Wilby fic: Points In Common, Part 4, by kuonji (R)
Title: Points In Common, Part 4
Series: Points In Common
Author: kuonji
Fandom: Wilby Wonderful
Characters: Duck MacDonald, Buddy French, Carol French, Dan Jarvis
Pairings: Duck/Dan, Buddy/Carol
Category: character study, drama, humor
Rating: R
Words: ~5890
Summary: Goddamn the timing of the justice system of Nova Scotia.
Points In Common
by kuonji
PART FOUR
Duck brushes Dan's cheek and calls his name. It takes a few moments, but finally Dan's green-hazel eyes slit open.
"Hey," Duck says softly.
Dan closes his eyes and grunts.
Duck shifts from his squat beside the bed to a kneel so he can bend down and kiss Dan on the cheek. Dan sighs and opens his eyes again.
"Morning," he says.
"I'm going for a run. Want to have breakfast when I get back?"
Dan shakes his head. "I'll be in town by the time you get back."
"You're not going to work, are you?" he demands. Dan suddenly looks more awake. He gets up on one elbow.
"Yes, I am."
"Take a day off. Who the hell wants to rent videos on a Monday?"
"I'm going to work, Walter." Dan's eyes are stony. He swings his long legs out of bed and then stalks into the bathroom, not quite slamming the door in Duck's face.
He can take a hint. So he straps on his running shoes and lets himself out the door.
Goddamn the timing of the justice system of Nova Scotia, he thinks bitterly. He does his warm-up stretches in only a cursory fashion before taking off down the street through the early morning fog.
It's been two weeks since same-sex marriage has been legalized in Nova Scotia, the fifth province to do so (and Yukon being the only territory so far). It seems to have brought out every homophobic jerk in all of Wilby to protest. They've even formed a Coalition For The Families Of Wilby, though as far as Duck can see, it seems to be more of a Coalition For Kicking Duck And Dan Out. The police had finally had to set dedicated security details outside Duck's house and the premises of Jarvis Video before things could settle down.
As if that weren't bad enough, Duck's feeling terrible about how he'd treated Sandra yesterday morning. He and Dan had ventured to Iggy's for breakfast, and -- largely due to Sandra, he knows -- the atmosphere had been so peaceful that they'd been feeling relaxed and enjoying their meal. He doesn't know what exactly prompted it -- he's sure their body language must have said something, but he doesn't know what -- but Sandra winked at them as she refilled their coffee cups and said, "So when's the wedding, boys?"
He'd seen Dan jerk in surprise out of the corner of his eye, and he'd growled, "Shove it, Sandra!" before he could think.
She'd been hurt, of course, and Dan had given him a censuring look that he had felt obliged to argue with. Everything had gone downhill from there, until they'd gone to bed angry at each other for, by then, completely irrelevant reasons.
Jesus fucking Christ. He wants to stand up and shout, "We've only been dating for three months, people!"
He can't imagine why everyone seems to assume that he and Dan are about to get hitched. Hell, Paul MacDonald had lived with a woman for over thirty years without any wedding bells ringing. What makes them think his son will be any more inclined to leave behind the single life?
It's stressing the both of them. Duck's temper is starting to show more, and Dan's been wondering out loud if it would be better if he found his own place to live. He knows, even though Dan hasn't said anything yet, that Dan is thinking about leaving Wilby entirely. Duck has no hold over him. Wilby Island has no hold over him. Dan doesn't own property here, only the rent on his video store. (And thank god Dan's landlord, Rick Southerby, is sympathetic to them.) A few months ago, he'd been planning to leave anyway. Hell, a few months ago, Dan had been planning to leave life behind.
The asphalt pounds against the soles of his shoes, and he forces himself faster.
He doesn't want to leave Wilby. Not just because he loves the island, but also because he can't stand to feel like he's giving up. But the alternative would be to lose Dan. He wants to believe that love can always find a way, but Duck MacDonald is practical if nothing else. He knows that if he leaves now, under the kind of pressure the town is giving, that he might never be able to come back.
And he's not sure yet if Dan is worth that risk.
It's not hard to conjure up the memory of hard fingers in his hair, a cold wall against his back, and nasty threats in his ears -- the suffocating misery of his life falling down around him with no way to recover what was lost.
