Wilby fic: Points In Common, Interlude, by kuonji (PG-13)
Title: Points In Common, Interlude
Series: Points In Common
Author: kuonji
Fandom: Wilby Wonderful
Characters: Buddy French, Duck MacDonald
Pairings: Duck/Dan mentioned, Buddy/Carol mentioned
Category: character study, drama, humor
Rating: PG-13
Words: ~3200
Summary: Duck's finishing up what looks like the second coat of paint when Buddy drives up in his patrol car and parks by the curb.
Points In Common
by kuonji
INTERLUDE
Duck's finishing up what looks like the second coat of paint when Buddy drives up in his patrol car and parks by the curb. He's sure Duck must have heard him, but he doesn't bother turning around. He remembers the grim set of Duck's jaw this morning as he'd asked, "Are we done, then?" A minute later, he'd been back outside with a power sander. Buddy can understand why Duck had foregone the far simpler solution of painting over the damage.
It looks like it had been enough. Buddy doesn't think Duck would have had time to rip out the sidings of his house and replace them, as well as finish painting, not in just a single day.
He's glad.
Just in case Duck hadn't simply been ignoring him, he consciously deepens his tread on the gravel driveway and then clears his throat as he approaches the other man. "Hi, Duck."
Duck grunts in reply and glances over his shoulder, but he doesn't lower the roller. He flicks his eyes over Buddy's face, then turns back to his work, apparently having read all he needed to know.
"I'm sorry, Duck. We don't have any proof, and Mrs. Weiner and Mrs. Deluke still insist that their husbands were at home the whole time. I gave them a warning, for what it's worth. The best we could do officially was to put our suspicions on record in the file."
Duck waves tiredly. Despite Buddy's hopes, Duck obviously hadn't been expecting much better.
He considers simply leaving, but this case is too familiar to him. The covered, broken windows leer at him in the failing light, and the fresh paint smell turns his stomach. It makes his skin itch, and it makes him want to offer some sort of comfort to the other man. "I wish I could do more to help. I know this is hard." The reaction is immediate, like lit gun powder.
"What the fuck do you know?" Duck drops the roller in the pan, which is fortunately almost empty. The paint splatters harmlessly onto the surrounding grass and the legs of Duck's already splattered workclothes as he turns to glare at Buddy.
It's startling to see Duck angry. Buddy's grown used to seeing the man still and calm. It seems more like the stillness of a predator now. His whipcord body radiates danger, even in his clumsy, battered overalls.
The next moment, though, the anger drains away. Or perhaps, it has retreated back underneath the mask that Duck shows to the world. Duck turns away and begins picking up his supplies -- paintbrushes and roller and efficiently re-covered cans. Buddy steps forward to help fold up the ladder and then to carry it. Duck gives him a look, neither encouraging nor discouraging, then wordlessly heads around back. Buddy follows him, and together they clean what tools need it at the outdoor waterspout and then store everything in the shed.
Buddy watches Duck lock his shed and recognizes with a pang that the lock is new. A wise precaution, he sadly agrees.
Then they're standing there, face to face. The gathering dusk is heavy with humidity and birdcalls mixed with the sounds of emerging insects. Duck's placid face is as hard to read as always. Buddy wonders uncomfortably what, if anything, he's hiding right now.
"Smoke?" Duck asks, gesturing toward his back porch.
After a second of surprise, Buddy replies, "Sure." Duck's already sitting down on one end of the second step. Buddy joins him and mirrors his actions of pulling out his pack and lighter. The familiar heft and taste of a cigarette between his lips is comforting, though the taste doesn't quite obliterate the odor of Duck's trade clinging to the man beside him. He clears his throat, uneasy. "Did I ever tell you how I met Carol?"
"No." Duck's voice is flat. Incurious. Not hostile, though. Buddy waits as Duck takes his first drag and breathes out twin streams of smoke through his nostrils before continuing.
"Stan and I took a call for a vandalism. Carol's call. The front windows of her house had been broken, some potted plants smashed." The senselessness of it grits his teeth once more. He remembers looking around at the desolation and feeling shocked and so incredibly -- disappointed in his fellow Man.
"Someone had spraypainted 'Go back to China, you stupid Chink bitch' on the door." Which hadn't even been accurate, since Carol is of Korean descent. But the untruth of the statement did not make it any less hurtful.
He can still see Carol's face, distraught and so very, very angry. Her petite frame, in a fine cardigan thrown over a too-thin nightdress, had been shaking.
Duck winces. Despite his studied aloofness, Buddy has seen glimpses over the years of Duck's empathetic side. "Did you catch who did it?"
