not be too late to get to know Duck, get to understand why he likes Dan.
*
He doesn't go back to Iggy's for dinner. Not that day, anyway. There isn't time - he doesn't want to waste any more time on the half-life he's settled into.
His boss doesn't seem too surprised when he quits his job.
"Going back to Wilby Island?" he asks.
"Yes."
"I'm from P.E. myself. It gets in your blood after a while, the island. You always end up going back, no matter what. Even if you're not born and bred, some people are just meant to be islanders."
Dan thinks about that afterwards, rolls the idea of being an islander around in his head, and he likes it. After all, a place doesn't have to be perfect, and you don't have to love it unconditionally to belong there.
*
It all goes quick and easy after that. It's off season, no tourists, so he rents a small place over the phone. It's on Glen Cove, cheap if he signs up for three months. Packing doesn't take him long, not when most of his life has already been packed up and thrown away. It makes him feel light, almost giddy, and he thinks he's incredibly lucky to be able to start out again like this.
Sandra's taken in the new stock delivery for Jarvis Video for him, and he spends his first morning back in Wilby stocking the shelves, putting up new posters, phoning The Sentinel to place an ad. He's on his knees in the corner of the store sorting cartoons into order when the new bell above the door jangles.
"Sorry, we're not open yet," he calls out.
"That's okay," a familiar voice says.
Dan knocks his head on a shelf in his haste to get up, and stands there rubbing his forehead ruefully.
"Sorry, didn't mean to startle you," Duck says.
"That's okay."
"You're bleeding." Dan's puzzled until Duck points. "Your forehead," he says. "Where you just banged it."
He pulls out a large white handkerchief from his overall pocket, and holds it out. Dan takes it and dabs awkwardly at his forehead, not quite sure where the cut is because he honestly can't feel a thing, not with Duck standing here before him. Duck smiles at him, and places his hand over Dan's, wiping his temple gently.
"It's not bad," he says. "No need for stitches or anything."
There's a pause, and it's a little bit uncomfortable, but more in the anticipatory way than anything else. Dan's excited, and it's a good feeling.
"I brought coffee," Duck says, like he's only just remembered, and points to the counter where there are two takeout cups from Iggy's. "Double-double, right?" he asks. Dan's almost embarrassed at how thrilled he is that Duck remembers exactly how he likes it when they only had coffee together the one time in the hospital.
It's too hot to drink, really, but Dan sips at it for something to do. He thinks he might do something crazy, like push Duck against the shelves and kiss him right here and now if he doesn't have something else to occupy his hands.
"So, you're back for good then," Duck says between sipping his own cup, and he looks so hopeful that Dan aches inside. He'd never really thought enough about how Duck might've felt about him leaving so abruptly, not even saying goodbye, and he wants to make up for it now. Somehow.
"Yes," he says, and hopes something of the way he feels comes out in the way he says it. Something of the hope and something of how much he's missed Duck, even if he'd not realized it fully until recently.
"You got any plans for dinner tonight?" Duck asks.
Dan has. Sandra's invited him around - first thing she did when he collected the stock this morning - but he feels sure she'll understand if he postpones it for another day. "No. Nothing planned," he answers.
Duck shuffles around for a second. "Want to come to my place. I can't cook anything fancy, but-"
"Yes," Dan interrupts. "I'd like that." And that's when he decides to heck with the place and time. He puts his coffee down, then takes Duck's coffee out of his hand and puts that down on the counter too.
Duck's face has flecks of paint on it, and his skin is rough, but his lips are surprisingly soft.
*
Dinner is spaghetti and meatballs, and Dan has never been able to eat spaghetti without making a mess. Two forkfuls in, and he has tomato sauce down his chin. Two more, and he has a strand of spaghetti on his shirt and Duck is laughing at him.
"You made spaghetti on purpose, didn't you?" Dan says.
"It's always good for an ice-breaker," Duck says bashfully, as though he's not sure how Dan's going to react to anything.
Duck's right about the ice-breaker - it's hard to be formal when you're both attempting (and failing) to spin spaghetti around your forks, and when there's sauce on both of you and on the table. Duck throws Dan a towel from the kitchen area after they've done, and then uses the same one himself rather than getting a clean one. It feels intimate, sharing like that.
Sitting together on Duck's lumpy sofa, drinking mugs of tea - Dan remembers now that Duck doesn't drink, and he's glad he didn't bring a bottle of wine - feels intimate too. So leaning into each other for a kiss seems natural. As is sliding his hand under Duck's flannel shirt and vest, and everything else that leads to him spread out on the sofa, pants around his bony ankles, while Duck sucks him off.