Is it worth it?
He swears under his breath to get rid of the bile taste. He pumps tight-clenched fists viciously at his sides. He tries to run even faster, even though his heart is pounding through his ribs and he can barely draw breath through his constricted throat.
A human figure takes shape out of the fog, and Duck is running so fast that he's almost upon it before he can stop. It's no wonder, because the other person is barely moving, limping along.
Duck doesn't want to get involved with anyone else right now. He wants to turn around and just go -- but he can tell at a glance that the person -- a dark-haired man -- needs help. He's out of the residential streets by now. Unless a car happens by, the obviously lame person is out of luck.
Sighing in frustration, Duck calls out, "Need some help?"
The man turns around and -- shit -- it's Buddy.
Buddy's panting. His face is pinched with pain. His hair sticks to his skull in unflattering clumps. Duck hadn't even recognized him, especially since Buddy's wearing a pair of track pants too tight for him and a sweat-stained T-shirt that Duck's never seen him in before.
"Duck." Buddy sags and looks down at the ground. "I-- Could you help me? My car's just up there." Without raising his eyes, he gestures up the hill. Duck knows there's a gravel turnout in a hundred fifty meters or so. He can just see it from here through the lightening fog. There's a darker mass that must be Buddy's car. It's the SUV, the personal car that Carol usually drives.
"Yeah," he says, because what else can he do? He hikes his shoulder under Buddy's right arm and supports him so that Buddy can hop along on his left foot. It doesn't take long before they've got a rhythm going.
"Think I twisted my ankle," Buddy observes needlessly. "Snagged a root." All this is delivered in short gasps through gritted teeth. He must really be hurting. Duck has no idea why he's even trying to talk.
"What were you doing here?" He tries not to sound accusing, but he doesn't care too much whether he's successful.
"Just a run. Before shift."
"Aren't there jogging trails through town?" Did you have to come out here and add more crap to my morning?
"Wanted the quiet." He swears through a moan as his left foot lands wrong, and his right foot comes in contact with the road for a second.
"Okay, wait. This is stupid," Duck realizes. "Give me your keys and I'll drive it here."
Buddy groans. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm an idiot. No news there."
Not quite knowing what to make of that from the normally confident man, Duck takes the keys without comment and jogs the rest of the way to the turnout. By the time he gets back, Buddy is chafing his arms, the cold creeping up on him from his injury plus sudden lack of exertion.
With Buddy's right leg out of commission, Duck knows he'd never be able to drive. Wordlessly, he helps Buddy into the passenger side and gets back in himself to drive Buddy to the hospital clinic.
Buddy is sullen and silent the whole way there, which is perfectly fine with Duck.
***
It's a bad sprain, but the doctor decides that Buddy doesn't need a cast. He's given a brace and a pair of crutches and some Tylenol for the pain. Buddy nods dutifully as he's told to keep off his foot as much as possible, to ice it at two-hour intervals, and to keep it elevated.
"You're going to be fine," Dr. Tucker says, patting Buddy on the knee. Duck remembers seeing this man as a teenager, back when Dr. Tucker's older brother was mayor. He hadn't had white hair then, of course. "Just take it easy for a month or so. Desk work only for at least two weeks, please."
Buddy nods again and says a perfunctory thank you. Neither of them is carrying a wallet, but Dr. Tucker is fine with Buddy paying for the visit next time he's in the area. Small towns are nice like that, Duck is reminded.
By the time Duck gets Buddy home, he figures he might as well finish the job. He helps Buddy into his house and places him at the kitchen table, with his leg resting on the chair across from him, and he pours him a glass of orange juice.
Standing in that quiet house while Buddy tiredly drains his glass, he suddenly thinks to ask, "Where's Carol?"
Buddy sighs and clomps the glass down on the tabletop. "She went home to Richmond for Thanksgiving with her parents. She said it'd be better if she went without me this year."
"She said that?" he repeats.
There's more sharpness there than he'd meant to convey, and Buddy jerks a look at him. "Oh, she'll come back," he assures Duck. "But I don't know what she'll say when she does. Her parents don't like me very much." Buddy rubs his hands over his face. "She was engaged to a man from Hong Kong before she met me. Did you know that?"