Buddy knocks the ash end of his cigarette against his shoe, expelling a frustrated breath. "Yeah. Turned out, her real estate brokerage was doing so well, one of her competitors thought she was stealing business." Prejudice is usually piggybacked on other base motives. "She was, but legitimately. Carol was always dedicated to her work, and even islanders appreciate that over blind loyalty."
"So what happened to him? Or her."
"Nothing. Oh, he paid a fine. But the judge didn't make him pay for the damages because he dismissed them as 'negligible'. The judge was retiring that year. I think he just didn't want to cause trouble by siding with a mainlander. It was all a ridiculous farce. But the good thing is, news got around, what the guy had done, and people didn't like it. Eventually he went out of business, and he moved away."
"That ended not too badly. I guess."
"In some ways, yeah. She should never have had to go through that, though."
Duck seems to consider that for the space of a few more drags on his rapidly dwindling smoke. "How about after you were married?"
"A few incidents. Mostly personal sorts of things. If it gives you any hope, there haven't been any problems for us for nearly five years. I don't mean that I can imagine what it's going to be like for you. I'm just trying to say that, people can learn to accept change. Eventually."
"Some people on the mainland have already accepted change."
That disturbs Buddy on an intrinsic level. First, because of the implied insult against Wilby, his home. Second, because it illustrates starkly the dichotomy that Wilby has had to battle since the beginning -- that of 'mainlander' versus 'islander'. It's especially disconcerting that a man who is being singled out should bring up this divide himself.
As if he, too, realizes the import of his words, Duck firms his jaw and looks defiant.
"Do you think you'd have fewer enemies on the mainland?"
Duck's voice is bitter as he replies, "Maybe not. But at least they wouldn't be people I know. Friends."
Buddy grimaces in sympathy at the pain in that sentiment. He draws on his faith in the people of Wilby Island as best he can when he answers, "People here, they feel passionately. But it's the good as well as the bad. There's people here who care about you for real, Duck. On a personal level. You don't have that on the mainland, not the same way. That's what I missed most while I was away."
Duck had spent a much longer time away than he, Buddy knows. Had he resented coming back?
He tries to imagine what kind of life Duck has had to lead up till now -- secrecy under his innocent exterior, all that hidden anger under his outward calm. The years where he spent abusing himself with drink. Had that been only about his sick father, as everyone assumed?
He wonders why Duck had decided to stay on Wilby after his father passed away. What held him here? Buddy had told Mackenzie Fisher that Wilby is a fine place to live because of the people, the weather, and the land. Certainly, he has always thought so, but perhaps it isn't true for Duck. The small-minded people had betrayed Duck. The wet winter weather had perhaps helped kill his father. And the land... The land is almost all gone.
That last thought tickles something in his mind, but an unexpected laugh from Duck, heavy with sarcasm, dislodges a memory before it can form.
"The personal touch. I'll keep that in mind next time I get a window broken."
Buddy sighs. "You know, I always felt that Carol and I were able to get through a lot of hard times because we had each other. I think it's a great help to have someone who will stick by you, like you and Dan Jarvis could." He wants Duck to know that he supports them. That he is one of those people who cares.
Duck stiffens. "I don't think you're qualified to give relationship advice," he says, with a deep scowl.
Buddy feels himself go hot with shame. How could he have forgotten? "I... I don't mean..." He finds himself biting his lower lip, a nervous habit he can't seem to break himself of. "Sandra and I didn't--"
"Save it." Duck glares at a spot to the side, his jaw working.
Buddy falls silent. He certainly can't defend himself. If Duck hadn't been there, he's not sure that he and Sandra wouldn't have. He's disgusted with himself, and suddenly angry at the mindless people who lay blame of society's downfall at the feet of people like Duck, when it should be Buddy being vilified. He tenses and sits forward, getting ready to make his excuses and leave Duck alone.
"Fuck." The brief oath drops between them, freezing Buddy mid-move. Duck's bouncing a closed fist on the top of his thigh, and that tickle comes back. But Duck's voice again brushes it away. "Dan and I met at the Watch once," he imparts in a quiet, almost angry voice.
Buddy blinks, and the implications of the apparent non sequitur sink in slowly, leaving shock in their wake. He sags back against the step behind him. "You two were already...?" Having an affair, he doesn't finish.
"No." Duck pierces him with a sharp gaze. "It was just that one time. He was married. And he and Val were... real. You don't mess with that."
"But you must have known he was married before you..." He's more uncomfortable than he would have thought. He likes to count himself an enlightened man, but his mind nevertheless skitters away when he tries to imagine two men -- two men he knows, Jesus -- having sex.