It's been a long time - he's not been sucked off since the Watch scandal broke, and he's not even jerked off in ages - so he tries to last, but he can't. And he tries to warn Duck, but he's coming before he can get the words out, and then he feels like a fool. But Duck just crawls up onto the sofa, half beside him, half on top of him, palming Dan's spent cock gently, and kisses him firmly on the mouth. Duck tastes of come and tomato and spicy meatballs, and it's gross, but Dan doesn't mind. He's sure Duck won't mind if he tastes the same shortly too, because Dan's planning on sucking Duck off just as soon as he can bring himself to move.
*
When the lease on his apartment runs out, Dan doesn't renew it. He doesn't need to, not when his bags are at the bottom of Duck's closet, and his socks are muddled up with Duck's, and when the few photos he's kept - a large glossy one of his parents and a small faded black and white one of Petra, his first dog - are sitting side by side with a photo of him and Duck on their dresser. It's not as though he's been using it for the last month anyway. And everyone knows that.
It's not that he's had another epiphany or anything fancy like that. It wasn't anything sudden - it might have seemed it at the time, but with hindsight, everything was building up to this. It's what was meant to be all along, he just wasn't ready first chance around, is all. Now he's fit right back in Wilby, and into a life that feels right for him, and not even Irene's sour glances and snide remarks are enough to spoil it. He's discovered that he's braver than he thought he was, brave enough to do this.
And maybe, just maybe, they'll have that parade one summer, and even if he's not marching at the head of it (because there's a limit to his bravery, he knows that), he'll be there.
Author: Signe
Fandom: Wilby Wonderful
Pairing: Duck/Dan
Rating: R
Word count: 3,570 words
Notes: This was my 'proper' yuletide story, written for villainny. Betaed by the very wonderful vegetariansushi, who is a real treasure.
The Epiphanies of Dan Jarvis
Dan has had a ridiculous number of epiphanies in the space of a week. He thinks you're probably meant to have one a year; fewer, even, maybe half a dozen in a lifetime, especially if they're as huge as his. And he's not even an epiphany kind of guy. He's the sort of person who gets on with life quietly, and life has always let him. Probably hasn't even noticed him, so it's more than a bit of a shock when he keeps having blazing realizations that things have to change.
The first is a slap to the face - literal and metaphorical - Val telling him she hopes he'll rot in hell. No matter what else she says to him, he's always going to hear that as a refrain underneath, I hope you rot in hell, Dan Jarvis. He can't even tell himself it's not true or not deserved, because at that point he thinks he hated himself even more than Val did. Thing is, he actually thinks he'd rather rot in hell than rot in Wilby, so he decides he may as well get there sooner rather than later. No point hanging around (he's always been fond of bad puns, and that's probably his worst yet).
He's never been a great one for planning, but he's never had such a string of disasters either. It shouldn't be this difficult to kill yourself - other people manage it all the time, and while he can't deny he's clumsy at times, he's not stupid or incompetent. He ought to be able to get this right.
But all the failed attempts add up, so by the time he has his second epiphany, standing on a chair in Buddy's mom's old house, noose around his neck, he's convinced that he's not meant to die after all. Hell can wait. He can still feel Duck's hand against his face, kindly and wanting, and the sharp-sting of Val's slap has faded under the sense-memory of Duck's calloused fingers, enough that Wilby doesn't seem worse than hell after all. It seems like somewhere he can have a future. Maybe a good future, even, and it seems like a hope worth holding out for. When the chair breaks under him, he could cry with disappointment that everything's gone wrong yet again.
It's a shock when he wakes up and sees sunlight. The good kind of shock, and that's when he knows he was right about wanting to live after all, because otherwise he wouldn't feel such overwhelming relief, such joy at the sight of the sun slipping in through the window and catching warm and bright on his blankets. It's like being on a high - not that he's ever been high, but he thinks this is what it must be like - and it lasts through Duck's visit and on into the next day. A glorious high where everyone seems beautiful and life feels wonderful and even hospital food doesn't taste half bad.