Mute, Duck shakes his head.
"It pissed her parents off that she wasn't marrying a Korean." He laughs mirthlessly. "Then she broke that off, moved to the middle of nowhere, and got married to a White guy. Sometimes I wonder if she only married me as an act of rebellion."
Duck sits carefully in the seat diagonally across from the other man, avoiding his propped-up leg. "Do you think she did?"
Buddy sighs. "No. Not really. We had a connection. We... Maybe we still do. It's just been kind of screwy for a while. Too long a while."
Dejection's pouring out of every slump of Buddy's body. This is the last thing I need, Duck grouses internally. But he's never been good at ignoring somebody who needs help, and he feels he owes it to Buddy to at least make an effort.
"I'm sorry." It's the catch-all, meaningless phrase that everyone says. Predictably, it doesn't seem to cheer Buddy any, although he offers Duck a tired, polite smile. "Hey," Duck says, having a sudden brainstorm. "Why don't you write down some of that stuff? About that 'connection' between you."
"Huh?"
"You know. 'Twenty reasons we're together.' Like a Valentine." Women like that sort of thing, don't they?
Buddy's looking at him like he's grown a second nose. Out of his elbow. Duck rolls his eyes, but he's committed now. He stands and finds his way to the study. It looks mostly unused, but he's able to dig up a legal pad and a pen from the first drawer of the old desk that's so battered it could have once belonged to Buddy's great-grandfather. Then he comes back and drops the items in front of Buddy.
"There. Write."
Buddy takes the pen but stares irritably at the page. "What the hell am I supposed to write?"
"Let's start with 'Number One'..." he snaps. He's starting to wonder if this was a dumb idea. He isn't used to poking into other people's business, and he's wishing suddenly that Buddy had put up more of a fight, or at least had looked less pathetic and in need. It's not as if he can magically fix whatever's going on between Buddy and Carol, and even if he could, that wouldn't mean...
Buddy scowls but writes '#1.' on the paper. "Okay, Doctor MacDonald. Now what?"
Ignoring the sarcasm, he sits back down and leans his elbows on the table. Thinks. "How about what you told me before? You said she made you feel special. Write that down."
Buddy stares skeptically at him for a moment longer. Then he heaves a put-upon sigh and says out loud, as he writes, "Number one... You make me feel special." He looks up expectantly.
"Great. Now think of nineteen more."
"Duck!"
"C'mon, I'm serious. You've been married for seven years. What do you like about her?" Two people who have stuck together for that long... There have to be good memories there. Things to lean on, to build on. Not every relationship ends in pointless confusion. Right?
Buddy shoots Duck an ill-tempered glare. "All right," he says. "But you have to do it, too."
"What?"
"I'll do a list for Carol. You do one for Dan. Easy." He rips off the top sheet of the legal pad, then the next one down. He slides the fresh sheet across to Duck and spins the pen after it.
It's on the tip of Duck's tongue to protest, but the pen overshoots the edge of the table, and he catches it automatically. Then he's in a perfect posture to start writing. Buddy's crossed his arms and is giving him a challenging look.
"All right," Duck snaps, the stubborn part of him rearing up. "Number one... You make me feel special." He scrawls what he says, then tosses the pen back with a cheeky grin.
Scowling, Buddy takes it, stares at his own paper for a moment, then writes something. He reads out loud, "Number two... Your skin always smells nice. You make me think of summer."
Duck laughs, catches the pen as it comes hurtling back, and writes, "Number two... Your skin smells nice. You make me think of old cars and Italian food."
Buddy raises a curious eyebrow at that but doesn't say anything. Instead, he snatches the pen Duck flips back to him and writes, "Number three... Your soft breasts fit in my hands like they were made to be there. Your nipples taste like candy." He shows his teeth as he tosses the pen back.
Not even flinching, Duck writes, "Number three... Your cock is a work of art. Food art that I can taste, with a creamy filling."
Buddy misses the pen as it comes back, so he has to pause to lean over and scrabble for it before he glares at Duck and writes, "Number four... When I'm inside you, it's magic. The way you moan and shake when you come around me makes me feel like I'm king of the universe."