"Yeah." Duck blows out a breath. "It's complicated."
That sparks a memory. A different one but clearer. "The married woman," he exclaims. "That--" He lowers his voice. "That was Dan?"
Duck startles. Perhaps he had forgotten telling Buddy about that. "Yeah." He smiles wryly. "I told you it was complicated, didn't I?"
Buddy busies himself with stubbing out the butt of his cigarette as he gathers his thoughts. He realizes something that had somehow slipped through the cracks of even his recent shift in world view. He has to come to terms with the fact that Duck MacDonald has always been gay. It isn't only the future that Buddy has to consider (on both a professional and personal level). Every conversation and interaction they've ever had in the past... he has to rearrange them, filter them according to this new fact.
"The... relationship you had. The one that didn't work out." It must have been with a man. On the mainland, Duck had met a man, one whom he had... had a relationship with for a number of years. Good god. What if he had brought this man back with him to Wilby? A stranger. Would it ever have worked out?
Duck's face tightens. "That's not important right now."
"No, of course not. I'm sorry." He actually holds up his hands as if to take the words back. He's being rude. He's acting like Duck is some foreign stranger himself, even though Buddy's known him since at least high school. But Duck is a stranger. Buddy feels like he's truly meeting him for the first time.
He stares openly at Duck, even knowing that he shouldn't. It's the same short blond hair atop weather-worn features, deepset eyes, a sharp chin softened by stubble. Rumpled workclothes, heavy boots. Long fingers and rough, close-trimmed nails. His tattoo and his woven bracelet... Were those supposed to be clues? Perhaps someone 'in the know' would understand them and... and what?
It makes Buddy's head hurt to think about it. Duck looks no different from the painter and handyman that he's always known. Mr. MacDonald's only son. Always said to be honest. Reliable. Even while drinking, he had finished the few jobs he had taken. A bit of a loner, he's always been shy with women, apparently leery of a relationship.
But all this time, Duck had been... with men? Had... slept with men. Had kissed them, maybe. Loved them. Had gone to the Watch and... met with men like Jarvis.
Something finally snaps into place in his head. He opens his mouth before he can think. "Oh my god. I met you once at South Cape, didn't I?"
Duck stares at him, very obviously perplexed. "You're just now remembering that?"
Waves of embarrassment crash through him. "Y-Yeah."
Junior year at Wilby High had been a messy, distracting one. His lacrosse coach had had differences with his grandfather, which had translated to his interaction with Buddy on the team. Classes had seemed harder. He'd been embroiled in trouble with a girlfriend. His father's illness had been worsening rapidly. Losing his favorite refuge, South Cape, to the new resort had seemed like a final personal blow from the universe.
"I was a self-centered arse back then. What can I say?" He hesitates, then asks, almost afraid of the answer, "Were you there to... meet someone?" He's not a fool. He remembers what South Cape had used to be.
For a long moment, he thinks maybe he's insulted Duck again. The other man's face has gone completely blank.
Then Duck turns his head away, bends over his knees, and begins to shake silently. After a few seconds, Buddy becomes aware of soft gasps of laughter. "Jesus, Buddy." Duck rubs his forehead with the last two fingers of his right hand, his cigarette held deftly between the other two. He takes a final drag, then drops the butt on the porch step and grinds it out. "Want a soda?"
Buddy struggles a bit with words before he answers, "Okay."
Duck flows to his feet and disappears into the house. He returns with a root beer and a ginger ale and offers them to Buddy. Buddy chooses the root beer, and he rolls the sweating can against the side of his neck, needing the coolness.
"I guess I can't blame you," Duck says as he sits back down and opens his ginger ale. "South Cape feels like a million years ago. And to answer your question, yeah, I was there hoping to meet someone. But I was still a kid. I had no idea of anything. You scared me off, and I never went back there again."
Duck's smiling, obviously amused, but Buddy is horrified.
"I remember now. I called you a homophobe, didn't I?"
Duck's wry smile widens into a grin. "Some investigator you are, huh?"
Buddy concentrates on snapping open his root beer, and he takes a long swig to forestall the string of curses he wants to indulge in.
Duck taps his can against Buddy's when he lowers it again, before taking a swallow himself. "I had a crush on you," he tells him, wiping his mouth with one wrist.
Buddy chokes slightly. "You're joking," he sputters.
"Nope." Duck's expression is utterly bland.
"You hardly knew me," Buddy asserts, feeling lost all over again. What had Sandra said to him? "You didn't even look at me in high school."
