Wilby fic: Points In Common, Part 3, by kuonji (R)
Title: Points In Common, Part 3
Series: Points In Common
Author: kuonji
Fandom: Wilby Wonderful
Characters: Duck MacDonald, Dan Jarvis, Val Jarvis, Buddy French, various
Pairings: Dan/Val, Duck/Dan, Buddy/Carol mentioned, Duck/OMC mentioned
Category: character study, drama, slight angst, pre-movie
Rating: R
Words: ~5280
Summary: Duck's been dry for one year and one month when he meets Dan Jarvis for the first time.
Points In Common
by kuonji
PART THREE
Duck's been dry for one year and one month when he meets Dan Jarvis for the first time. He's doing some measurements in the Whittiers' living room. Charlotte Whittier is leaning by the open front door, taking advantage of the breeze in the muggy August afternoon and chatting with Duck.
Truthfully, she's not so much chatting as flirting with him. He's very aware of how she's propped her arms behind her to arch against the wall, and how she inhales a little more deeply than necessary so that her blouse gaps at the buttons, showing white skin. She laughs at his awkward, deflecting jokes, and she tosses her slightly wavy dark brown hair, all the while complaining about the heat as justification. Whenever he gets close enough, she finds a reason to put a hand on his arm.
"Are you sure you don't want something to drink, Duck? I'm about to sweat through my clothes myself. Just look at that, goodness."
"I'm fine. Thanks." He glances quickly away from how she's unbuttoning the top of her blouse and pulling the sides apart to fan herself.
Charlotte's pretty, if a little older, with a solid figure, a round face, and a charming smile. She's single and pleasant and works as a librarian in the research section. She's lonely with just her mother for company at home. Along with the booze, Duck's slowly been able to give up his resentment at the world, but he's still a little sorry -- for Charlotte's sake -- that he can't take her up on a rather blatant offer. He wishes he was better at the flirting game, so that he could at least play to her ego before finding a graceful way to turn her down.
Erik had been good at that. He could talk a cat out of a tree, and a dog away from its dinner. He could fight with you one minute and then melt you away with compliments the next -- sounding sincere all the time.
But Duck's not like that. All he can do is blush and stay quiet and do his job with his head down. He's just a dumb guy with paint-splattered overalls and a T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up, showing off his biceps as if he's inviting her to notice instead of just trying to stay cool. He's glad, suddenly, that she's left the door open. Charlotte and he are alone in the house, and gossip runs like wildfire in Wilby.
"Oh, look, it's Dan Jarvis. He and his wife just moved in last week to the house next door." Charlotte's attention shifts out to the street, and Duck decides right there and then that he loves Dan Jarvis -- whoever he is. "Dan! Hello!" Charlotte's gone out onto her porch now.
After making some final notations, Duck stuffs his notepad, pencil, and measuring tape in the front pocket of his overalls and goes outside to get a glimpse of his savior.
Dan Jarvis is tall and thin, with longish, straight brown hair. He has a dour, kind of hangdog look to him that makes you want to laugh or maybe pat him on the head.
Almost immediately, Duck pegs him as closeted.
He sighs internally. He couldn't imagine getting married, himself. It's hard enough already for him, and he has the privacy of his own house to unwind in when he needs it. To have a wife...? He can't fathom it. But everyone lives their own way, and he doesn't pass judgment.
"I'm Duck," he says. "Hi."
Dan takes his hand and gives him a sardonic-looking smile that fits his pale face. Despite his nervous demeanor, his handshake is strong and warm. Duck is surprised to notice callouses, and he glances down at their joined hands with curiosity. "Do you play an instrument?" he asks. Dan doesn't look the sort to do hard labor or play sports very often.
"Uh, no. Why?"
Realizing that he still has Dan's hand in his, Duck drops it. He's probably blushing again. "Nothing." He gestures toward his truck. "I should go," he says. It sounds rude, and he wishes again that he weren't so hopeless at conversation. Turning to Charlotte, he says, "I have to meet someone. Sorry. I'll come back tomorrow at the same time to start work."
"Sure thing, Duck," Charlotte says easily. Her smile is no more or less pleasant than before. That's the good thing about islanders; they make allowances for each other.
"Bye, Dan. Nice meeting you," he says to the other man, with an awkward half-wave, half-bow.
Dan returns his farewell with slightly raised eyebrows.
