I'll Fly Away part 2
1/31/06 08:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle: I’ll Fly Away
Author: Roxy
Paring: Pete/Clark
Rating: ranges from PG to R
Historical Fic challenge for SV Historical
*fingers crossed that everything is okay this time!*
He got up from the bed and went over to the sink in the corner of the room. He was absurdly grateful for that fucked up grimy little sink. He ran some water into his hands—he could smell it before it even got close to his nose…he splashed his face, and rubbed water over his head and neck, wrinkling his nose at the sulfur smell. God.
It was like being in hell…he couldn’t wait to go the fuck back home. He felt…alone. Big, wide aching alone…He walked back to the bed and stopped at the Coleman cooler—pulled a nearly cold bottle of beer from it’s watery depths and let the bottle drain against the back of his neck. Maybe before he hit the road tomorrow, he’d see if the Store had any ice for sale. Lots of ice. He rubbed the bottle over his forehead and pressed it against his mouth before flipping off the top with the bottle opener screwed to the doorframe of the room.
Fuck.
He took a deep gulp.
Fuck. He pulled his undershirt off and dropped it on the floor. He stank, the shirt stank…he eyed the sink again and thought about washing up. The bed was damp, his shorts were damp, he was wet from water and sweat and the fucking fan was still mocking him with it’s fucking whup whup whup and no fucking breeze…he sighed loud and deep, so long that his breath caught and he choked for a moment and he’d be god-damned if he was crying. He gulped again, frowned when he realized the bottle was empty. How many did he have left?
*****
Mississippi
“Every body settle down now—quiet--”
The crowd looked around at the chatty little group in the shadow of the loft. Someone needed to remind those white boys that they were in a church the old ladies reckoned.
Quite a few people stared at them openly. They didn’t spend a lot of time socializing with white folk. If they weren’t cleaning up after them, or feeding them or watching their kids—they didn’t have anything to do with them. It was odd, pale faces in the pews. A few people moved closer. Was it true that they smelled like wet dogs….
Pete watched the fascinated faces around him and felt superior. These country cousins had no idea. They just didn’t know. He’ had experience of dealing with whites and he knew what they thought, how they acted. They held no mystery for him.
He leaned back against the pew and tried to look like he was an old hand at this.
So far it’d been quiet as a grave and twice as uneventful. They drove out to the little shacks and farms along dirt roads and talked to folks, tried to get them to come into the church to get registered. Sometimes it made his head pound with frustration. Those brown eyes turned up to his, full of kindness, those heads nodding and mouths full of agreement, yes, suh, yes, yes, we’ll come of course—yes—and the minute they were gone those little pieces of paper begging folks to take the reins to their lives in their own hands went into the stove. Eyes shut down again and mouths turned hard and sometimes they didn’t even wait for them to leave.
Sometimes.
Other times, a light went on inside those folks, a light like—Moses probably saw when God set that bush on fire…or something like that, he really should have paid more attention in church. Anyway, it was enough to make him get up and drive to the church instead of the interstate.
*************
Assignments for the day had been handed out and Pete and another guy, local, were paired to drive out to the airport and pick up the newest arrivals, a couple of rich college kids from Kansas, oddly enough. He was looking forward to meeting them, curious about Kansas and what it was like there now. He looked at the card with their names, Logan and Kent…he sincerely hoped they weren’t going to be pains in the ass. Some of those rich kids didn’t get it. The worst were the colored ones with money—shit, he’d happily lynch their asses himself. He said as much to the driver, who laughed out loud. He was a good looking kid, chocolate skinned and muscular, Pete had to stop himself watching the muscles on his arms slide and bunch as he drove…yeah. He was tired of Mary Palm and her daughters. But he wasn’t trying to get himself killed for being a queer either. He glanced at the kid, and he was smiling at him. Not enough for Pete to take a chance though. Not yet. Besides he was a little more partial to bright boys than brown.
They were waiting outside the terminal, two tall and gangly white boys, looking about with lost puppy expressions. Nate, the driver cut a look at him and snorted, and he tried not to grin. Yeah. Had to be them. One of the kids had the ugliest ass glasses he’d ever seen on any person perched on his nose. It was like the kid was trying to hide something—like the fact he had a face--those glasses were huge. Without them big black crooked frames he probably wouldn’t be bad looking at all—for a white boy.
Pete caught up with them, “Excuse me. Snick?”
The white kid with the glasses exhaled like he’d been holding his breath since Kansas. He shoved the big frames up his nose and grinned. “Yeah, that’s us. We’re sure glad to see you.”
