Wilby fic: Wilby, Wonderful Wilby, by kuonji (PG-13)

[kuonji14]

Title: Wilby, Wonderful Wilby
Author: kuonji
Fandom: Wilby Wonderful 
Characters: ensemble
Pairings: various from the movie
Category: character study, romance, friendship 
Rating: PG-13
Words: ~10,080
Summary: One quiet, tumultuous, hopeful, everyday afternoon and evening, after the events of the movie...


Wilby, Wonderful Wilby
by kuonji

"You sure you'll be okay?"

Dan felt his smile -- he couldn't stop smiling! -- widen a fraction. "Yeah," he answered, his voice still slightly raspy. Even that filled him with joy, because it reminded him that he was alive. Alive and present, standing on his own two feet with the sun warming his shoulders and sea-salt and car exhaust blowing in his face, and possibly the world's most beautiful man staring into his eyes with a look that was somewhere between curious and worried.

The improbably named 'Duck' pursed his lips slightly and looked around the motel parking lot. Evidently a deliberate man, he returned his intense gaze to Dan before saying, "You know, I'm sure Carol can let you have your house back. It's not like people don't ever change their minds about selling."

"No," he said so quickly that he was cutting off Duck's last word. "I can't live there anymore."

"Oh," Duck said.

With not quite two days in each other's company, Dan was still getting to know the man, but already he'd learned that he said a lot with few words. There was a world of emotion --worry? confusion? disappointment? guardedness? -- all packed into that one tiny vowel.

It should tell Dan something that he was trying so hard to interpret each tiny rise and dip in Duck's voice, when even talking to Val had always seemed to be a hopeless chore.

"I mean," he hurriedly explained. "I might still stay in Wilby, but just not... there." Even if he could bear to live inside of those memories again, he'd already signed the house over to his wife. He'd felt he'd ultimately owed it to Val, even though she had been the one to leave him -- because he had never been with her in the first place.

He'd known an hour after the wedding that he shouldn't have married her, that it had been a terrible, terrible mistake that he would pay for, for the rest of his life -- and worse, that she would be forced to pay with him. He couldn't give her back the years that they had both lost, but he could at least give her a house and an easy divorce.

"Oh," Duck said again, in a different tone. He stuck his hands in the pockets of his light tan jacket and glanced away. That one was easy: abashed. But he rallied quickly, showing Dan an uncomplicated smile. Dan admired that about him. Duck always seemed so calm. So... secure. Dan didn't think he'd ever been like that, not even back when he'd thought of himself as successful. He'd always been under pressure to be something better, to be something more -- and later, to be something else, something normal.

"A high school friend of mine was thinking about subletting a room outside of town," Duck informed him in his thoughtful, steady-metered voice. "Maybe you could check it out. You know. While you're still deciding."

"Sounds like a good idea," Dan agreed, happy with the elegant solution, and that Duck had suggested it. He had been half-afraid that Duck would invite him to stay at his house, and afraid that he would say yes. A moment of reality intruded. "If you think he'll be okay with... me."

"I think she'll be okay. I could ask for you if you want."

"No, just give me her number."

Nodding, Duck pulled out a scratchpad and a pencil. He flipped past several sheets of measurements, notes, and mathematical longhand. The man didn't carry a cell phone, drove a work truck, did sums on paper. The simplicity of his life must be amazing. Dan wanted that. All his life he'd wanted that. But he'd had to get caught up in so many complications, it seemed, just to survive and now-- Now he'd found out that maybe he didn't need all those things after all.

Just the sun and the wind and somebody who could like him despite what he was. Could love him maybe, and because of what he was.

"Here." Duck handed him a torn off sheet. Dan glanced at the name, and then reread it.

"Sandra Anderson? I know her. She bought Iggy's Diner." And took the trouble to deliver him a cup of coffee. And sent him flowers at the hospital.

"See, you've got a head start already." Duck gave him that silly, encouraging grin that made Dan want to...

It wasn't until he saw Duck leaning toward him that he realized he'd been doing the same. He took a quick step back, and Duck blinked before lifting a hand to scratch his nose, as if that had been what he'd meant to do all along.

But Dan had glimpsed something on his face, and he recognized it viscerally even though it took his mind a moment to catch up. It was shocking somehow to see it here. Like this. It was the sort of look that, for Dan, belonged in furtive, dark places. Belonged, truthfully, with other men.

Not that he hadn't seen it on himself. Of course he had. He'd used to see that look -- that desperate, stupid, animal look -- every day in the mirror, in the life he'd had before he'd... died. Before he'd come back to this new life, where he felt inexplicably happy, and where a man brought him a corsage, for god's sake.

He had died once already. Maybe he was done paying.

Because for some reason, on Duck, that look didn't feel so stupid. In fact, it felt... clean. Honest.

It hit him suddenly: Everyone knew now, didn't they? Did it matter anymore?

Did it?

He swallowed nervously before asking the one person he thought might have an answer he could believe. "Duck," he said. The hoarseness in his voice wasn't only from his injuries. "We're standing in a parking lot in the middle of the afternoon. Somebody could see us. Hell, I'd be surprised if somebody isn't glued to a window right this instant watching us."

Duck merely shrugged. "I know. Small town." He looked so matter-of-fact. Fearless. Invincible. He cleared his throat and glanced back toward his truck. "I guess I should go. Get some work--"

Dan grabbed his shoulders and kissed the hell out of him.

***

"Damn it!"

Carol slapped the phone closed and dropped it in her purse. Hands in her hair, she looked around for something else to do and seized on the vase of flowers in the living room. She should dispose of it, maybe donate it to the hospital. Oh, she should have given it to Dan Jarvis. By now, he was probably out of the hospital already. She was so stupid.

"What's wrong?"

Buddy, her husband, stood at the kitchen doorway, probably ambling on out for the start of his late shift. He was always standing there, doing nothing, helping not at all, yet always judging her.

But why shouldn't he? She was a screw-up. She was a monster who had rather let a man die than lose a sale!

She picked up the glass vase, but suddenly Buddy was in her way. She glanced up, and quickly down again. "I need to put these in the car," she explained.

"What's wrong?" he repeated. He took the vase out of her hands, set it down, and took hold of her shoulders.