***
It turns out that Dan likes to garden. Or maybe he just can't afford to hire a landscaper.
When Duck comes back the next day to move furniture and begin tearing out the Whittiers' baseboards so he can start painting, he passes Dan in his front yard digging a hole with a long shovel. Several pots of roses are lined up in readiness.
The day after that, while unloading the long strips of new baseboard (thicker and taller, in the modern style), and the small can of touchup paint for the room, he sees Dan digging a long furrow inside the margin of his property, probably for a new sprinkler line.
He swings by the next day to move all the furniture back and clean up any remaining mess, and this time there's a woman outside with Dan. They're planting small, bright bushels of vari-colored violets.
Dan glances up at him, then ignores him. Duck figures maybe the other man has pegged Duck, too. It's the prudent thing to avoid each other -- Duck adds Dan to his mental list -- so Duck is fine with that. However, the woman, presumably Mrs. Jarvis, calls out to him: "Hello!" and flags him down.
Duck pauses and switches a hammer and a dust cloth to join a leftover paint tray in his left hand, then wipes his right hand on the pants of his overalls before offering it to her. She's smiling in understanding, stripping off her own dirt-stained gardening gloves, which match her work smock. Both look brand new -- probably purchased from Greta's Garden after they moved here.
"I'm Val," she says. "You must be Duck. Charlotte told me you do wonderful work."
He smiles, slightly abashed, and lets her take his hand in both of hers and pump it up and down.
She isn't going to last long, is his first thought. He tries not to let it show on his face, but he can tell already that she isn't going to be happy here in the long term. People with the sort of restless energy that she has have never fit in on Wilby Island. Duck's seen it a countless number of times before, in island-born kids who couldn't wait to run away, and from visitors who were charmed into thinking they wanted to stay but discovered otherwise later on.
That's another reason not to get too close to Dan. He'll be leaving soon enough. Five years at the most, Duck judges.
Speaking of which, Dan sidles up alongside his wife, not possessively, but rather like a child tagging along after his big sister. "This is Dan, my husband," Val introduces him. Dan waves but doesn't step forward.
"We've met," Duck tells her.
"Oh, great! Then we'll skip all that. Here's the thing, Duck. We need to repaint the exterior of our house, but what with the move and everything... Well, I don't think we can afford to hire you. I was wondering if we could pay you some sort of consultation fee. We'll do the work ourselves, but any advice you could give us would be wonderful. Wouldn't it, Dan?" She turns to include her husband.
Dan smiles. "Yeah."
"For instance, what kind of supplies do we need. How long will it take everything to dry. We don't know the weather here, of course. And heavens, we've never painted a house before! Have we, Dan?"
"No," Dan concurs readily.
"Charlotte says you've been painting for over twenty years. And she has such nice things to say about you all the time. I feel already like I can trust you with anything. Isn't that right, Dan?"
"Yup." Dan remains straight-faced, except for a flicker of movement at his lips, and slight creases at the corners of his eyes as he looks at his wife. Duck figures out that Dan is trying not to laugh! Val must sense his attention wandering, because she glances suspiciously at her husband and then -- startling Duck -- slaps him on the arm.
"You evil man! What have you been doing?"
"Nothing, Val. I agree with you whole-heartedly in every way."
Val pretends to splutter angrily, but they're both smiling at what must be a running joke between them. They're friends, Duck realizes suddenly, surprised.
"Anyway, what do you think?" Val finishes, turning back to him anxiously.
Duck thinks for a moment, still a bit nonplussed. Finally, he decides he won't treat them differently from the way he would treat any friend of his. Islander, mainlander, it doesn't matter. "You don't need to pay me," he answers. "I give people advice all the time."
"No, no, we don't want to take advantage."
Duck shakes his head slowly. "Call it a welcome gift."
"But you don't need to."
"That's why it's a gift." She looks pleased.
"You're the best. Really. At least let's talk over lunch then. Our treat. Are you free today?"
That takes him by surprise. He catches the startled look on Dan's face, too.
"I'll be setting up at the store today, Val, but you two can have lunch without me," Dan demurs.
"You can do that tomorrow," Val admonishes immediately, but Dan shakes his head.
"No, you two go ahead. That is, if Duck is all right with it."
"Oh, all right. Duck?"
Duck looks from one urging face to the other, reviews his own schedule in his head, and finally agrees. "Sounds good. Thank you."