So Duck's next one is, "Number four... When you're inside me, I can see the future. I can see you fucking me slow and hard, all sweating and desperate to have me, moaning like a porn star."
"Oh my god!" Buddy has a hand over his face, and he's turning red where it shows. His teeth flash in a laugh. "Okay, okay. I concede."
"Your turn," Duck prompts him. He thinks he must be blushing himself, but he deliberately half-stands and reaches over to place the pen across Buddy's legal pad.
Buddy tracks it, then looks up at Duck through his lashes before picking it up to write, "Number five... I tried to convince you for a week that you would look incredibly sexy with red nail polish on your toenails. Finally you said to me, 'I'll do it if you do'." He lobs the pen back and Duck catches it -- just barely.
He doesn't say anything, but he stares at Buddy with his eyebrows raised and the pen cupped between his palms -- until Buddy cracks a smile, and nods. "No kidding?" He tries to imagine Buddy wearing nail polish on his toes.
"Yeah. Worth it, believe me. I got hard every time I saw the color red for a month. And then it was Remembrance Day weekend. Damned Mounties and the flag on TV every day."
Duck surprises himself by laughing uproariously. He feels carefree for the first time in, god, forever. Tapping the pen against the table, he glances quickly at Buddy before writing, "Number five... You saved my honor from Charlotte Deluke once. I never thanked you for that."
He grins and doesn't answer Buddy's questioning look, and Buddy's next one is, "Number six... The first time you cooked at my house, you'd bought a fish that turned out to be still alive. I expected you to scream, but you asked me for a hammer and bashed it dead right there in the sink. Most amazing thing I ever saw."
"Number six..." Duck follows. "When I took you out on a rowboat that time, I fell overboard because I was nervous, not because you rocked the boat. But it was your fault when you lost the oar and I had to jump back in after it." Buddy laughs out loud at that one.
Buddy hesitates, and Duck listens with surprise as Buddy writes, "Number seven... The first time I saw you, you were angry enough to spit fire, and you were the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. I knew that you could change my life, and I wanted you with a passion I'd never felt before."
Duck has to clear his throat before he writes, "Number seven... You got Sandra to buy a bouquet of flowers for me, because you were still too scared to do it yourself. Then you kissed me on the front porch before you gave them to me. I know how hard that was for you."
His heart's going a little fast, and he doesn't look directly at Buddy's soft expression as he spins the pen back across.
"Number eight..." Buddy starts, after a pause. "Your fried mozzarella is better than anyone else's. Really. Stop worrying!"
Relaxing into a smile, Duck writes, "Number eight... I like the way you pat the hood of your car sometimes, like it's your trusty steed."
They go on in that vein, back and forth.
When he finishes with number twenty, Duck wonders if they're going to stop. Buddy, however, snaps his fingers for the pen until Duck hands it over, and he doesn't seem to hesitate when he writes, "Number twenty-one... Two months after we got married, we took that honeymoon trip to New York. It rained and we were miserable. You joked that you were divorcing me. We laughed so hard, that was how ridiculous it sounded then."
Buddy rolls the pen back without looking up, so Duck swallows and writes, "Number twenty-one... When I first heard you were in hospital, and why, I drove home and just sat in my garage for two hours. I thought that I wasn't enough for you. Sometimes I still can't believe that you told me I was wrong."
He raises his head back up at the same time as Buddy does, and they share a long look. Then Buddy licks his lips, and he holds out his hand for the pen again.
They stop for only a few minutes while Duck preps an ice bag for Buddy's ankle and then pours them both some water. Sometimes they pause to think about what to write, or to consider what had just been numbered and read -- made real. Otherwise, the alternation of their voices and the scratch of pen on paper, the shuffle of paper on paper, doesn't stop.
"Number forty-one... I secretly think it's funny how you treat Deena. Am I a mean bastard?"
"Number fifty-nine... I thought you looked like a dork when we first met. You still do, but I like it."
"Number seventy-three... I was whistling 'Moon River' all that week after you had it stuck in your head."
"Number ninety... I can always recognize that twist in your little toe. It's quirky, just like you."