"Thank you for lunch," she said instead of answering. "You were right. That was nice."

"Carol." It was the irritation in his voice that made her look up. It surprised her. He usually sounded tired when she went into manic mode. Sort of resigned. Was he irritated because he actually cared this time? Or because he was truly, finally, giving up on her? He couldn't. Not when she was trying so hard. He was... He was her Buddy!

He was the one who had asked and asked and asked. And she had said no, and her parents had said no, and his mother had said absolutely not, and everyone had said... But he had told her he would take care of everything, he would take care of her -- and where were they now?

She took a deep breath. Because Buddy had asked, and she wanted to say yes again and not have it all blow up this time.

"I still can't get hold of Walt-- 'Duck' MacDonald. The banners, I told him to change them, and now..."

The festival was postponed. Indefinitely. The news had been all over yesterday afternoon's special edition of the Sentinel. No one wanted to open the first annual Wilbydayz Festival amid scandal and corruption and (it was rumored) a messy change in government.

Buddy glanced out the window. "It's still full light out. He's probably still working."

"Yes, exactly!" He still didn't understand. "He's probably making the new banners already. Right now. Out in some shack where there's no telephone."

"Have you paid him already?"

"Well, no. I-- I don't think he said he was even charging for them."

"Then why are you so upset?"

That brought her up short. It wasn't as if extra banners would do any harm. It was only while she was in danger of not having her banners that her panic had been justified. "I just think..." She shook her head. "He shouldn't have to do that," she finally finished. She didn't think Buddy fully believed her. He searched her face and opened his mouth, not speaking for a moment.

"No, he shouldn't. But if he has already, then you can't do anything about it. The committee can take the budget from somewhere else if you want to pay him back. They've got plenty of funds now that the festival's cancelled. On the other hand..." He glanced outside again. "Maybe he won't be getting much work done today. You know, what with all the hullabaloo in town."

That sounded sensible. Buddy was always sensible. But his solutions always seemed to involve standing still and letting the world revolve around them.

Except two days ago, of course. Buddy had turned the town on its head. He had done actual detective work. He had exposed political intrigue and even caught his own partner at wrongdoings. His picture had been in the paper twice already. The press was having a field day. The townspeople adored Buddy for his righteous bravery, marveled at his investigative acumen! Buddy, the great-grandson of the founder of their town! Protector of justice! Hero of Wilby Island!

And there was his wife, Mrs. Carol French, the neurotic, ambitious non-islander who saved a man from hanging himself -- but mostly only by accident.

It was no wonder Buddy found it hard to believe that she would be so upset simply because she thought she was inconveniencing the town painter. But she had morals. Of course she did.

What if it had been the committee's mistake? Not her mistake, of course. But whoever had filled out the order form, the person who wrote the words for Duck... could that person have screwed it up? Five street-length banners, eight storefront ones, tricolor, weatherproof. All that work. All that waste. It was ridiculous. It was only logical to want to prevent that.

And Duck... Duck who hadn't even snapped back at her when she'd screamed at him. He'd stood there and taken it, the poor man. He'd let her say all the things that she couldn't in front of anybody. Just stood there. Not leaving. Not judging. Not reveling in her pain. Not sneering and telling her she'd gotten what she deserved for being a bad student, a bad daughter, an all-around substandard daughter-in-law and wife. He'd let her take out all her frustration on him, her frustration with her job and with this town and with...

"Buddy?" She had the urge suddenly to touch her husband's face. She cupped his chin and his cheeks in her hands. He was so big. She only reached his shoulder. She was so tiny compared to his solid physical presence and his spiritual presence in this town, sometimes she felt like she was hardly even there, like he hardly even noticed her.

His face registered his surprise, and she realized suddenly that it had been a long time since she had touched him this way.

"Carol." His hands, which had never left her shoulders, slid down to her waist as he moved closer. Her eyes were drawn downwards to where he licked his lips. "Carol, I-- I'm so sorry."

She frowned and dropped her hands. "For what?"

"For..." He struggled, seeming to have trouble getting the words out. He stroked her hips softly. "I forgot you," he half-whispered. He sounded so lonely.

Just like how she felt.

"Have you smoked since lunch?" she asked.

"What? Uh. One."

"Did you have anything to eat after?"

"Some peanuts just now. Why--?"

"Good. I hate it when you taste like smoke. I hate smelling it. God, I hate watching you. It drives me up the wall. Do you know how much I want to just grab it out of your hands and take a drag myself? I get so crazy, I just w--"

His lips stopped her midword.

And she was fine with that.

***

Deena, bless her, showed up at five on the dot. Sandra didn't know what she would have done without her -- and not just today. They had been friendly growing up but not close, but somehow when Sandra had come back from the mainland a few months ago, Deena and she had just clicked. It had felt like a sign that Sandra had made the right decision to come back here.

Sandra made a special point to serve her friend fresh hot gravy atop homemade mashed potatoes.

"Oh my god, this is so good! This is going to sell out tonight, you just watch."

"I just hope everything goes well."

"Mm," Deena mumbled around a mouthful of fried pork. "If everything is as good as this, you won't have to worry about a thing. This is better than my cooking, let me tell you. I just wish I could get off work early every afternoon."

Sandra rolled her eyes with her friend. "Seriously, why don't you get a new job?"

"Aw, it pays okay, and the work's light. Besides, the only other choice I have is to work at Shelley's. Who wants to smell like beer and smoke every night?"

"When is Kevin going to get his alimony payments in gear?" Deena had a whole other set of problems from Sandra's, but in some ways, they were dead similar.

"Heaven knows." Deena waved the topic away. "By the way, I ran into Dan Jarvis on the way here."

"He's out of the hospital already? How is he doing?"

"Catherine said he passed all the psych evaluations and everything, so they let him go. It's not like he's going to try anything with the whole town staring at him, right? But, listen--! He's reopening the video store."

"That's great! I thought we'd have to catch the ferry for a decent movie after he said he was moving. Is he staying, then?" Sandra hoped so. He was nice in a stand-offish sort of way. And truth to tell, she liked someone around who generated more gossip than she herself did.

"Don't know. He said he'll stay until the rest of the six months rent for the store is up, at least. That's until the end of September."