Carol comes to see him. It's desperately awkward. She has flowers, a huge bouquet that overwhelm Duck's offering but look out of place in the jam jar, which is all the nurse can find. Carol stumbles around an apology, and Dan stumbles around thanking her and reassuring her (he knows about the cupboard under the stairs, but he doesn't blame her, and if it weren't for her, he'd be dead) and then she's crying, quietly but messily, tears and snot on her face and she's muttering nonsense about coffee and smoking and Buddy and just wanting a future, and Dan isn't sure she even remembers he's still in the room. She hides her face in the blankets on his bed, and he pats her uncomfortably on her hair. A few minutes later, she gets up, finds tissues on his bedside table, cleans herself up, and says a tight goodbye as though none of it had happened.
Buddy comes to see him too, and Sandra, and they're kindly and slightly awkward, like anyone would be. After all, what do you say in a situation like this? Dan doesn't mind though - he even welcomes the visits - despite the silences and the fumble for words. He doesn't mind, because he's on a high and he's oddly happy. He's had the worst week of his life, and he's come through it, and he's even gotten something good out of it. He's got Duck McDonald looking at him as though he's someone special, someone desirable, and he's never felt that way before.
He could happily live forever feeling like this.
*
He doesn't expect the third epiphany. He thinks he's through with them, at least for a while. But he wakes up to it, the third day in hospital, the day he's going to be discharged. Wakes up to the loss of the high he's been on. Wakes up to whispers outside his door that he can't fully hear, just odd words: newspaper, the Watch, one of them. Even though he can't catch all the words, the tone is obvious, and it doesn't take much to make sense of them. That's when he realizes that he's not a brave man. He doesn't want a parade, he doesn't to be different, he doesn't want to stand up for his rights, and he certainly doesn't want to be stared at every time he goes out his house. He doesn't want any of that, and he doesn't think he can deal with any of that. If that means he has to run away, then so be it. He can cope with being a coward easier than he can cope with being the island sideshow.
He goes straight back to the Wildwood Motel when he's discharged from the hospital. It's brown and bare and miserable, and even the music on the radio is soulful stuff that doesn't help any. It feels even less like home than the hospital did. It's empty, and anywhere else he could go will be empty. He's never been on his own before, not for more than the odd few days once, not long after they were married, when Val went to visit her family on the West Coast and Dan couldn't afford to take the time off work to go with her. He's not quite sure how he's going to manage. He's always liked the peace and quiet, liked having odd moments on his own, no one around to nag him if he day-dreamed a bit. But this isn't a peaceful quiet, it's more of a dead quiet, and it's not an odd moment, it's-it's however long it will be. It might be his whole lifetime even, because Dan's not a great one for going out and meeting new people, and he doesn't want another Val, because he'll only mess up again, he knows he will. And he doesn't think he can have Duck, not really. He's not brave enough to take what Duck is offering.
Besides, Dan doesn't know what to make of Duck. He can't figure out why Duck would follow him around, why he'd bother to come visit him, why he'd like him even (because the liking is obvious, even to Dan, and he knows he can be oblivious at times). It's not that Dan's not grateful (he is), and it's not that he doesn't like Duck (he does), it's just that he doesn't understand. He can't understand anyone wanting him, and it seems like there's been too much going on in his life that he doesn't understand, or can't control.
Duck left his phone number scribbled on the back of a crumpled receipt from Shelburne's, left it on the bedside table under Dan's water jug the second time he visited. Dan slipped it in his pocket when he left, and now he smoothes it out, wearing the cheap paper soft and smudging the pencil, before he throws it in the trash. The cleaner's due round in a few minutes; if he goes out for a drive now, he won't be tempted to change his mind and pull it out.
He remembers the number anyway though. He just doesn't call it, doesn't know what he could say if he did. He knows what he wants to say, but that's a whole other matter. Wanting something doesn't make it easy or possible, and it certainly doesn't make it the right thing to do. Dan's always been big on doing the right thing, leastways up until the day he decided to kill himself, but that was just one day. One day doesn't count, not if you put it behind you and try to forget it.
He has stuff to deal with, the house to sell - he leaves that all in Carol's hands, and she even sorts out Val's share for him. He puts the video store on the market too, and gets an offer just the next day. He doesn't take it though: says it's too low, says he needs to think about it more.
He thinks about it in a rented bachelor on the mainland. Thinks about a lot of things. Val phones - she's gone back to her home town - and reminds him to sign the divorce papers, even though he did so the moment he'd gotten them. He says yes and no at the appropriate places, apologizes a lot, and can't remember a time when he used to love the sound of her voice. She hangs up on him eventually, with one last angry don't forget, even though he's told her the papers are in the post. He guesses she didn't hear him.