He tells himself there's no reason he should feel disappointed.
***
Val asks him to choose the restaurant. He picks Eddie's Sandwiches first, but she insists on a nicer place, so they wind up at the Loyalist. Trying to be courteous, he orders the meatloaf. Again, Val overrides him and suggests a steak with clam chowder instead. She's perfectly friendly about it, but there's an established authority to her 'suggestions' that makes Duck wonder about her and Dan's home life.
Before their food arrives, and most of the way through their meal, she plies him with questions about the job she wants to do. She takes quick notes on a steno pad she pulls from her knit bag purse. He feels like he's being interviewed by a very eager tabloid reporter. It's kind of fun. She makes house-painting sound exciting and risqué.
As they talk, though, his original assessment of five years keeps falling: four, maybe three, possibly only one if the resale price goes up. She'll hate it here, he thinks, and he finds that he's sad about that.
***
Since meeting the Jarvises, Duck's feeling antsy.
He and Dan continue to avoid each other, but he can't help running into either or both of them every now and again. There's only a few good eateries in town, and the one hardware store.
Jarvis Video seems to do reasonably well. Duck drives by without stopping in, but he hears that Dan has retired most of the French language films that used to populate the shelves of Deluke Video and replaced them with more popular entertainment and a collection of westerns. Dan hires someone else to make the new store sign, or else he does it himself.
Dan and Val go to the usual festivals and potlucks. They're friendly to everyone and obviously affectionate with each other. They're never seen being quite intimate, but then, many couples aren't in public. Duck starts to wonder if his original assessment was correct, or if maybe he's just jealous of a happily married man whom he finds immensely, unreasonably attractive.
Yes, all right. He must admit it to himself at some point, and he does.
Dan's tall, lean, somewhat goofy looks make Duck melt inside in a way he hasn't felt in a long time. His fingers itch to touch that always neatly combed hair. He's curious to kiss that crooked smile.
It's crazy, and he knows it. He hardly knows the man, and whether he's gay or no, Dan is clearly in a committed, seemingly mutually beneficial relationship with his wife. Not to mention, no matter how comfortable Dan seems to be here, Val is going to want to leave Wilby sooner or later, and Dan will undoubtedly follow her.
Yet, Duck can't stop himself from following Dan with his eyes whenever they meet. He can't stop watching and cataloguing the expressions that chase across that sensitive, gentle face. There's something about Dan that makes Duck want to... protect him, maybe. No, not that. He wants to share. He wants to show Dan every single exciting, beautiful, unusual thing he's ever experienced. He wants to shock the laconic pleasantry from the man.
He thinks that to have Dan's undivided attention -- passion -- must be a fine thing.
Which is, again, crazy.
So he goes about his business like a normal human being. He does his job, keeps up with his acquaintances. Maintains his house and his truck. Votes for the new mayor.
He pays a visit to Wilby Watch one night in late March. He hasn't been there in almost a year, he realizes. The smell of the coast is what he remembers, but the buzz in his veins is less practiced than it'd used to be.
As soon as he leaves the cover of the shrubbery toward the beach, he catches sight of a familiar-seeming figure.
It's a moment of déjà vu.
The beach isn't the same, of course, and the man's not the same, but it's almost more surreal to see Dan Jarvis there on Wilby Watch than it had once been to meet Buddy French at South Cape.
Like Buddy, Dan has his back to Duck before he turns to face him.
Unlike Buddy, Dan's eyes widen in recognition. And the way he licks his lips and then starts breathing silently through his mouth is most definitely not because of the natural scenery.
Duck doesn't say anything. He lets himself be drawn toward the other man until they are standing, facing one another. By moonlight, every nuance of Dan's features stands out. His eyes are shadowed, alive and soulful. He raises a hand toward Duck's face but stops halfway, frozen. Duck jerks his head toward the trees -- and it's the work of a moment before they're there.
He gasps as he is pushed up against rough bark. Fingers tangle in his hair and pull his head back, causing him to flinch minutely -- but that's soon forgotten, with hot breath on his neck and a lithe, broad back to explore.
It's not long before there's the slide of heated flesh in his hand and accompanying jags of moans in his ear. Hands fumble half-heartedly at his pants, but he's too busy dragging the other man closer and touching him everywhere, everywhere he can reach to let them make any progress.