"Sure I did. Captain of the lacrosse team. President of the Poetry Club. VP of the Astronomy Club. Great-grandson of Richard Augustus French. And pretty as Prince Charming. What's left to know?" Disconcertingly, he winks, and Buddy snorts a laugh, sharing what he realizes is a joke. "It was like one of those movie star crushes, I guess. But when I saw you at South Cape..."
Buddy winces. "Sorry. I got defensive."
"You had an image to keep up. I get it. I was a teenager, too."
"No, it's not just that." Buddy scrubs the back of his neck with one hand, unpleasant memories resurfacing. High school had been hard for other reasons, too. "I mean, I was president of the Poetry Club, right? And I didn't-- I don't have a lot of body hair. I liked to read. I wanted to... to save the whales and save the trees. I always listened to my mother, for Christ's sake."
"Huh." Duck seems to get what he's saying. "So people talked?"
"My teammates. Some of the guys, sometimes. Just ragging, you know. I don't think anyone actually thought--" He grimaces, remembering who he's talking to. "Not that being gay is a bad thing," he corrects himself preemptively.
Duck waves that away. "So people talked."
"Yeah."
"I didn't know."
Buddy shrugs. "We grew up."
"Some of us didn't." The smell of wet paint permeates the air.
"Do you want some help with the windows in front?" he offers.
"I've got it." Duck looks at him, unblinking, for a second, then adds in a casual tone, "Dan's moving in tomorrow." Buddy's starting to get used to his seemingly random conversation changes. It's no wonder that Duck had worked at such a breakneck pace to get the brutal messages off his wall.
"Congratulations." It's sincere. Whatever else he feels, this he knows. He wants for Duck and Jarvis to work out. Maybe he figures if they can do it, then everyone else must have a chance. Maybe it'll make him feel better about being an islander if only he can see everyone accept this. Maybe he's just being a damned idealist again, and he wants to see two people happy.
In any case, it's the right thing to say. He watches as pleasure blossoms tentatively over Duck's face.
"Thank you." Duck is weirdly formal in his embarrassment. It makes Buddy smile.
Buddy spins his soda can around in his hands a few times before taking the chance to say, "I'll let the Chief know, if you want. We can get an extra patrol in the area." Chief Montrose is a man who doesn't brook any trouble on the Island, no matter the target or the source.
Duck's expression withdraws again, as he'd expected. He's almost sure Duck is going to refuse, but then he relaxes, and he says, "That might be a good idea."
"I'll talk to him tomorrow." He's relieved, and gratified, by Duck's acceptance. Then it's Buddy's turn to tap their drinks together. "To you and Dan Jarvis."
Duck tilts his head in acknowledgement as he drinks his soda.
He's still hard to read, but Buddy thinks maybe he's got an inkling of who this new, old stranger is. And he likes what he sees.
END Interlude.
-------------------------------------
Author's Notes:
This section is special because it was originally -- shorter and from Duck's POV -- supposed to be the entirety of "Points In Common". One little flare of fic immediately post-movie, and I was to be done with Wilby forever.
As I started working on it, however, I started wondering what happened before, and what after. It changed into a story called "Cigarettes In The Dark", which had this section, plus the pre-movie scene from South Cape, where aside from Buddy's environmental tendencies, Duck finds out that Buddy's sneaking smokes and joins him. There was to be a third part as well, post-movie.
For reasons I still fail to understand, this story simply... exploded out from the middle. The pre-movie scene grew longer and added to itself. The post-movie part eventually changed completely, into what is now Part 5 of this story.
This scene became the ending of what is now Part 3, but there came a time when I realized that Part 3 ended much better where it does now. I also realized that most of the emotional points I hit in this part became redundant to the first section of Part 4, which I'd nearly completed by then. So I was suddenly at this weird place where what was once the entire story now looked like it had to be cut out!
Well, I had many objections to doing that, of course. This is the most direct description of how Duck's and Buddy's lives are similar, despite outward appearances, which is the main theme of "Points In Common". This is also, in my head, where Duck and Buddy really begin to click over from semi-good acquaintances to two people with the possibility to become real friends, and I didn't want to lose it.
So, literally worrying at this in bed one night before falling asleep, I hit upon the idea of telling this scene with Buddy's voice instead of Duck's. Thanks to this 'trick', I figured I could now justify this scene's continued existence. It gives us a window into the head of the secondary main character of the piece, at the same time providing a change-of-pace breather in the middle of a story that is -- by my writing standards -- inordinately long. (I have little confidence in my ability to keep a reader's interest past 5K words.)