He gets a job easily enough, store clerk in a Value Village. Dull, and for a while it's hard getting used to being told what to do instead of being his own boss, but it pays the rent and basics, and that's all a single man really needs. At least, that's what he tells himself when he's sitting in the apartment - he doesn't call it home - sprawled out on the sofa with no one to complain that his legs are too long and he takes up too much space. No one to brush up against, no one to share a beer with. But then a man doesn't need those things. It's just that even a small place seems awful large when you're the only one in it.
*
He gets up one day in November and is dressed for work before he realizes it's Monday and his day off. He goes out anyway, gets in his car, and before he knows it, he's buying a ticket for the ferry across to Wilby Island. The journey across the water is longer than he remembered. Shorter too. By the time the ferry's shuddering to a stop, he's had long enough to think about where he's going, but nowhere near long enough for his heart to stop racing with nervousness.
He parks at the harbor so he can stretch his legs for a bit. He has no particular destination in mind, but left leads to The Watch and his old house, and they're not what he came here for. He didn't come to wallow in what he's lost, or remind himself of all the mistakes he's made. So he goes right, planning to walk for a while, but as he passes Iggy's he slows down, slower, until he finds himself turning.
There's a full menu behind the counter now, rounded chalk capitals, but it's too early for anything more than coffee and a muffin. He means to ask for them to go, but forgets, and when Sandra pushes the plate towards him he automatically takes a seat on the nearest stool.
She nods at him, like she's looking him over and liking what she sees. "You're looking good," she tells him. "Life on the mainland suiting you?"
He nods his answer, a yes, because he's not one to say he's anything other than fine if asked, whatever the truth, and takes a bite of muffin. It's good, moist and still slightly warm, rich with blueberries, and he compliments her through his mouthful.
She laughs. "Got the kitchen going properly now. Even got a real chef for dinners."
She's proud, he can tell.
"I'll have to come back later. For dinner," he says.
"You're staying a while?" Sandra asks, and he's about to say no, to deny being here for more than a few hours, when he realizes this is the best he's felt in ages. The most alive. Less than an hour back on the island, and he's feeling like he's home. This is why he came, to see how it would feel, and it feels good. Better than good.
It seems like a waste to spend the life he's saved on not feeling alive.
"Yes," he says. "I'm coming back. I'm going to open the store again," he adds, and it doesn't feel like a spur of the moment decision; it feels like he's been leading up to this all along. The rented studio, the job, all were just placeholders for this.
She smiles at him like it's the best news she's heard all day, and he can feel his own grin matching hers.
"It'll be good to have you back," she says. And then she adds, slyly, "And Duck'll be pleased to see you."
Dan can feel his blush, but he doesn't mind too much, because Sandra sounds like someone who's found what she's been looking for, and wants everyone else happy, too. And because it means Duck is still single, and Dan might not be too late to get to know Duck, get to understand why he likes Dan.
*
He doesn't go back to Iggy's for dinner. Not that day, anyway. There isn't time - he doesn't want to waste any more time on the half-life he's settled into.
His boss doesn't seem too surprised when he quits his job.
"Going back to Wilby Island?" he asks.
"Yes."
"I'm from P.E. myself. It gets in your blood after a while, the island. You always end up going back, no matter what. Even if you're not born and bred, some people are just meant to be islanders."
Dan thinks about that afterwards, rolls the idea of being an islander around in his head, and he likes it. After all, a place doesn't have to be perfect, and you don't have to love it unconditionally to belong there.
*
It all goes quick and easy after that. It's off season, no tourists, so he rents a small place over the phone. It's on Glen Cove, cheap if he signs up for three months. Packing doesn't take him long, not when most of his life has already been packed up and thrown away. It makes him feel light, almost giddy, and he thinks he's incredibly lucky to be able to start out again like this.
Sandra's taken in the new stock delivery for Jarvis Video for him, and he spends his first morning back in Wilby stocking the shelves, putting up new posters, phoning The Sentinel to place an ad. He's on his knees in the corner of the store sorting cartoons into order when the new bell above the door jangles.
"Sorry, we're not open yet," he calls out.
"That's okay," a familiar voice says.
Dan knocks his head on a shelf in his haste to get up, and stands there rubbing his forehead ruefully.
"Sorry, didn't mean to startle you," Duck says.
"That's okay."
"You're bleeding." Dan's puzzled until Duck points. "Your forehead," he says. "Where you just banged it."