Their voices grow hoarse and Duck's hand gets sore. Tired of throwing and catching, they alternately flick and roll the pen, getting used to the scrape of it traveling across the grain of the kitchen table. Duck writes big, and it seems like he's asking for another page every few minutes until finally Buddy tears off ten sheets or so for himself and just tosses the rest of the pad over to Duck.
"Number one hundred fifteen... I love the way your tiny fingers feel in my hand."
"Number one hundred thirty-six... When I was a kid, I thought the West coast was populated by pirates and Vikings. I guess a cowboy is close enough."
"Number one hundred fifty-four... I've tripped over that bush more times than you have. I think I never dug it up out of pride."
"Number one hundred seventy-two... The kids didn't steal the paper last week. I threw it away because I didn't want you looking for an apartment."
"Number one hundred ninety... I wish your mother hadn't made you stop taking piano lessons. I had a dream one time where I saw you play, and you were amazing."
It must be over an hour later when Buddy picks up the pen, stares at his paper for a long time, then writes, very deliberately, "Number two hundred twenty... Carol, I love you and I want you in my life. Please say that you want me, too."
Duck draws a quick breath as he takes the pen that Buddy hands over to him. He puts the pen to paper but doesn't write anything yet. He blinks, hard, and takes another deep breath. Then, hesitantly, he writes, "Number two hundred twenty... Dan... Dan, I think we have something good together, and I want to be with you." Closing his eyes briefly, he adds, "...wherever you decide you have to go."
As soon as he finishes the last period, he drops the pen like a hot coal and looks up. He stares straight into Buddy's eyes and says, solemnly, "Carol's not going to leave you." He's never been more sure of a thing in his life.
And guess what? He's right.
***
Buddy invites them over for Christmas dinner with himself and Carol. Dan is all for it. He's always loved the small town friendliness of Wilby and he likes to take advantage of it when possible. Opportunities have been fewer since he's gotten together with Duck, and Duck wants to accommodate him. He's a little leery about dinner, however, until Carol calls them herself.
They've met up a few times since July, but only at public venues. Carol's still noticeably uncomfortable with them. Duck's not sure if she disapproves of their relationship, or if she's still embarrassed over what happened between herself and Dan -- or between herself and Duck, for that matter. As he gets to know Carol better, he thinks that her outburst in front of him those months ago had probably been highly uncharacteristic of her.
They're told to arrive at five, so they ring the doorbell a cautious two minutes early with a bottle of good cider and a cheesecake from Lottie's. The shingled walls, dark tiled roof, and peaked sash windows of the house, with the gazebo out back are a contrast to Duck's rather more humble dwelling. It's closer to the center of the island, too, so the weathering isn't hardly as bad. Bare-limbed trees edge one side of the gravel drive and randomly dot a large expanse of what must be a lawn.
The inside of the house is polished and neat. Duck's a little worried about where to put his feet at first, until Carol points out the towel she's laid in front of the door. They're invited to remove their shoes and make themselves feel at home.
Carol is assiduously friendly, though possibly a little jumpy and too eager to please. She tells them that she always cooks for Christmas, and that usually she invites business relations, but this year she wanted something more personal. There's a tense moment when Buddy calls their attention to a framed painting of Wilby Watch that graces their living room. Dan frowns, and Carol blushes, but when they find out that Carol had painted it, he can feel Dan relax.
"It's lovely," Dan says, in an admiring tone that has Buddy beaming.
Carol makes humble replies and whisks their attention away from the painting. She seats them in the living room and offers them honest-to-god appetizers -- fried mozzarella and stuffed mushrooms.
Ten minutes later, Duck's coming through the kitchen, navigating his way back from the bathroom, when he hears, "Oh. Oh, no!"
Suddenly Carol is rushing in. He stares as she completely ignores him in favor of hauling open the oven and peering worriedly inside. She sighs in evident relief, turns off the oven, and props the door half open. Only when she turns to reach for a pair of oven mitts does she seem to finally register Duck there.
It's a little comical how her eyes widen as her hands flutter toward, then away, from the oven mitts (with a cheerful dandelion pattern on them). They're caught staring at each other, not strangers, but not friends.
"Need help with that?" he finally asks Carol, gesturing toward the oven.
That seems to snap her back into sociable hostess mode. "No, no. You go and make yourself comfortable."