"Did you tell him to come by tonight?"

"Yes. I also told Anne Brooke, Stacy Hawkins, and Stu the newspaper man."

"Deena, you're wonderful."

"I know I am." Her friend grinned back at her. "But wait, wait. That's not the big news. You'll never guess who was with Dan Jarvis when I saw him."

"Who?"

"Duck."

Sandra waited, uncomprehending for a moment. If Dan had been moving equipment and boxes of tapes, it would have been natural to hire Duck to help out -- but the sparkle in Deena's eyes made it obvious that wasn't what she was referring to. And then she put it together with the rumors she had been hearing (and disregarding) elsewhere.

"Duck was with him?" she repeated, almost in a squeak.

"Yes."

"Oh my god. I have to sit down." Sandra did so, landing heavily in the bench seat across from her friend. She leaned in, even though there was no one else in the diner. "Are you sure?"

"Completely. They were so cute, you wouldn't believe it. I don't think I've seen Duck smile so much since... well, I don't know when."

"But... Duck?" She still couldn't believe it. "I thought people were just exaggerating. I mean, Duck is nice to everyone."

Deena slapped her arm. "Oh, don't feel so bad. I'm sure you were still his first. Anyway, lots of gay boys have girlfriends."

"I wasn't his girlfriend," Sandra replied automatically. But she wasn't sure if that made it better or not. She hadn't even known Deena knew about her and Duck. God, she must've really had a reputation. "I never knew." She groaned suddenly. "Oh god."

"What?"

"That's why he never wanted to..." she finished with an all-encompassing gesture. "I've been trying to... you know, rekindle the old flame ever since I got back. But he never seemed interested. I thought he was shy."

"From what I heard, he's anything but. That boy's been throwing himself at the queer for days."

They both jerked their attention to the tinkle of the door and the intruding voice, where a woman wearing a plain brown sweater with her hair in a short ponytail was entering on silent flat-soled shoes.

"Uh. Irene. Welcome." Sandra stood, and Deena started finishing off her dinner in a hurry.

Irene Swanson looked around the diner. "Doesn't look any different," she commented. "Hope the food's better than the coffee was."

"What would you like to order?" Sandra asked.

"What's she having?"

"Fried pork and mashed potatoes, and they are fantastic. Much better than at the Loyalist," Deena declared.

"Okay, I'll try that." Irene seemed grudging. Sandra hoped that she liked the food. The woman was a vicious gossip, but it was also true that people looked to her for the unofficial news of the town. If Sandra could manage to impress her palate, she might even be a help. As Irene seated herself, she added, "At least I already know it won't poison me."

Then again, perhaps Sandra had been overly optimistic. She saw Deena shooting her a face from behind Irene's back. "I'll get that started right away."

Deena patted her lips quickly with a napkin and stood up. "I'll help you clean up," she said loudly to Sandra, gathering her plate and cutlery. They escaped to the kitchen together.

Sandra started Irene's pork chop frying first. It would take her a while to master the kitchen here, but she thought she was on the way to whipping it into shape. After a test run yesterday, the dance between fryer, grill, sink, and order counter was beginning to feel familiar. It was as big a thrill as it was a relief. She would be able to survive here. For real. And hopefully for good.

Deena did indeed wash her dishes, in addition to the few left over from the food prep Sandra had done earlier. They glanced out at the main room and shared grimaces and smothered giggles. They didn't speak, though, knowing they would be overheard by an eager pair of ears. Sandra loved it. It made her feel like a girl again, like she could have that do-over she wished for sometimes.

Just as Deena was finishing up and Sandra was spooning up the mashed potatoes, they heard the bell above the door signal a new arrival. "Could you just take their order? I'll be right out," Sandra whispered quickly. "Welcome! I'll be out in a minute!" she shouted over her shoulder as she fished the pork chop out of the deep fryer and set it next to the gravy-laden potatoes.

When she hurried out with Irene's plate in hand, however, she almost tripped over her own feet. It was Carol French standing there. "H-Hi!" she said, with patently false cheer. She could almost see Irene's ears perk up. "Enjoy," she said to her as she set the plate down, hoping admittedly uselessly that the woman would be distracted by the food. Then she returned her attention to the new customer.

"Mrs. French said she's not having anything. She's just here to see you," Deena announced. She had significantly toned down the bubble in her voice in front of her boss, Sandra noticed.

"Yes...?"

"Congratulations on your grand opening. Here, for you." For the first time, Sandra noticed that Carol was holding a vase of flowers.

"Thank you," she said awkwardly, accepting the vase. Looking over the counter quickly, she chose a spot at the end, behind the spindly aloe plant, to set them down. "How kind of you," she added, hoping her mystified question carried.

"You're welcome. Buddy mentioned this place once -- Buddy French, he's my husband -- and I noticed the sign outside." Carol cleared her throat, and Sandra flashed back to Mrs. Corkum's disapproving and snidely knowing look. Her and all the other women in town who looked down their noses at Sandra. Wouldn't they be self-righteously satisfied to hear of Carol starting a scene here, on her grand opening day?

It wasn't fair, because she and Buddy hadn't even done anything. And they never would, if she had anything to say about it -- which she did.

"That sign outside," Carol started. "Did 'Duck' MacDonald do that?"

The question was so far out of left field that it might as well have been in another language. "The sign?" Sandra repeated dumbly.

"Yes, the 'Grand Opening' sign. It's new, isn't it?"

"Uh, yes. And yes, Duck made it. He put it up for me today. Is there something wrong?"

"No, no. Just, you know, he was going to make some other signs for me and..."

Of course. The 'Wilby Wonderful' situation that Carol had gone ballistic over and told Deena to tell the council was a disaster that she would personally save the day from.

"I paid extra for the rush," she lied. Actually she had called Duck at ten last night and begged and wheedled him and promised him free coffee for the rest of his life. She'd also probably flirted more than a little bit with him, but water under the bridge and all that. It wasn't as if she didn't have far more embarrassing things on her personal resume to worry about. "That's probably why he didn't get to yours yet."

"Actually, I hope he hasn't. I don't need the banners anymore. The festival's been postponed."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

Carol waved that away. "Do you know where he is? I'd like to apologize to him in person if he's started making them already."