He pulls out a large white handkerchief from his overall pocket, and holds it out. Dan takes it and dabs awkwardly at his forehead, not quite sure where the cut is because he honestly can't feel a thing, not with Duck standing here before him. Duck smiles at him, and places his hand over Dan's, wiping his temple gently.
"It's not bad," he says. "No need for stitches or anything."
There's a pause, and it's a little bit uncomfortable, but more in the anticipatory way than anything else. Dan's excited, and it's a good feeling.
"I brought coffee," Duck says, like he's only just remembered, and points to the counter where there are two takeout cups from Iggy's. "Double-double, right?" he asks. Dan's almost embarrassed at how thrilled he is that Duck remembers exactly how he likes it when they only had coffee together the one time in the hospital.
It's too hot to drink, really, but Dan sips at it for something to do. He thinks he might do something crazy, like push Duck against the shelves and kiss him right here and now if he doesn't have something else to occupy his hands.
"So, you're back for good then," Duck says between sipping his own cup, and he looks so hopeful that Dan aches inside. He'd never really thought enough about how Duck might've felt about him leaving so abruptly, not even saying goodbye, and he wants to make up for it now. Somehow.
"Yes," he says, and hopes something of the way he feels comes out in the way he says it. Something of the hope and something of how much he's missed Duck, even if he'd not realized it fully until recently.
"You got any plans for dinner tonight?" Duck asks.
Dan has. Sandra's invited him around - first thing she did when he collected the stock this morning - but he feels sure she'll understand if he postpones it for another day. "No. Nothing planned," he answers.
Duck shuffles around for a second. "Want to come to my place. I can't cook anything fancy, but-"
"Yes," Dan interrupts. "I'd like that." And that's when he decides to heck with the place and time. He puts his coffee down, then takes Duck's coffee out of his hand and puts that down on the counter too.
Duck's face has flecks of paint on it, and his skin is rough, but his lips are surprisingly soft.
*
Dinner is spaghetti and meatballs, and Dan has never been able to eat spaghetti without making a mess. Two forkfuls in, and he has tomato sauce down his chin. Two more, and he has a strand of spaghetti on his shirt and Duck is laughing at him.
"You made spaghetti on purpose, didn't you?" Dan says.
"It's always good for an ice-breaker," Duck says bashfully, as though he's not sure how Dan's going to react to anything.
Duck's right about the ice-breaker - it's hard to be formal when you're both attempting (and failing) to spin spaghetti around your forks, and when there's sauce on both of you and on the table. Duck throws Dan a towel from the kitchen area after they've done, and then uses the same one himself rather than getting a clean one. It feels intimate, sharing like that.
Sitting together on Duck's lumpy sofa, drinking mugs of tea - Dan remembers now that Duck doesn't drink, and he's glad he didn't bring a bottle of wine - feels intimate too. So leaning into each other for a kiss seems natural. As is sliding his hand under Duck's flannel shirt and vest, and everything else that leads to him spread out on the sofa, pants around his bony ankles, while Duck sucks him off.
It's been a long time - he's not been sucked off since the Watch scandal broke, and he's not even jerked off in ages - so he tries to last, but he can't. And he tries to warn Duck, but he's coming before he can get the words out, and then he feels like a fool. But Duck just crawls up onto the sofa, half beside him, half on top of him, palming Dan's spent cock gently, and kisses him firmly on the mouth. Duck tastes of come and tomato and spicy meatballs, and it's gross, but Dan doesn't mind. He's sure Duck won't mind if he tastes the same shortly too, because Dan's planning on sucking Duck off just as soon as he can bring himself to move.
*
When the lease on his apartment runs out, Dan doesn't renew it. He doesn't need to, not when his bags are at the bottom of Duck's closet, and his socks are muddled up with Duck's, and when the few photos he's kept - a large glossy one of his parents and a small faded black and white one of Petra, his first dog - are sitting side by side with a photo of him and Duck on their dresser. It's not as though he's been using it for the last month anyway. And everyone knows that.
It's not that he's had another epiphany or anything fancy like that. It wasn't anything sudden - it might have seemed it at the time, but with hindsight, everything was building up to this. It's what was meant to be all along, he just wasn't ready first chance around, is all. Now he's fit right back in Wilby, and into a life that feels right for him, and not even Irene's sour glances and snide remarks are enough to spoil it. He's discovered that he's braver than he thought he was, brave enough to do this.
And maybe, just maybe, they'll have that parade one summer, and even if he's not marching at the head of it (because there's a limit to his bravery, he knows that), he'll be there.