And that, dear readers, is how this section came to survive and appear upon your screens today. I hope you found it worthy.
Back to Points In Common Index
Series: Points In Common
Author: kuonji
Fandom: Wilby Wonderful
Characters: Buddy French, Duck MacDonald
Pairings: Duck/Dan mentioned, Buddy/Carol mentioned
Category: character study, drama, humor
Rating: PG-13
Words: ~3200
Summary: Duck's finishing up what looks like the second coat of paint when Buddy drives up in his patrol car and parks by the curb.
Points In Common
by kuonji
INTERLUDE
Duck's finishing up what looks like the second coat of paint when Buddy drives up in his patrol car and parks by the curb. He's sure Duck must have heard him, but he doesn't bother turning around. He remembers the grim set of Duck's jaw this morning as he'd asked, "Are we done, then?" A minute later, he'd been back outside with a power sander. Buddy can understand why Duck had foregone the far simpler solution of painting over the damage.
It looks like it had been enough. Buddy doesn't think Duck would have had time to rip out the sidings of his house and replace them, as well as finish painting, not in just a single day.
He's glad.
Just in case Duck hadn't simply been ignoring him, he consciously deepens his tread on the gravel driveway and then clears his throat as he approaches the other man. "Hi, Duck."
Duck grunts in reply and glances over his shoulder, but he doesn't lower the roller. He flicks his eyes over Buddy's face, then turns back to his work, apparently having read all he needed to know.
"I'm sorry, Duck. We don't have any proof, and Mrs. Weiner and Mrs. Deluke still insist that their husbands were at home the whole time. I gave them a warning, for what it's worth. The best we could do officially was to put our suspicions on record in the file."
Duck waves tiredly. Despite Buddy's hopes, Duck obviously hadn't been expecting much better.
He considers simply leaving, but this case is too familiar to him. The covered, broken windows leer at him in the failing light, and the fresh paint smell turns his stomach. It makes his skin itch, and it makes him want to offer some sort of comfort to the other man. "I wish I could do more to help. I know this is hard." The reaction is immediate, like lit gun powder.
"What the fuck do you know?" Duck drops the roller in the pan, which is fortunately almost empty. The paint splatters harmlessly onto the surrounding grass and the legs of Duck's already splattered workclothes as he turns to glare at Buddy.
It's startling to see Duck angry. Buddy's grown used to seeing the man still and calm. It seems more like the stillness of a predator now. His whipcord body radiates danger, even in his clumsy, battered overalls.
The next moment, though, the anger drains away. Or perhaps, it has retreated back underneath the mask that Duck shows to the world. Duck turns away and begins picking up his supplies -- paintbrushes and roller and efficiently re-covered cans. Buddy steps forward to help fold up the ladder and then to carry it. Duck gives him a look, neither encouraging nor discouraging, then wordlessly heads around back. Buddy follows him, and together they clean what tools need it at the outdoor waterspout and then store everything in the shed.
Buddy watches Duck lock his shed and recognizes with a pang that the lock is new. A wise precaution, he sadly agrees.
Then they're standing there, face to face. The gathering dusk is heavy with humidity and birdcalls mixed with the sounds of emerging insects. Duck's placid face is as hard to read as always. Buddy wonders uncomfortably what, if anything, he's hiding right now.
"Smoke?" Duck asks, gesturing toward his back porch.
After a second of surprise, Buddy replies, "Sure." Duck's already sitting down on one end of the second step. Buddy joins him and mirrors his actions of pulling out his pack and lighter. The familiar heft and taste of a cigarette between his lips is comforting, though the taste doesn't quite obliterate the odor of Duck's trade clinging to the man beside him. He clears his throat, uneasy. "Did I ever tell you how I met Carol?"
"No." Duck's voice is flat. Incurious. Not hostile, though. Buddy waits as Duck takes his first drag and breathes out twin streams of smoke through his nostrils before continuing.
"Stan and I took a call for a vandalism. Carol's call. The front windows of her house had been broken, some potted plants smashed." The senselessness of it grits his teeth once more. He remembers looking around at the desolation and feeling shocked and so incredibly -- disappointed in his fellow Man.
"Someone had spraypainted 'Go back to China, you stupid Chink bitch' on the door." Which hadn't even been accurate, since Carol is of Korean descent. But the untruth of the statement did not make it any less hurtful.
He can still see Carol's face, distraught and so very, very angry. Her petite frame, in a fine cardigan thrown over a too-thin nightdress, had been shaking.
Duck winces. Despite his studied aloofness, Buddy has seen glimpses over the years of Duck's empathetic side. "Did you catch who did it?"