Sandra hesitated. That sounded perfectly reasonable and in fact very decent of Carol. "He did say he might drop by later tonight," she said after a brief hesitation. On the one hand, she wasn't exactly eager to see Carol again so soon, but on the other, she did want to be on her good side. Not to mention, it might help Duck's business.

"Hm. I don't think I can come by until almost eight."

"I'm closing at eight," Sandra interrupted quickly. Carol gave her a startled look, as if closing a restaurant at eight o' clock was unfathomable to her. Perhaps it was. Even though Carol had lived on Wilby Island for close to nine years, she was still a mainlander through and through. Sandra had thought that she wanted that lifestyle herself once, but years away had finally taught her otherwise.

Finally, Carol nodded. "All right, then I'll have to..." She seemed to notice Sandra's friend for the first time. "Deena, could you call--"

"I'm already off today!" Deena reminded her quickly.

Carol frowned and started to say something, but just shook her head and started fishing in her purse instead. A moment later, she pulled out her cellular phone. "Thank you!" she called briefly to Sandra. She was dialing as she opened the door, and Sandra could see her through the window talking rapidly as she got into her car.

"She seems all right," she commented to Deena after watching Carol reverse out of her space and speed away.

"You haven't even seen her," Deena assured her.

"Hmph," said Irene, finally sticking her fork into her mashed potatoes. "By the way, I heard Buddy French is running for mayor," she said, and before either of them could react to that, she added, "Could you reheat this?"

***

"I kind of like it this way."

"Whatever," Mackenzie mumbled around her cigarette as she lit it up. She blew smoke to the other side. "My mum says Duck is dyslexic."

"Why would she say that?"

Mackenzie gave her a 'duh' look and pointed up at the sign Emily had just been studying.

"Maybe it was just... a mistake."

Her friend snorted. "He's queer, too."

Emily glanced around them quickly, but the narrow alley on the side of Iggy's was empty of other people, and around them were only other buildings. "Don't spread rumors, Mackenzie." She felt a need to protect Duck after what had happened, but even she had wondered about him. She remembered the way Duck had been watching what turned out to be Mr. Jarvis's motel room. He'd never looked away the whole time, barely even blinked. She hadn't said anything to anyone, though.

Mackenzie gave her another 'duh' look. "Where have you been?"

"I've been here, setting up the restaurant with my mum," she replied somewhat bad-temperedly.

Mackenzie just rolled her eyes. "Duck's been at the hospital with Dan Jarvis. They were practically in bed together the whole time until Dan was released. The dork gave him flowers. That's what the nurses say."

So it hadn't been something she'd said or done. Good.

"Plus, someone saw them sucking face at the Wildwood this afternoon. I bet they're getting it on right now."

Emily's face flushed. God. Were they? Maybe they'd already done it that night. In the room just three doors down from where she and Taylor had almost...

"So what really happened with Taylor, anyway?" Mackenzie asked, seeming to have read Emily's mind.

"Nothing," Emily said quickly. Mackenzie gave her a flat stare. Emily kicked at a clump of grass growing from the crack between the pavement and the side of the diner. "I told you. He got pushy, tried to get me drunk and stuff. So I told him to get lost."

"I thought you wanted it."

"I did. But I thought..." She'd thought he'd loved her. What an idiot. "I thought he'd be nicer."

"He's been saying that you gave him a show and got him all hot, then pushed him out the door and laughed at him."

"Oh my god, don't listen to him. We didn't even take our clothes off." Well, Taylor had taken off his shirt, but that didn't count.

"Huh." Emily shot her friend a worried look. Sometimes she wondered why the mayor's daughter hung out with her. She had a bunch of popular, rich friends, too, but somehow they'd spent all their free time together since the day Mackenzie had turned to her in homeroom and said, "Hey, new girl, let me borrow a pen?" She wondered sometimes if Mackenzie was still just using her.

Whatever the case was, Mackenzie's opinion counted for a lot at school. If she told everyone Emily was a tease -- or a slut or a nun or a lesbian -- they would believe her.

"Sleazebag," was Mackenzie's pronouncement -- and Emily breathed a sigh of relief. It'd be all over school by tomorrow, what an arsehole Taylor Martin was. He'd be lucky if any girl went with him again, she thought with some pleasure.

"Yeah," she agreed wholeheartedly.

"He said you sicced your 'faggot friend' on him, too."

"My what? You mean Duck?" She realized too late that she had given it away.

Mackenzie tapped the end of her cigarette against the wall, knocking off a dust of fine ash. "Yeah. Said Duck messed him up. Is that true?" Her habitually apathetic expression stirred with a little interest.

Feeling humiliated, Emily crossed her arms. "Yeah, but I didn't call him or anything. And he didn't need to do that. I'd locked the door so Taylor couldn't get in anyway. I didn't call him," she repeated, just for emphasis. Shit, she'd been counting on Taylor being too proud to admit to being chased off by some other guy.

"Taylor said Duck tried to feel him up."

"What? He did not!"

"How do you know? You were inside, weren't you?" Mackenzie arched an eyebrow at her and flipped her long blonde hair. Emily couldn't answer for a moment.

She remembered Duck's voice, giving Taylor orders. Scuffling sounds. Thumps against the wall.

But she also remembered the smell of Duck's shirt as it went damp beneath her face, and the feel of his jacket as she clutched at him, how he'd pulled out an honest-to-god handkerchief when she'd finished and then talked to her like an adult. "Aren't you your mother's daughter?," he'd said, and looked her right in the eye, and, amazingly, for once someone saying that hadn't made it sound like an insult but a compliment.

Emily shook her head emphatically. "I saw everything from the window," she lied smoothly. "He just pushed him around. Bastard deserved it." She thought for a second, daring herself to say what she thought of next: "Taylor's talking crap about me because I wouldn't give him what he wanted. Maybe he's doing the same thing to Duck."

Mackenzie snorted with the cigarette in her mouth and then coughed on the smoke. She dropped the cigarette and started laughing so hard she went silent, making hiccupping noises as she tried to breathe. Emily laughed with her, amazed at her own audacity and imagining Taylor's face when that started going around -- and it would. Mackenzie was gasping and folded against the side of the building and Emily was leaning hard over her knees by the time they petered to a stop.