Duck glances toward the doorway. He can hear Buddy and Dan conversing in quiet but pleasant tones. Carol is watching him warily, as if expecting something. So he decides to take the plunge.
"Thanks for inviting us. I know we're not the most popular people."
Wilby Island has pretty much settled into three sets of opinions: 1. "Get those immoral blights on the face of our home out of here!", 2. "I heard they had lunch at Eddie's yesterday. Sat in the corner and refilled their drinks twice. Pastrami and rye with mustard, do you think he's Jewish?", and 3. "Who the fuck cares! Can we please go on pretending that they don't exist?"
He wonders which camp Carol is in, or if she's still deciding.
"Don't be silly. We're glad to have you." She's avoiding his eyes, though, busily pulling on the oven mitts, which look new. He has a sudden flash of Val and her gardening gloves. "Thank you for helping Buddy home and taking care of him while I was-- away. I don't know what he would have done if you hadn't been there."
"It was no trouble."
"Are you and Dan very angry with me?" She blurts, leaning her mitted hands on the edge of the counter and staring at him anxiously.
It's not the most unexpected question, he supposes.
Dan forgives her. Duck's certain of that. In fact, Dan thinks the whole thing is bizarrely funny. He speaks of Carol French with something like fondness. Of course, he had been unconscious through most of what had happened, so maybe he isn't exactly in a position to appreciate it. Duck had pointed that out to him again just this morning, and Dan had just shrugged.
"She saved my life, Duck. How can I be mad at her for that? And besides, that poor woman hasn't been able to sell her mother-in-law's house for six months because of me." Then his lips had quirked again, and he'd added, "Maybe it'd help if she told them how roomy the cupboard under the stairs is." Then Duck had to throw up his hands over the whole thing, because Dan had started laughing again.
Duck is the very last person in the world who would ever try to convince Dan to stop when he is feeling that cheerful about something.
"No. He's fine. I am, too," he adds. She stares back at him for a few long seconds. Then she seems to deflate with relief. For just a moment, the buzzing aura of awareness around her... stills. Duck had never thought of Carol as a particularly emotive person, but he's thinking now that she must keep her feelings under wraps most of the time -- maybe because they are so strong.
Duck... sympathizes with her. He thinks he understands her at least a little. He hadn't expected that. She's not someone who normally fits on his personal radar. Under normal circumstances, they walk in different circles.
"I'm sorry," she mutters to the oven as she opens it again. "I don't know what's wrong with me."
It doesn't sound like something he can answer, so he just waits.
A turkey emerges amidst a cloud of steam. Carol sets the baking pan on the counter and transfers the cooked bird to a serving platter. It's dried on the top, which makes Carol pucker her brow.
"It looks great," he says, before she can start getting more upset about it. In fact, it smells delicious. He's spent the last few Christmases at the Loyalist with the Pearces. Betty can't cook to save her life, even though her husband runs Eddie's Sandwiches, but they always welcome him to dine with them over the holidays. When he called to tell them reluctantly that he had other plans this year, Betty had sounded pleased for him.
Carol shoots him a glare, then seems to remember again that he is her guest. She smiles instead, but it looks tacked on. "You must think I'm a crazy woman."
"Naw. We're all a little different."
Carol pulls out a stack of serving dishes. There's several pots warming on the stove. With her back turned, she admits to him, "Working... It helped me to get away from everything. It crept up on me. I don't know how it became my whole life when I wasn't noticing. Have you ever felt like that about anything?"
Duck smiles wryly. Carol must not be the sort of person to listen to gossip, or else she would know the answer already. "Yeah."
"Really?" She turns to look at him, a ladle of stewed yams in mid-transit. "But you seem so... together."
"I put up a good front, don't I?" He's only half-joking.
She doesn't exactly laugh, but she looks less distraught. "Buddy says I should just forget about the whole thing, treat it like it-- like I was a different person."
That sure sounds like something Buddy might say. "He likes to give bullshit know-it-all advice like that, doesn't he?"
She looks up at him, and-- "The first time I saw you, you were angry enough to spit fire, and you were the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen."