Buddy knocks the ash end of his cigarette against his shoe, expelling a frustrated breath. "Yeah. Turned out, her real estate brokerage was doing so well, one of her competitors thought she was stealing business." Prejudice is usually piggybacked on other base motives. "She was, but legitimately. Carol was always dedicated to her work, and even islanders appreciate that over blind loyalty."
"So what happened to him? Or her."
"Nothing. Oh, he paid a fine. But the judge didn't make him pay for the damages because he dismissed them as 'negligible'. The judge was retiring that year. I think he just didn't want to cause trouble by siding with a mainlander. It was all a ridiculous farce. But the good thing is, news got around, what the guy had done, and people didn't like it. Eventually he went out of business, and he moved away."
"That ended not too badly. I guess."
"In some ways, yeah. She should never have had to go through that, though."
Duck seems to consider that for the space of a few more drags on his rapidly dwindling smoke. "How about after you were married?"
"A few incidents. Mostly personal sorts of things. If it gives you any hope, there haven't been any problems for us for nearly five years. I don't mean that I can imagine what it's going to be like for you. I'm just trying to say that, people can learn to accept change. Eventually."
"Some people on the mainland have already accepted change."
That disturbs Buddy on an intrinsic level. First, because of the implied insult against Wilby, his home. Second, because it illustrates starkly the dichotomy that Wilby has had to battle since the beginning -- that of 'mainlander' versus 'islander'. It's especially disconcerting that a man who is being singled out should bring up this divide himself.
As if he, too, realizes the import of his words, Duck firms his jaw and looks defiant.
"Do you think you'd have fewer enemies on the mainland?"
Duck's voice is bitter as he replies, "Maybe not. But at least they wouldn't be people I know. Friends."
Buddy grimaces in sympathy at the pain in that sentiment. He draws on his faith in the people of Wilby Island as best he can when he answers, "People here, they feel passionately. But it's the good as well as the bad. There's people here who care about you for real, Duck. On a personal level. You don't have that on the mainland, not the same way. That's what I missed most while I was away."
Duck had spent a much longer time away than he, Buddy knows. Had he resented coming back?
He tries to imagine what kind of life Duck has had to lead up till now -- secrecy under his innocent exterior, all that hidden anger under his outward calm. The years where he spent abusing himself with drink. Had that been only about his sick father, as everyone assumed?
He wonders why Duck had decided to stay on Wilby after his father passed away. What held him here? Buddy had told Mackenzie Fisher that Wilby is a fine place to live because of the people, the weather, and the land. Certainly, he has always thought so, but perhaps it isn't true for Duck. The small-minded people had betrayed Duck. The wet winter weather had perhaps helped kill his father. And the land... The land is almost all gone.
That last thought tickles something in his mind, but an unexpected laugh from Duck, heavy with sarcasm, dislodges a memory before it can form.
"The personal touch. I'll keep that in mind next time I get a window broken."
Buddy sighs. "You know, I always felt that Carol and I were able to get through a lot of hard times because we had each other. I think it's a great help to have someone who will stick by you, like you and Dan Jarvis could." He wants Duck to know that he supports them. That he is one of those people who cares.
Duck stiffens. "I don't think you're qualified to give relationship advice," he says, with a deep scowl.
Buddy feels himself go hot with shame. How could he have forgotten? "I... I don't mean..." He finds himself biting his lower lip, a nervous habit he can't seem to break himself of. "Sandra and I didn't--"
"Save it." Duck glares at a spot to the side, his jaw working.
Buddy falls silent. He certainly can't defend himself. If Duck hadn't been there, he's not sure that he and Sandra wouldn't have. He's disgusted with himself, and suddenly angry at the mindless people who lay blame of society's downfall at the feet of people like Duck, when it should be Buddy being vilified. He tenses and sits forward, getting ready to make his excuses and leave Duck alone.
"Fuck." The brief oath drops between them, freezing Buddy mid-move. Duck's bouncing a closed fist on the top of his thigh, and that tickle comes back. But Duck's voice again brushes it away. "Dan and I met at the Watch once," he imparts in a quiet, almost angry voice.
Buddy blinks, and the implications of the apparent non sequitur sink in slowly, leaving shock in their wake. He sags back against the step behind him. "You two were already...?" Having an affair, he doesn't finish.
"No." Duck pierces him with a sharp gaze. "It was just that one time. He was married. And he and Val were... real. You don't mess with that."
"But you must have known he was married before you..." He's more uncomfortable than he would have thought. He likes to count himself an enlightened man, but his mind nevertheless skitters away when he tries to imagine two men -- two men he knows, Jesus -- having sex.