"Oh my god, Emily. Fuck." Mackenzie stood up and stamped the smoldering end of her cigarette out on the ground. They smiled at each other, and Emily noticed how nice Mackenzie looked when she was happy. Not just pretty -- she was always pretty -- but really nice.

"I'd better go," she sighed. "I gotta change. My mum's all stressed out about the 'grand opening' tonight, and I need to be here to help."

Mackenzie seemed to hesitate before she stuck her fingers into the front pockets of her jeans and followed. "I'll come with you."

"Sure."

They talked about Taylor a little more, and then about Stuart and other boys and summer school. Then about what was new at the theaters, and what car Emily would want if she could ever get one. They were almost to the house when Mackenzie said, "Hey, just so you know, my parents said we're moving by the end of the summer."

Emily stopped dead on the first step of the porch and turned around to stare. "You're moving?"

"Yeah. It sucks, doesn't it? I won't get to do senior year here, and that's the best part of high school." Mackenzie stared down the road instead of looking at her.

"That's-- terrible. You would've been homecoming queen, I bet."

"Yeah, whatever." Mackenzie shrugged. It was true, she didn't care about that stuff. "My parents said they're putting me in some private school."

"It'll probably be nicer than Wilby High. Right?" Emily suggested, trying to think of something comforting to say. She was usually on the other side of this conversation, telling an endless string of friends that she was leaving them, when really she felt like she was the one being left behind.

Suddenly, Mackenzie kicked a rock from the ground, sending it sailing over the slight overhang, bouncing along the grass, and then skittering on across the sidewalk and into the road. "I hate my parents," she said fiercely, through clenched teeth and with clenched fists. Her face, too, was tight, almost contorted. "They ruin everything."

Emily had never seen her like this before. She stood stock-still, trying to think of something to say. "Mackenzie--"

"Private school is just full of more stupid, snobby, airheaded people. God, I'm sick of it. Everybody's so fucking fake. My whole life is so fucking fake." She yanked out her cigarettes.

And that was when Emily finally found the right words: "I'll miss you."

Mackenzie paused, the lighter flickering its flame an inch away from the end of her Marlboro. "Me, too," came the answer in a softer voice. Then she took a huge drag and expelled a slow stream of gray smoke toward the ground.

***

He took his time twisting the wire around the top of the popcorn bag, not wanting to look at Dan bent over rewinding the videotape, the tempting jut of his shoulder blades pointing down to the slim, slim waist and the swell underneath. He thought if he spent another minute in this tiny, dim room with the other man, he'd be liable to jump the guy.

Duck wasn't exactly sure what it was about Dan that attracted him so much. Something about that classic, schoolteacher face, maybe. The way he smiled with one side of his mouth, like he was seeing some ironic joke in the universe. The reserved, yet self-deprecating way he carried himself. How nice he was to people. Some of the mainlanders treated waitresses and maids (and painters) like sticks of furniture, but Dan had never been like that.

Dan liked it here. Duck could tell. A lot of folks took years to get used to the slow pace and the nosy people of the island. Dan had taken to it right away. His wife hadn't. She hadn't belonged in Wilby, and everyone knew it. Duck thought it was just as well that she was gone -- even if he didn't have selfish reasons for thinking so.

Duck liked it here, too. He'd never yearned to go away, not like Sandra had. But he'd spent some time knocking around the mainland in his younger years. And he hadn't just spent a few months on the opposite coast and called himself a traveler, like some kids did. No, he had really seen the mainland, by bus and truck and train and foot, far enough that he'd started getting that unsettling feeling of not knowing which way the ocean was, before he'd started turning back.

And after eating fantastic steak until he was sick, wandering through all the indoor shopping malls just to gawk at the local fashions and wares, and riding every elevator over twenty stories tall he could find, one of the first things he'd done was to pick out a club he liked. Johnny Green's. A thousand kilometers west of Wilby Island, close to a port that carried everything from copper to cumin (not that he'd known what that even was at the time). Served terrible beer, but it was known as a gathering place for all the 'partiers' there, both local and out-of-towners.

Sixty-eight nights he'd spent at the bar there. He'd learned a hell of a lot. Good and bad.

And then... And then Duck had traveled some more, met more people, did more work, saw more stuff, and eventually come back. Because Wilby was still home to him.

He hoped that Dan would decide to stay. If he didn't, and if things worked out between them, well... Duck would think about that when -- if -- the time came. Because he liked Dan a lot.

"What do you want to do now?"

Duck looked up. Dan was smiling at him. He'd left his jacket in the truck, and his longish hair was still mussed from the hospital and then the breeze outside. He looked mellow and pleased with the world, and Duck didn't want to disturb that with the crack he wanted to make about riding cowboys. He fished for something else to say instead.

"We could go pick up your car."

Dan's face fell slightly at the reminder. But then he chuckled. "You're right. I don't want to ruin Carol's sale price any more than I already have."

Relieved he hadn't entirely spoiled the mood, Duck stood and stretched. "What should I do with this?" he asked, holding up the remains of the bag of popcorn they'd devoured in lieu of dinner.

He noticed suddenly that Dan's eyes were on his chest where his shirt had pulled tight. "Uh, just put it... Leave it here. I'm not reopening this place until next Monday at least."

Taking a chance, Duck dropped the popcorn on the empty desk and moved to stand in front of the other man. Dan didn't stop him when he put his hands on his waist. He met him halfway for the kiss. Duck tried to keep it light, but it felt like he'd been waiting an eternity, and fuck, he wanted-- couldn't he have this-- didn't he deserve something that--

He knew he'd messed up again when Dan jerked away and put a hand on Duck's chest as if to keep him back.

They'd closed the blinds to watch the movie. Duck knew what people thought they were already doing. "Sorry," he said, not entirely sure that he meant it. Dan's mouth was wet and swollen, and somewhere along the way, Duck must've done something to his collar because the top two buttons were undone.

"I never saw you at the Watch. I would have remembered you."

It was a question more than a statement, so Duck answered it. "I don't go there."