Dan tenses and curls against him, shaking, when he comes. Duck feels the hum of the other man's muscles against his skin. Pushing up, he flips them around so that Dan can lean against the tree. He puts his head back immediately, like he's about to collapse.
They're under cover, of course, but a breeze must have picked up at just the right moment, because the leafy shadows across Dan's face whip away for half a second, and Duck glimpses a relaxed, openly radiant expression on Dan's face that he's never seen before. Never imagined.
I did that, Duck thinks, dumbfounded. He stares, rapt, at Dan's face, even though he can no longer see it clearly. A surge of affection and pride licks up his body. Even his throbbing insistence takes a backseat to that feeling. I'll bet his wife can't make him look that way.
Then the hands are back at the opening to his pants, and Duck has to concentrate on locking his knees and bracing his arms because that is Dan's mouth and those are Dan's fingers and this is them together on Wilby Watch under the stars on a Saturday night.
And it's-- There's something-- He doesn't-- They can't--
He comes. Of course he does. Dan's large, calloused hands are every bit as magical as he had imagined. But even as he's heaving long breaths and feeling the tingle reverberate in spasming waves from his groin up and down his spinal column -- he knows his heart is beating faster from something else as well.
All of a sudden, his mind is clamoring, Get out, get out, get out! and he's buttoning himself up and he's babbling something ("Thank you"? "See you around"? "The orange toucans fly in threes"?) and there's branches in his face, then trail dirt under his boots, then the dense slam of a door, and finally the cool cocoon of his truck cab.
He wraps slightly shaky fingers around the steering wheel and lowers his forehead to rest on the top rim. He gropes for his smokes and gets one lit with steadier hands. He doesn't open the window, so a haze forms lazily around him as he thinks. He's calm enough now to figure out what had propelled him away from there, and he doesn't like it.
For the first time since he's been dry, he feels shame.
But it doesn't make sense. Dan had been there of his own free will. Both of them had been sober. It's not the best thing that Dan's a married man, but Duck's had a married man before. He hadn't felt real proud about it, but it hadn't thrown him into a panic like now.
John Rourke, though... He hadn't ever bought gifts for his wife. He'd never picked flowers for her. He'd never been seen talking to her with a smile on his face like Dan has with Val. Come to think of it, no one had ever seen John and Lena angry at each other either, while Dan and Val seem to have fights every other week.
Dan and Val have a real relationship, and that's the difference. No matter how much Duck desires him physically, he has a problem with coming between two people who have a genuine promise to each other. And if he's honest with himself...
If he's honest with himself, he'll admit that he doesn't want Dan to be the sort of person who spits in the face of his marriage vows. He doesn't want Dan to step out on Val, who while abrasive in some ways is basically a nice person. He wants Dan to be... good and decent, the way Duck thinks of him.
And he doesn't want to be just another body in the dark to him.
Duck bangs his head against the steering wheel, because he thinks he knows this feeling. He knows he's in trouble.
He's fallen in love.
***
Perhaps 'love' isn't quite the word for it. Blind obsession or idiotic crush might be better descriptors.
When his father met his mother for the first time, he knew with utter certainty that he wanted to marry her. Love hit him like a two-by-four, his dad had always said, the dozens of times he had repeated the story, even after Ms. Niel came to live with them. When Duck was little, he thought it completely reasonable, because it was just like in the fairytales. A little older, and he thought it was romantic. As a wiser, more cynical adult, Duck thought maybe his dad had just been drinking too much.
Now he knows it was probably very close to a literal description -- violent, concussion-inducing, and out of the blue. He can almost feel the rectangular bruise forming on the base of his skull.
He can't change his own feelings, not the shame nor the cause of it. He does start avoiding Dan Jarvis like the goddamn plague, though. And he never, never returns to the Watch again. He doesn't know if Dan does. He doesn't want to know.
He hasn't taken a stool at the Loyalist's bar since his dad passed away. He's pretty certain that he shouldn't be here now. He sees a couple of people he recognizes who give him frowning looks. So, hunching his shoulders, he orders a ginger ale and sits nursing it until people stop watching him. By that time, though, he's got his head back on straight again, and he doesn't bother to get anything else.
A shuffling beside him makes him look up from contemplating getting out his smokes -- cigarettes always taste strange with soda -- and a man sits on the stool next to him.
"Duck. Hi."
Buddy gives him a cautiously assessing look. He's not in uniform, and it's not his business anyway, but Duck has to resist the urge to point out that he's not drinking anything he shouldn't.