That convinces him to speak completely frankly: "Whatever you did in the past, that's still a part of you. But it's not just something you have to be ashamed of. You know where the line is now, and how not to cross it again. That's damn helpful when you're ever hurting again. It was maybe hard to learn, but when it ends okay like it did this time, it's worth it. Believe me." That's about as much as he's willing to talk about that. He's hoping maybe if he can understand her, then the opposite is true.
The sharp expression on her face fades to uncertainty.
"Hey, what's going on here? Is the turkey charred to hell?" Buddy pokes his head in the doorway like a hungry jack-in-the-box.
Carol jumps at his voice and glares at him. "It's fine," she says testily. "I'll call when everything's ready to take outside. You're supposed to be entertaining the guests." She starts determinedly straining a bowl of green beans.
Buddy shrugs at Duck behind Carol's back before beating a hasty retreat. Duck decides to follow his cue, leaving Carol to herself for a little while. He senses her watching his back as he goes. If he's lucky, he's done more good than harm.
Dinner is fantastic. The food is like something out of a magazine. Carol apparently takes her perfectionism into all tracks in life. It's a wonder she's not exhausted herself before now. She seems to relax somewhat after they all praise her cooking profusely, even going so far as to start a conversation with Dan about the movie club he's formed, which he is only too glad to expound on.
Dan obviously enjoys himself, flushed with good food and what had turned out to be good company. Buddy is as unconsciously charming as usual. At odd moments, Duck sees him watching his wife with an uncomplicated smile. Sometimes she returns his gaze with a startled look.
Buddy and he have never spoken again about that October morning in the kitchen. Duck doesn't think they ever will. He's got a stack of ink-covered yellow lined paper folded away in the glove compartment of his truck. He wonders what Buddy's done with his. Occasionally, Dan or Carol say something, and he and Buddy catch each other's eyes about it, but that's all.
It's strange to think that someone as irritatingly forthright and flawed as Buddy French can be a kindred spirit to himself. Strange, but somehow gratifying.
"Do you run every morning, Duck?" Carol asks him towards the end of their meal.
"Uh, yeah. Every day except Sundays." He ignores Dan's sidelong look. Duck skips a couple of days whenever he's feeling lazy, but that's not important.
"I've been telling Buddy that he should start jogging again."
Buddy grimaces. "And I tell her, I don't think it agrees with me." He looks down at his leg, now healed. "The last time might have been a sign."
"That was just an accident. More exercise will strengthen your muscles so that won't happen again."
Buddy sends Duck 'help-me' semaphores with his eyes, but Duck just smiles, amused at his predicament. "You could join me," he offers impulsively.
"That's a good idea," Carol responds immediately.
"Sure," Dan puts in dryly. "Since you run every day." Duck glares at him, communicating silently that the man who doesn't run at all should not be offering opinions.
Luckily, Buddy's already protesting. "I could never keep up with him. Do you know how long it's been since I did any regular jogging? It's a good thing I didn't have a heart attack the last time."
Duck thinks about it seriously this time. It wouldn't be bad to have a companion. It would be a good motivator, if nothing else. "You can join me partway. How about at that turnout? We can go up to Lighthouse Point, then back. I'll go all the way home on my own while you stop. That should be only about two kilometers."
"I... suppose I could manage that." Buddy's looking like he's interested in spite of himself. He rubs his stomach and stares at the remains of their Christmas dinner. "How about we start after New Year's?"
Carol produces a calendar, and they discover that New Year's Day is a Saturday.
"Let's start on the 3rd, then," Buddy suggests.
Duck pretends to look magnanimous. "Fine with me. Six A.M., rain or shine," he warns. "Don't be late."
That earns a scowl from the other man. "I won't be."
END Part 4.
Note:
"On September 24, 2004, Justice Heather Robertson of the Nova Scotia Supreme Court ruled that banning such marriages was unconstitutional and ordered the province to recognize same-sex unions." (from Wikipedia)
I wanted this story to take place about three months after the movie. To that end, I made somewhat elaborate plans for how to rile the townsfolk and how to get Carol out of Wilby. This was before I discovered the date of Nova Scotia's ruling on same-sex marriage and the timing of the Canadian Thanksgiving holiday. What can I say? The gods of fanfic provided.
Back to Points In Common Index