Dan glanced away, but the hand he'd left on Duck's chest moved to the side of his neck. He smiled wryly and his gaze wandered back to Duck's face. "Only for losers like me, huh?"

"No." Duck touched Dan's cheek, loving that raspy pull against his rough palm. He studied the shadows under Dan's throat, glad that he couldn't pick out the surprisingly light bruises there. Light because of him, Dan had said. Because Dan had been trying to free himself, wanting to come back to him. "I did all that when I was younger. It's just not what I want anymore."

Dan frowned. "What do you want?"

Duck shrugged. He didn't think Dan was ready for that. "Something different, I guess."

"You know what I want?"

"No." He wondered if Dan could feel the pound of his pulse under his fingers.

"I want to get my car. And then I want to go to Iggy's Diner, for Sandra. And I want to have dinner. With you. Do you-- Do you think I can do that?"

Duck nodded, excitement thrilling at the bottom of his stomach. "Yeah. I know you can." There was a slight wildness in Dan's eyes, though, so Duck checked his watch and told him, "It's six-thirty now. If we take our time, most of the dinner crowd should be gone already by the time we get there."

"Yes. Yes, good." Dan let out a long sigh. "Thank you," he said.

Duck didn't think he needed thanking, so he gestured toward the door with a bob of his head and said, "Let's go."

***

A man crossing the street toward him caught Buddy's eye as he was locking the door of his patrol car. He flagged him down quickly. "Dan! Dan Jarvis!"

The tall figure slowed and approached, his body language wary. "Hi, Officer."

"I heard you were staying for a little while longer."

"Uh, yes. I'm opening the video store again. Till the end of September, anyway."

"Good, good. Do you have a place to stay?"

"Actually, I was just heading to Sandra's-- I mean, Iggy's. I heard she's letting a room."

Buddy was surprised. Not that Sandra was subletting. (He knew she'd moved into the old Van Stein's duplex, and they'd had three kids.) But Sandra was alone with a young daughter, after all. He wasn't sure if she'd let to a single man. Then again, it wasn't as if Jarvis would touch either of them, right? He scratched his head, already thinking about the gossip that would start flying around if Sandra and Jarvis agreed on terms.

"Good luck with that. By the way, Carol and I are eating there, too. If you're alone, you're welcome to join us. Carol feels real bad about what happened. If there's anything we can do..."

"Oh. No. Thank you, I'm fine. I'm meeting someone."

He looked up the street, and when Buddy followed his line of sight, he saw Duck MacDonald standing outside of Iggy's, in non-working clothes, clearly waiting.

So. The rumors were true.

Dan Jarvis and Duck.

Buddy was still trying to get his head around that.

He wasn't the first person Buddy would have expected Duck to wind up with -- even gender aside. He'd always figured Duck for a pure islander who'd get along with another islander like himself, someone who liked spending time outdoors, maybe. Not a pale, suit-wearing mainlander who rented and sold movies for a living.

Not that Buddy had much room to talk. He'd married a mainlander himself, after all, and 'that slit-eyed Oriental woman', to boot. He supposed there was something exotically exciting about someone who was so opposite to himself, and he had imagined somehow that Carol, with her explosive, eccentric ways, could shake up his staid, boring existence into something like a real life. He wondered if Duck felt the same type of attraction for Dan Jarvis.

Then again, Duck was enough of a mystery by himself.

Buddy remembered him only as the short, scrawny, blond kid who'd slouched in the back, almost always alone at recess, ate the same peanut butter and jelly sandwich day after day. People had started calling him Ducky, Ducky! Here, little Ducky! And he'd always just shrugged and ignored them until one day he'd approached one of the kids teasing him and offered his right hand. "Call me Duck," he'd said. And pretty soon, that was how he was known to everybody in town.

Shortly after high school, he'd left alone for the mainland, and the first time Buddy remembered seeing him again, he'd grown another half a foot, gotten a tattoo, built up even more muscle than he'd already had, and started a painting and handyman business. Since then, he'd become something of a fixture in town.

Dependable Duck. Sweet, quiet Duck. Reliable, affable, harmless Duck. He'd become almost a part of the scenery, like the fences that he painted and the porches he helped put up. Even Buddy had started thinking of him that way.

And now he was gay. And dating the most talked about man on the island. It was taking some getting used to, and that was an understatement. But Buddy couldn't deny it sharpened his sense of purpose a little, reminded him that he didn't wear the uniform to keep donut crumbs off of his civilian clothes.

Buddy gave Jarvis a serious look. "I'll be keeping an eye out, but if anyone gives you trouble, just let me know." He glanced pointedly at his patrol car. Jarvis seemed to get the message. He looked surprised. And pleased.

"Thank you. Officer."

"Hey, a friend of Duck's can call me Buddy."

"O-Okay. Buddy." His face softened all of a sudden. "By the way, sorry about your mother."

Surprised, Buddy reeled off the practiced line: "It was a long sickness."

"How long?"

"Four years," Buddy answered automatically, before he realized that Jarvis was actually listening to him talk about his mother. "Lung cancer," he elaborated, in order to cover up his confusion.

"That's hard."

"She could barely even speak the last year or so." At the time, it had seemed like a welcome cessation to the long litany of complaints he and Carol had been subjected to. But the tragedy of it was clearer to him now that she was gone. His mother had used to love to sing.

Jarvis nodded. "My mother died a few years ago, before I moved here. Thank god," he added under his breath, dropping his gaze for just a second before returning to a sympathetic expression. "My mother went quick, though. I think she hated the nursing home, but we didn't have any other options. How about your mother? Where did she stay while she was ill?"

"She was able to stay home until just the last few days. We got her a live-in nurse. Carol and I would drop by every day, just to check on things."

"Must have been hard on your wife, too."

"Yes. It was."

"I'm sorry."

"Thanks."

Jarvis sighed. "Well. I guess that's one more reason to quit smoking, huh?"

"Right." He looked up the street, where Duck hadn't moved, staring in their direction. "What say we go have dinner?" Jarvis nodded agreeably. He started toward the diner, and the other man followed, his long gait rolling easily. Maybe he was more of an outdoorsman than Buddy had thought.