"Yeah." Duck blows out a breath. "It's complicated."
That sparks a memory. A different one but clearer. "The married woman," he exclaims. "That--" He lowers his voice. "That was Dan?"
Duck startles. Perhaps he had forgotten telling Buddy about that. "Yeah." He smiles wryly. "I told you it was complicated, didn't I?"
Buddy busies himself with stubbing out the butt of his cigarette as he gathers his thoughts. He realizes something that had somehow slipped through the cracks of even his recent shift in world view. He has to come to terms with the fact that Duck MacDonald has always been gay. It isn't only the future that Buddy has to consider (on both a professional and personal level). Every conversation and interaction they've ever had in the past... he has to rearrange them, filter them according to this new fact.
"The... relationship you had. The one that didn't work out." It must have been with a man. On the mainland, Duck had met a man, one whom he had... had a relationship with for a number of years. Good god. What if he had brought this man back with him to Wilby? A stranger. Would it ever have worked out?
Duck's face tightens. "That's not important right now."
"No, of course not. I'm sorry." He actually holds up his hands as if to take the words back. He's being rude. He's acting like Duck is some foreign stranger himself, even though Buddy's known him since at least high school. But Duck is a stranger. Buddy feels like he's truly meeting him for the first time.
He stares openly at Duck, even knowing that he shouldn't. It's the same short blond hair atop weather-worn features, deepset eyes, a sharp chin softened by stubble. Rumpled workclothes, heavy boots. Long fingers and rough, close-trimmed nails. His tattoo and his woven bracelet... Were those supposed to be clues? Perhaps someone 'in the know' would understand them and... and what?
It makes Buddy's head hurt to think about it. Duck looks no different from the painter and handyman that he's always known. Mr. MacDonald's only son. Always said to be honest. Reliable. Even while drinking, he had finished the few jobs he had taken. A bit of a loner, he's always been shy with women, apparently leery of a relationship.
But all this time, Duck had been... with men? Had... slept with men. Had kissed them, maybe. Loved them. Had gone to the Watch and... met with men like Jarvis.
Something finally snaps into place in his head. He opens his mouth before he can think. "Oh my god. I met you once at South Cape, didn't I?"
Duck stares at him, very obviously perplexed. "You're just now remembering that?"
Waves of embarrassment crash through him. "Y-Yeah."
Junior year at Wilby High had been a messy, distracting one. His lacrosse coach had had differences with his grandfather, which had translated to his interaction with Buddy on the team. Classes had seemed harder. He'd been embroiled in trouble with a girlfriend. His father's illness had been worsening rapidly. Losing his favorite refuge, South Cape, to the new resort had seemed like a final personal blow from the universe.
"I was a self-centered arse back then. What can I say?" He hesitates, then asks, almost afraid of the answer, "Were you there to... meet someone?" He's not a fool. He remembers what South Cape had used to be.
For a long moment, he thinks maybe he's insulted Duck again. The other man's face has gone completely blank.
Then Duck turns his head away, bends over his knees, and begins to shake silently. After a few seconds, Buddy becomes aware of soft gasps of laughter. "Jesus, Buddy." Duck rubs his forehead with the last two fingers of his right hand, his cigarette held deftly between the other two. He takes a final drag, then drops the butt on the porch step and grinds it out. "Want a soda?"
Buddy struggles a bit with words before he answers, "Okay."
Duck flows to his feet and disappears into the house. He returns with a root beer and a ginger ale and offers them to Buddy. Buddy chooses the root beer, and he rolls the sweating can against the side of his neck, needing the coolness.
"I guess I can't blame you," Duck says as he sits back down and opens his ginger ale. "South Cape feels like a million years ago. And to answer your question, yeah, I was there hoping to meet someone. But I was still a kid. I had no idea of anything. You scared me off, and I never went back there again."
Duck's smiling, obviously amused, but Buddy is horrified.
"I remember now. I called you a homophobe, didn't I?"
Duck's wry smile widens into a grin. "Some investigator you are, huh?"
Buddy concentrates on snapping open his root beer, and he takes a long swig to forestall the string of curses he wants to indulge in.
Duck taps his can against Buddy's when he lowers it again, before taking a swallow himself. "I had a crush on you," he tells him, wiping his mouth with one wrist.
Buddy chokes slightly. "You're joking," he sputters.
"Nope." Duck's expression is utterly bland.
"You hardly knew me," Buddy asserts, feeling lost all over again. What had Sandra said to him? "You didn't even look at me in high school."