Instead, he attempts a smile and says, "Hi, Buddy."
"Didn't expect to see you here."
The smile slips. "It's a public place."
"Sure, sure. A draft, please?" he says to Patrick, who nods and briskly pulls down a glass mug. He taps the fingers of one hand rapidly against the countertop for a few seconds, then asks Duck, "Were you getting one?"
Duck narrows his eyes at the man. Is this a test? He's tempted to demand, "Yeah, why?", but instead he jerks his head and says, "No."
Buddy looks relieved. Duck wishes he would just get up and leave. Mission accomplished, right? But he knows Buddy better than that. Indeed, the man hangs around and tries to make small talk.
Partway through some rambling musings about Canadian detective novels, Duck decides to cut Buddy off and save them both.
He says the first thing that comes to mind: "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure." Buddy's curious and expectant.
"You've been married for a while now, right?"
"Yes...?" Buddy's face registers wariness.
"How did you know Carol was the one?"
There's an odd look on Buddy's face that shifts into something sad, or maybe angry, before flattening out entirely. "What do you mean?"
"There had to be something that made you pick her. Hell, you dated half the Island, didn't you? And nobody here was good enough for you." Buddy's face is going rigid, and Duck feels like maybe he should stop. But he feels even more like being stubborn, so he forges on. Maybe it's the mood he's in plus being here in the bar. That ginger ale is starting to feel like something else. "Why did you marry her?"
"What business is it of yours?"
Thankfully, it is ginger ale, so he can tell that Buddy's expression is definitely anger this time. It's like breaking the surface of the water. "None," he says quickly. He shrugs, irritated at himself and trying to project apology.
Buddy married a mainlander four years ago, after a whirlwind romance that had set the whole Island up in a months-long flurry. She's from out west, is the story. She set herself up as a real estate broker in Wilby for reasons unknown, fell in love with (or seduced, or bribed, or strong-armed, depending who's telling it) Buddy French, and stayed as his wife.
Word is that she dumped her boyfriend for him. Everyone knows that he dumped Alice Hunting for her -- not that it had been all too serious between them. But Alice is an islander. And the right ethnicity.
Duck wonders what gossip he missed all those years he was too soused to care.
"Why are you asking?" Buddy's watching him with what Duck thinks are probably his 'cop' eyes -- considering, and colder than his usual affable gaze.
Duck shrugs again. "No reason. I wasn't prying," he clarifies. "I was thinking of something else."
"Hm." Buddy takes a few slow swallows of his beer. Duck can smell the sour-sweet tang of it, and his insides tighten up with sudden yearning. He averts his eyes and drains his ginger ale instead. He shouldn't be here.
Story of his life.
Buddy's voice yanks him out of his thoughts: "Something bothering you, Duck?"
"I'm fine."
"You don't look it."
"I said, I'm fine." He leans back, ostensibly to look for Patrick. "Can I get another one?" he demands. Unflappable, Patrick scoops a cold bottle of soda out of the fridge and opens it in front of him. Duck guzzles a third of it as soon as he sets it down.
Buddy frowns at him for a moment. Then he turns his attention to his own drink. His thumb smoothes slow circles against the condensation-damped sides of his mug -- the droplets beading and joining and sliding down, almost hypnotic.
"She made me feel special."
"Huh?" He cuts a look at the other man, but Buddy's not looking back.
"Carol. Being with her. I felt different when I was with her. Different in a good way."
"Oh. That's why you married her?"
"Yup."
"How about now?"
"What?"
"Does she still make you feel that way?"
"Yeah. Sometimes, I guess."
It's Duck's turn to study the other man. When Duck's depressed about something, he tends to shut himself down and put all his focus on the outside world. Buddy seems to withdraw into himself. He's speaking to Duck, but he might as well be addressing his beer.
"Everything felt perfect when we first started out. Carol's the first woman I've ever clicked like that with. Before her, I'd never been able to stick with anyone for more than a month or two. I figured we were meant to be together."
Duck grunts in acknowledgement. People have always liked to confide in him. Tommy had told him once he has a trustworthy face. Whatever that means.
"Have you ever dated anyone long-term?" Buddy asks him suddenly.
This is dangerous territory. Duck hesitates. He should just ignore the question, brush it off. But he doesn't want to drop Buddy like that. And it feels good to have a normal conversation, even if he can't say much. "Yeah," he answers. He reviews his pronouns, in case he needs them. "Almost three years."