He smiled at the man, and Jarvis smiled back, that crooked smile of his that some people called shifty but Buddy recognized as shy. No, he wasn't the first choice Buddy would have expected for Duck, but he was okay. Good people, as his grandmother used to say. He glanced quickly at the diner again and slowed his steps.

"Listen, Dan. Duck grew up here, and hardly anyone has had a word against him all his life. People are going to cut him some slack." Jarvis nodded uncertainly. "What I mean is, don't be too disappointed if it takes a while for people to get used to you. Well, to you and Duck together. They might take it out on just you."

This time, Jarvis looked like he understood. "It takes time for people," he murmured.

"Exactly. Just... give everyone a chance." Wilby was a good town with mostly good people. He hoped they would prove good for Jarvis and Duck as well.

They were nearing the diner now, and Duck, who had been uncharacteristically shifting from foot to foot, met them the last few yards. "Hey, Buddy."

"Hey, Duck," he replied.

Duck frowned and looked between the two of them in a way that Buddy couldn't quite put his finger on for a minute.

Protectiveness, he finally decided.

Huh.

The mayor -- 'call me Brent' -- had been as good as his word once pushed to the wall. The Island Sentinel had rescinded its intention to published the Watch names. (Anyway, they had much juicier news to run by now.) But Buddy had gotten a look at the list of names from someone he knew who worked there, and 'Walter MacDonald' hadn't been one of them.

Suddenly, he realized the opportunity to do something else that he'd been meaning to get to and putting off. Girding himself, he asked Duck, "Could I have a second?"

Instead of the easy acquiescence he'd been familiar with expecting, Duck looked to Jarvis again.

"I'll just wait inside, then," Jarvis interjected.

Duck hesitated before answering Buddy, "Sure."

He followed Buddy back to his car and, following Buddy's lead, got into the passenger's seat next to him. Buddy fiddled with his belt for a moment, touched his nose, brushed at an eyebrow, waiting for a small group of people coming down the sidewalk to pass out of hearing range. Duck just waited, the soul of patience.

"Ah, what you saw. Between myself and Ms. Anderson the other day..." he started, staring straight ahead and hoping he wasn't blushing.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Duck shaking his head. The man held up a hand. "None of my business," he said firmly.

"No, I know. But I just... I wanted you to know, nothing happened between us."

Duck raised his eyebrows, but then his face went blank and he shrugged. "Okay."

Buddy turned his body toward the other man, frustrated, entreating. He didn't know why it was so important. It just seemed that Duck, as the only person who had seen his guilt, was also the only person he could explain himself to. "What I mean is, yes, what you saw was what you saw. But we decided not to go through with any of it. It's over. It never even started. Do you understand?" He spoke to Duck earnestly, trying to make what he knew to be the truth, yet was still tenuous, solid. "I'm not what Sandra wants, and I love my wife."

He never said that out loud. It wasn't the sort of thing that men of the French family did. But hell, he'd married a mainlander, he'd just had a heart to heart with the boyfriend of the painter, and he was about to go eat dinner at a restaurant run by the town slut. What the hell did any of it matter anymore, except that--

Except that he keep Wilby Island safe.

That was the only thing that he wanted, and he knew he'd lost sight of that over the years. In fact, he had almost failed outright on so many levels. But he liked to think that he had made up for some of it the last few days.

Duck considered him under the streetlight in that way he had that looked like either vapid idiocy or tranquil wisdom. "Okay," was all he said. His gaze shifted outside. "Was that all?"

Buddy wasn't quite sure what to make of that. But he'd said his piece, so he nodded. "Yes. No, wait." Duck paused and looked back, his door already cracked open. "About the banners--"

Duck winced slightly. "You can tell Mrs. French I'll start those tomorrow."

"No, I was going to say, the festival's been postponed. Probably even cancelled. So we won't need the banners anymore." He stopped, contemplating for a moment what he'd just said.

We?

But Duck was already nodding. "Got it. Thanks for letting me know." He gestured. "I'm heading back. You coming?"

"I think I'll stay here a while."

"Okay." He flashed Buddy a smile before getting out and heading back toward Iggy's.

Buddy pulled out his pack of cigarettes and tapped it against his thigh as he stared out the window.

***

"You can come see the room tomorrow," Sandra told Dan. It did sound good. The rent was reasonable for his limited income. The location was a bit of a walk, but after two years in Wilby, Dan was used to that. He didn't mind the small size either, and the kitchen would be free for him to use. Best of all, Sandra seemed genuinely excited about his interest in renting her room, had even offered to help him redecorate if he wished. He resolved to allow himself to accept her kindness more often in future. "Top up your coffee?" she asked. Case in point.

"Yes, thank you." He gave her a grateful smile and took a sip of the bitter, unsweetened brew while perusing the menu. A part of his mind kept a watch on the door, wondering when his companion was going to show. As if echoing his thought, he heard Carol ask from her window seat, checking her thin gold watch yet again:

"Are you sure he's coming?" Carol smiled brightly, not wanting to sound pushy, but it was nearly seven-thirty. She didn't want to have cancelled her dinner with Mr. and Mrs. Forrest for no reason. Their house was in final escrow, and they had already dropped hints about how Ed Forrest's cousin was moving next month and-- Where the hell was Buddy? For once she wanted to have a dinner out with him, and he was late!

She crossed gazes with Dan Jarvis and quickly averted her eyes, feeling herself go rigid with embarrassment. He had thanked her for saving his life when he first got in -- thanked her! -- and seemed to treat the whole thing like some kind of private joke between them. She had mumbled something maybe-gracious and hidden herself in the window nook. She hoped that would be the extent of their interactions. Honestly, how could she possibly look him in the eye again?

Sandra raised her eyebrows at Dan, who gave her a placid shrug in return. Carol did not look up. Sandra was starting to gain a sense of humor about the woman. "He said he would," she answered Carol's question. "Are you sure you don't want to order something to eat first?"

"No, thank you. I'm waiting for Buddy." She smiled a bit too brightly and then lowered her head to mutter, "If he decides to show up..."

Dan cleared his throat. "I saw Buddy outside earlier."

Her gaze whipped up to lock on him, and Dan actually seemed to jump a little at the sudden attention. "You did?" One thing you had to say about Carol was, she knew what she wanted and she kept her goals in mind. Sandra had to admire her for that.

