Trigger Warnings: the story itself has themes of suicide (like my last teaser, the triggery content is fairly obvious from the AU description) but this scene doesn't touch on it except by implication.
Author Notes: So, a couple of days ago, I thought I was going to write a short little Play Day story. And then it turned out to be longer. (Anyone see a theme, here?) This one's actually about half-finished and I should actually be done with it soonish, but probably not soon enough to get it beta'ed and revised for the posting deadline. So it may end up just getting posted straight to AO3 outside the confines of the challenge. Anyway, since this was supposed to be a Play Day entry, here's a teaser:
--------------- Teaser #2: Dan is the one trying to save Duck.
-------------- Wilby Wonderful read the banner hanging over the bridge. Dan wondered what that was supposed to mean. Was someone trying to make a clever play on words? What will be wonderful, exactly? This morning, it was hard to imagine anything.
As he drove up to the bridge, Dan saw a man standing in the middle of it, with his hands resting on the green iron struts above his head. He wasn’t doing anything in particular: admiring the scenery, maybe, though it was a weird place for doing that. The view wasn’t anything special, and there wasn’t a footpath. Still, there wasn’t much traffic, either, and what there was, was slow. The guy wasn’t in any real danger of getting run over.
Dan gave a mental shrug as he drove over the bridge. Not his business. He had enough on his mind today as it was without worrying about why some islander would take it into his head to—
The man’s head whipped around as Dan passed him, and—yes, Dan did know the guy. His face heated up thinking about exactly how he knew. . .Duck, that was his name. Duck McDonald. Not that Duck and Dan had ever been introduced, exactly. Dan vaguely knew his name from around town: Duck McDonald, the guy you call to fix your gutters or paint your house.
What else he knew about Duck was the smell of tobacco and salt and sharp sweat. Rough-short hair. Slender, callused, nimble fingers. Strong body pressing against Dan’s, holding him up, holding him down, holding him together. He barely knew the guy’s name, but Dan knew how Duck kissed, how he tasted, the way he went absolutely still and silent when he came.
And he knew there was something wrong about the way Duck was standing there on the bridge, frozen still looking over his shoulder like he was a picture Dan had snapped as he passed by.
Dan parked his car half-off the edge of the road, nose-to-tail with Duck’s pickup, and walked back to the middle of the bridge. He smiled tentatively as he approached Duck. Duck jerked a nod at him, then turned to look back at the water.
“Hi,” said Dan.
“Hey,” Duck responded, not looking at him.
He had one foot up resting on one of the horizontal bars below the handrail; he was resting some of his weight on his outstretched hands. It was the kind of casually masculine pose Dan always admired and could never pull off himself. Unlike Dan, Duck seemed to be one of those guys who was comfortable in his skin and never had to worry about his knees and elbows and feet and too-long legs. Duck was solid and easy. . .Except he wasn’t comfortable or easy right now. He looked like he ought to be, but Dan could tell he wasn’t.
“How’s it going?” Dan asked. It was a foolish thing to ask, as if this were just some ordinary day and they were making small talk. And if he didn’t mean it as small talk, well, he and Duck didn’t know each other well enough to talk in broad daylight about stuff no one talked about. But he didn’t know what else to say.
Duck just shrugged. He wasn’t a talky kind of guy to begin with, and now the silence went on until Dan realized that was all the answer Duck was going to give him.
“You here for the view?” Dan tried.
“Hanging banners.” Duck jerked his head sideways towards the end of the bridge.
“Looks good,” said Dan. When that got no response, he tried, “What’s it for?”
Duck didn’t respond right away. Dan figured Duck was blowing him off again, and was casting around for something else to say, when Duck said in that soft, clipped voice of his, “Town Days. Some dumb festival. New thing. Carol French or someone thought it up.”
“Sounds like it could be fun,” Dan offered, but he didn’t really mean it.
Duck turned to look at him. His expression was blank. . .no, closed-off, like someone had hung a No Trespassing sign on him. The look turned into a stare; Dan stared back, awkward and embarrassed but refusing to drop his eyes or back away. He didn’t know why he was pushing like this. It wasn’t like him, but in the three days since Val left, he’d been feeling numb and restless and reckless and he wanted. . .some kind of connection, at least. But more than that, there was something about the way Duck was standing, about his shuttered silence, that made Dan afraid to leave him there alone.
“Anyway,” said Duck at last. “I’ll see you later.”
In other words, Get Lost.
But Dan had nothing to lose anymore, and that meant he had nothing to be afraid of.
“See you,” he said, and stayed right where he was, leaning against the bridge, looking at Duck, until Duck shoved his hands in the pockets of his overalls, stalked to his pickup with his shoulders hunched and his head down, and drove away.
Dan waited until he couldn’t hear the pickup’s engine anymore, then got in his own car and followed Duck in to town.