Buddy whistles, low. "That's pretty long-term, all right. So why didn't you marry her?"
Duck ignores the obvious answer and replies with the important one: "We weren't right for each other."
"How did you know?"
"Trust me. I knew." Too bad it'd taken Erik longer to catch a clue.
"How could you tell when to keep trying and when to break it off?" It's kind of funny that Buddy French is asking him this. In all seriousness, too, it sounds like. Duck lets a smile creep onto his face.
"Sometimes you don't." Reminded of his own situation, he shrugs. "Sometimes you know, but you can't do either one."
That seems to get Buddy's attention. "Why are you here tonight?" he asks, voice slow and careful. When Duck doesn't answer, he asks, shrewdly, "Having some woman troubles yourself?"
Duck barks a laugh. "No. Don't have those," he answers recklessly.
Those thick eyebrows go up. "Someone I know?"
It's enough that Duck grimaces. He looks around, but nobody is paying attention to them. "It's complicated."
The quality of Buddy's silence goes from merely curious to suspiciously probing. Duck wilts under it. It's a good thing he's not a career criminal.
"She's married, okay?" he says, shortly, and he feels an edge of satisfaction when Buddy's eyes widen.
"Shit."
Yeah. Succinct.
"Does she feel the same way?"
"No." He remembers the excited pleasure on Dan's face right after he turned around and recognized Duck. He remembers that rapturous expression a little later on. "I don't know."
"You two...?" Buddy's looking uncomfortable. Evidently, he's picked up the gist of what Duck's not saying. He feels a blush stealing up his neck. At the same time, he feels an exhale of relief to finally share what's been driving him insane for months.
"It's complicated," he repeats gruffly. Again, story of his life.
"Yeah. Love's like that."
Buddy holds up his mug. Shooting him a look, Duck picks up his bottle to meet him halfway. The glass receptacles clink, dull but serviceable. This time, he watches Buddy drink, and it's not so bad. He holds the sweet, sharp fizz of his soda in his mouth before swallowing it. He consciously doesn't pretend it's something else.
Buddy drains his mug and sets it aside. He glances toward the empty game tables. "Ten dollars for the eight ball?"
"All right."
They don't talk anymore the rest of the evening. But Duck's feeling both a little more jumbled and a little more settled inside.
***
He's thinking about Buddy two years later in a dark parking lot. He's thinking about what it means to feel special, and what it means to be faithful. He's thinking about his dad. He's thinking about Ms. Neil wearing another woman's ring. He's thinking about Erik. He's trying not to think about how scared he is right now.
"You live the way you live, son. If somebody don't like it -- fuck 'em," his dad had said. Except his dad had been wrong.
It does matter what people think. You just have to realize which people matter. Maybe that's the hardest part.
He rolls down the driver-side window and lights a cigarette. The practiced movement calms him, the snap of his lighter, the floating sensation of the smoke in his lungs, the cool-hot burn as he breathes it out. He pulls the sides of his jacket closed against the night breeze.
Two years.
For two years, he's kept his distance -- physically, or if circumstances failed that, at least emotionally. All the times he'd sought out a tall brunette with languid eyes only to turn away at the last moment. All the times he hadn't. All the times he'd crossed paths with Val Jarvis and waited in both dread and hope for her to say, "We're leaving Wilby next week." All the times he'd let himself fantasize about Dan Jarvis showing up at his door and saying, "I'm getting a divorce."
He coughs a laugh. Unbelievable.
But here he is. And there Dan is. Duck will probably grow old and papery and die unnoticed on this siren of an island, but who knows where Dan will be tomorrow?
It has to happen tonight.
He has to try.
"You live the way you live, son."
He can't change who he is or how he feels. He can't change anyone's ultimate destiny, much less his own. But he can try to make a small difference for himself. He can stop letting the world simply flow past him. He can choose.
He will.
He grinds the butt out and stares again at the lit room with the car out front. There's no movement around, and the night seems to be waiting, just like he is. He pulls his lighter back out and hunches down to light a new cigarette. He lays his head back against the headrest and takes a deep breath, feeling the welcome burn in his stretched throat. He lets himself go blind for a moment, lets the calm enter him, lets his nerves transform into acceptance.
One way or another, it'll be over tonight.
END Part 3.
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