"Sure I did. Captain of the lacrosse team. President of the Poetry Club. VP of the Astronomy Club. Great-grandson of Richard Augustus French. And pretty as Prince Charming. What's left to know?" Disconcertingly, he winks, and Buddy snorts a laugh, sharing what he realizes is a joke. "It was like one of those movie star crushes, I guess. But when I saw you at South Cape..."
Buddy winces. "Sorry. I got defensive."
"You had an image to keep up. I get it. I was a teenager, too."
"No, it's not just that." Buddy scrubs the back of his neck with one hand, unpleasant memories resurfacing. High school had been hard for other reasons, too. "I mean, I was president of the Poetry Club, right? And I didn't-- I don't have a lot of body hair. I liked to read. I wanted to... to save the whales and save the trees. I always listened to my mother, for Christ's sake."
"Huh." Duck seems to get what he's saying. "So people talked?"
"My teammates. Some of the guys, sometimes. Just ragging, you know. I don't think anyone actually thought--" He grimaces, remembering who he's talking to. "Not that being gay is a bad thing," he corrects himself preemptively.
Duck waves that away. "So people talked."
"Yeah."
"I didn't know."
Buddy shrugs. "We grew up."
"Some of us didn't." The smell of wet paint permeates the air.
"Do you want some help with the windows in front?" he offers.
"I've got it." Duck looks at him, unblinking, for a second, then adds in a casual tone, "Dan's moving in tomorrow." Buddy's starting to get used to his seemingly random conversation changes. It's no wonder that Duck had worked at such a breakneck pace to get the brutal messages off his wall.
"Congratulations." It's sincere. Whatever else he feels, this he knows. He wants for Duck and Jarvis to work out. Maybe he figures if they can do it, then everyone else must have a chance. Maybe it'll make him feel better about being an islander if only he can see everyone accept this. Maybe he's just being a damned idealist again, and he wants to see two people happy.
In any case, it's the right thing to say. He watches as pleasure blossoms tentatively over Duck's face.
"Thank you." Duck is weirdly formal in his embarrassment. It makes Buddy smile.
Buddy spins his soda can around in his hands a few times before taking the chance to say, "I'll let the Chief know, if you want. We can get an extra patrol in the area." Chief Montrose is a man who doesn't brook any trouble on the Island, no matter the target or the source.
Duck's expression withdraws again, as he'd expected. He's almost sure Duck is going to refuse, but then he relaxes, and he says, "That might be a good idea."
"I'll talk to him tomorrow." He's relieved, and gratified, by Duck's acceptance. Then it's Buddy's turn to tap their drinks together. "To you and Dan Jarvis."
Duck tilts his head in acknowledgement as he drinks his soda.
He's still hard to read, but Buddy thinks maybe he's got an inkling of who this new, old stranger is. And he likes what he sees.
END Interlude.
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Author's Notes:
This section is special because it was originally -- shorter and from Duck's POV -- supposed to be the entirety of "Points In Common". One little flare of fic immediately post-movie, and I was to be done with Wilby forever.
As I started working on it, however, I started wondering what happened before, and what after. It changed into a story called "Cigarettes In The Dark", which had this section, plus the pre-movie scene from South Cape, where aside from Buddy's environmental tendencies, Duck finds out that Buddy's sneaking smokes and joins him. There was to be a third part as well, post-movie.
For reasons I still fail to understand, this story simply... exploded out from the middle. The pre-movie scene grew longer and added to itself. The post-movie part eventually changed completely, into what is now Part 5 of this story.
This scene became the ending of what is now Part 3, but there came a time when I realized that Part 3 ended much better where it does now. I also realized that most of the emotional points I hit in this part became redundant to the first section of Part 4, which I'd nearly completed by then. So I was suddenly at this weird place where what was once the entire story now looked like it had to be cut out!
Well, I had many objections to doing that, of course. This is the most direct description of how Duck's and Buddy's lives are similar, despite outward appearances, which is the main theme of "Points In Common". This is also, in my head, where Duck and Buddy really begin to click over from semi-good acquaintances to two people with the possibility to become real friends, and I didn't want to lose it.
So, literally worrying at this in bed one night before falling asleep, I hit upon the idea of telling this scene with Buddy's voice instead of Duck's. Thanks to this 'trick', I figured I could now justify this scene's continued existence. It gives us a window into the head of the secondary main character of the piece, at the same time providing a change-of-pace breather in the middle of a story that is -- by my writing standards -- inordinately long. (I have little confidence in my ability to keep a reader's interest past 5K words.)
And that, dear readers, is how this section came to survive and appear upon your screens today. I hope you found it worthy.
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