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branchandroot
Wilby Wonderful; Dan is the one trying to save Duck; Mature; Dan/Duck
Date: 2013-08-23 05:25 pm (UTC)Author Notes: So, a couple of days ago, I thought I was going to write a short little Play Day story. And then it turned out to be longer. (Anyone see a theme, here?) This one's actually about half-finished and I should actually be done with it soonish, but probably not soon enough to get it beta'ed and revised for the posting deadline. So it may end up just getting posted straight to AO3 outside the confines of the challenge. Anyway, since this was supposed to be a Play Day entry, here's a teaser:
---------------
Teaser #2: Dan is the one trying to save Duck.
--------------
Wilby Wonderful read the banner hanging over the bridge. Dan wondered what that was supposed to mean. Was someone trying to make a clever play on words? What will be wonderful, exactly? This morning, it was hard to imagine anything.
As he drove up to the bridge, Dan saw a man standing in the middle of it, with his hands resting on the green iron struts above his head. He wasn’t doing anything in particular: admiring the scenery, maybe, though it was a weird place for doing that. The view wasn’t anything special, and there wasn’t a footpath. Still, there wasn’t much traffic, either, and what there was, was slow. The guy wasn’t in any real danger of getting run over.
Dan gave a mental shrug as he drove over the bridge. Not his business. He had enough on his mind today as it was without worrying about why some islander would take it into his head to—
The man’s head whipped around as Dan passed him, and—yes, Dan did know the guy. His face heated up thinking about exactly how he knew. . .Duck, that was his name. Duck McDonald. Not that Duck and Dan had ever been introduced, exactly. Dan vaguely knew his name from around town: Duck McDonald, the guy you call to fix your gutters or paint your house.
What else he knew about Duck was the smell of tobacco and salt and sharp sweat. Rough-short hair. Slender, callused, nimble fingers. Strong body pressing against Dan’s, holding him up, holding him down, holding him together. He barely knew the guy’s name, but Dan knew how Duck kissed, how he tasted, the way he went absolutely still and silent when he came.
And he knew there was something wrong about the way Duck was standing there on the bridge, frozen still looking over his shoulder like he was a picture Dan had snapped as he passed by.
Dan parked his car half-off the edge of the road, nose-to-tail with Duck’s pickup, and walked back to the middle of the bridge. He smiled tentatively as he approached Duck. Duck jerked a nod at him, then turned to look back at the water.
“Hi,” said Dan.
“Hey,” Duck responded, not looking at him.
He had one foot up resting on one of the horizontal bars below the handrail; he was resting some of his weight on his outstretched hands. It was the kind of casually masculine pose Dan always admired and could never pull off himself. Unlike Dan, Duck seemed to be one of those guys who was comfortable in his skin and never had to worry about his knees and elbows and feet and too-long legs. Duck was solid and easy. . .Except he wasn’t comfortable or easy right now. He looked like he ought to be, but Dan could tell he wasn’t.
“How’s it going?” Dan asked. It was a foolish thing to ask, as if this were just some ordinary day and they were making small talk. And if he didn’t mean it as small talk, well, he and Duck didn’t know each other well enough to talk in broad daylight about stuff no one talked about. But he didn’t know what else to say.
Duck just shrugged. He wasn’t a talky kind of guy to begin with, and now the silence went on until Dan realized that was all the answer Duck was going to give him.
“You here for the view?” Dan tried.
“Hanging banners.” Duck jerked his head sideways towards the end of the bridge.
“Looks good,” said Dan. When that got no response, he tried, “What’s it for?”
Duck didn’t respond right away. Dan figured Duck was blowing him off again, and was casting around for something else to say, when Duck said in that soft, clipped voice of his, “Town Days. Some dumb festival. New thing. Carol French or someone thought it up.”
“Sounds like it could be fun,” Dan offered, but he didn’t really mean it.
Duck turned to look at him. His expression was blank. . .no, closed-off, like someone had hung a No Trespassing sign on him. The look turned into a stare; Dan stared back, awkward and embarrassed but refusing to drop his eyes or back away. He didn’t know why he was pushing like this. It wasn’t like him, but in the three days since Val left, he’d been feeling numb and restless and reckless and he wanted. . .some kind of connection, at least. But more than that, there was something about the way Duck was standing, about his shuttered silence, that made Dan afraid to leave him there alone.
“Anyway,” said Duck at last. “I’ll see you later.”
In other words, Get Lost.
But Dan had nothing to lose anymore, and that meant he had nothing to be afraid of.
“See you,” he said, and stayed right where he was, leaning against the bridge, looking at Duck, until Duck shoved his hands in the pockets of his overalls, stalked to his pickup with his shoulders hunched and his head down, and drove away.
Dan waited until he couldn’t hear the pickup’s engine anymore, then got in his own car and followed Duck in to town.