"Er, yes."

Sandra was distracted from the subsequent conversation by Emily appearing at her side. "Dishes are all done, Mum. Don't forget Sal's steak. I turned it for you."

"Thank you, honey." She hugged her gorgeous, wonderful daughter. "You're the best. Have fun." Emily's face sobered. Sandra couldn't honestly say that she would miss Brent and Elaine Fisher much, but she hated that Emily's best friend was moving away. She had lost so many friends over the years. They both had. "Be careful," she said more softly.

"I have a flashlight," Emily answered, patting her pocket. A quick kiss to the cheek, and then she was out the door. Mackenzie had said she would wait for her, and with her car, it would be much faster to get to Sheila's. One thing she was glad about having grown up off the island was that her mum had never enforced a curfew on her.

Emily had gone through this enough times in the past. She knew that she and Mackenzie would email each other, call a few times, and eventually life would intrude and this spring and summer would become just another memory. Before then, however, she wanted to spend some time with her friend. She was the only one who knew what it was going to be like for her. None of their other friends had ever even left the island except on vacation.

On the way out, she nearly collided with a man in a plaid shirt who smelled of soap, sweat, and turpentine, and the combination of scents caused the name to emerge before she visually recognized the man. "Duck!" Without thinking, she dragged him by the shirtfront back a few steps away from the light coming from inside.

Duck held up his palms in a what-the-hell! gesture before he recognized Emily. And then he said out loud, "What's the matter?" because he could see that she was upset.

"Listen," she whispered urgently. "You can't tell my mum what happened, okay? She doesn't know how it was."

It took him a few moments, but then their last run-in clarified in his mind. He'd been a little distracted at the time, but now that he thought about the situation, he realized her point. Sandra would freak.

"Not a problem," he promised, and watched as she smiled in relief and then ran off down the street.

Quickly, he slipped in through the door before he could be waylaid yet again, because although he rather liked Buddy French -- he'd always been fair to him, and Sandra's daughter Emily -- spunky and refreshingly dramatic, he was so done with solving the world's problems this week. At least, thank god, there was his prize for all that work. Dan was sitting at the counter with a mug of coffee, smiling in welcome.

And then another body had interposed itself between himself and Dan, and the only thing that made it mostly bearable was the sympathetic look in Dan's eyes.

"Duck! I've been trying and trying to find you!" Carol was saying.

"Yeah, I haven't been home much," he tried to explain again.

"You haven't been making those banners, have you?"

"Uh, no. I thought you didn't need them anymore." Glancing at Dan, he saw him laughing into his mug, the bastard.

"How did you know?"

"Buddy told me. Just now." He pointed outside with a thumb.

"He did?" She seemed dumbfounded. "Okay." She seemed to snap back awake. "I mean, I wanted to say thank you. And sorry. For everything. Maybe we could do lunch sometime." His eyebrows must have spoken his surprise, because she laughed and said quickly, "Or why don't you join us for dinner tonight. My treat."

"Well, I'm kind of eating with someone else..." Too late, he thought to look at Dan for permission. Dan had stiffened in his seat, but a moment later, he nodded almost imperceptibly.

Carol stared between the two of them, and she blinked a bit rapidly. "I'll... treat you both. Just let Sandra know." Duck didn't like being beholden to anyone, but she insisted again, "Really. Both of you." He could see that she was anxious to do it, too, not just being polite. So he nodded.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome."

Slightly red-faced, she went quickly back to her table and ducked down behind her menu. And all right, Duck could kind of see why Dan found something funny about that.

"Sorry," he mouthed as he slid into the seat next to Dan, and Dan shrugged and shook his head, his eyes warming.

"What do you want to eat?" he asked softly. They were a foot apart on plastic seats, and there were only about three things on the menu -- and Duck felt great.

The bell dinged behind them, but they didn't even seem to hear as Buddy entered and glanced around the room.

Sal and three of his fishing buddies were playing poker in the corner. Otherwise, it was just Jarvis, Duck, and Carol. He sat down across from his wife at the window.

"I think I'm going to quit smoking," he told her. She frowned.

"Really?"

He ignored her skeptical tone. "Yup."

"Okay." After a pause, she said, "Gum helps a little."

"I'll try that." She still wasn't looking at him, but they were having a conversation of sorts. It felt... nostalgic. They'd had conversations once, hadn't they? About important things that had nothing to do with practicality.

"Buddy."

"Hm?"

"Thanks for telling Duck. About the banners."

"Sure." The nostalgia edged a little into pleasure. "The steak and eggs looks good."

Suddenly, Sal's voice called across to him. "Hey, Buddy! Word is, you'll be running for mayor."

Buddy's eyes opened wide. The muted sounds in the diner fell completely silent, and suddenly Sandra appeared from the back. "Is that true?" she asked. Buddy looked at her with some reluctance -- and was relieved to see no invitation or even attraction there, only curiosity.

He cleared his throat loudly. "No." He glanced at Carol, who looked suddenly speculative, and he added, "No!" more emphatically. "I don't know where you heard such a ridiculous idea. No."

"Well, in case you're thinking about it, I have just the thing to celebrate," Sandra announced with an impish grin on her face. "On the house, gentlemen, on account of I don't have a liquor license."

Buddy thought he should protest as she started pulling out glass bottles of beer from the fridge behind the counter, but Sal and his friends quickly drowned him out with loud cries of "Hear, hear!"

"To Iggy's!" one man shouted as he twisted off the top of his bottle. "To Sandra!" yelled another, to which Sandra gave a gracious bow.

"To Wilby Wonderful!" Surprisingly, that one came from Dan. Duck elbowed him sharply.

"Wonderful Wilby!" Carol immediately corrected.

"To Wilby. To us," Buddy insisted more soberly, and several people in the room, smiling, echoed it back.

END.

If you enjoyed this story, you might try these:  
      Marks (Stargate Atlantis), by kuonji  
     Festival Of The Moon (Cardcaptor Sakura), by kuonji  
      New World Coming (Wilby Wonderful), by Tigs 
      Double-double (Wilby Wonderful), by Pearl-o
     A Beautiful Fable (Wilby Wonderful), by agentotter