Pete nodded and grabbed for their suitcases, had a bit of a tugging match with the bare faced kid. “It’s okay, son, really. Just get in the car. Folks are looking, okay?”
The kid blushed like a stoplight and Glasses shoved him into the back seat of the sprung out old Buick. Along the way, they got around to introducing themselves and Nate explained a bit about what the schedule was for the next few days. “Ain’t gone lie to ya, ya’ll are gonna hit the floor running, and hardly take a breath. We got a lot to do, don’t have a whole lot of time to do it in.”
“Dig,” Pete seconded. No one coddled his black ass when he set down here and was no one about to coddle their asses either.
The new boys got settled into the Motel, a few doors down from Pete. Nate came around for him at dinnertime, and he herded them into the back of the Buick again, and off they went, dinner was at one of the church sister’s houses. Pete was feeling pretty good about that—there was sure to be fried chicken, fish, greens, black eye-peas and rice and all kinds of cake and pie-- in his experience, these women could cook up a storm.
******
And there was always the exception to the rule, Pete told himself and tried to quell his noisy stomach with cornbread filled with mysterious greasy lumps and half decent lemonade. Those boys, Pete thought. They were pretty damn brave because he knew they were eating stuff they’d never seen in their whole lives, prepared with a lack of skill that was truly breath taking. No wonder Nate had dropped them and ran, the bastard.
Shit, Pete thought, watching the boys. You couldn’t pay him enough to eat chittlins, and the one kid was digging in like it was the best thing he’d ever eaten. Damn. Pete tried not to screw his lip up but Lord—he wasn’t eating anything a pig shit out of and that *included* stuffing it with who knows what and calling it sausage. He thought maybe them Nation of Islam boys might have a point, pig was a nasty animal.
Glasses—the name had just stuck in Pete’s head--looked a little pale…paler, as he watched the other boy shovel in what looked like dirty rags, and just kind of picked at his plate himself. Sister Spraggs watched the kid with the scary appetite wolf his dinner and smiled from ear to ear. Dang. He must have a cast iron stomach and no taste buds, Pete guessed and sipped at his lemonade.
Nate swung by to pick them up after dinner and after a flaming tongue lashing from Pete that he had a nerve to laugh his ass off through, asked did they want to go to the local and Pete said yeah—and for some reason he lost his damn mind and asked the white boys along. Glasses begged off, thank God, tired he said but the other one eagerly agreed.
Pete frowned. He was like some kind of giant puppy, the kind that was way too eager and flopped all over and that made him kind of dangerous to himself, he figured. Hoped like hell it wasn’t going to be dangerous for him too.
Author: Roxy
Paring: Pete/Clark
Rating: ranges from PG to R
Historical Fic challenge for SV Historical
*fingers crossed that everything is okay this time!*
He got up from the bed and went over to the sink in the corner of the room. He was absurdly grateful for that fucked up grimy little sink. He ran some water into his hands—he could smell it before it even got close to his nose…he splashed his face, and rubbed water over his head and neck, wrinkling his nose at the sulfur smell. God.
It was like being in hell…he couldn’t wait to go the fuck back home. He felt…alone. Big, wide aching alone…He walked back to the bed and stopped at the Coleman cooler—pulled a nearly cold bottle of beer from it’s watery depths and let the bottle drain against the back of his neck. Maybe before he hit the road tomorrow, he’d see if the Store had any ice for sale. Lots of ice. He rubbed the bottle over his forehead and pressed it against his mouth before flipping off the top with the bottle opener screwed to the doorframe of the room.
Fuck.
He took a deep gulp.
Fuck. He pulled his undershirt off and dropped it on the floor. He stank, the shirt stank…he eyed the sink again and thought about washing up. The bed was damp, his shorts were damp, he was wet from water and sweat and the fucking fan was still mocking him with it’s fucking whup whup whup and no fucking breeze…he sighed loud and deep, so long that his breath caught and he choked for a moment and he’d be god-damned if he was crying. He gulped again, frowned when he realized the bottle was empty. How many did he have left?
*****
Mississippi
“Every body settle down now—quiet--”
The crowd looked around at the chatty little group in the shadow of the loft. Someone needed to remind those white boys that they were in a church the old ladies reckoned.
Quite a few people stared at them openly. They didn’t spend a lot of time socializing with white folk. If they weren’t cleaning up after them, or feeding them or watching their kids—they didn’t have anything to do with them. It was odd, pale faces in the pews. A few people moved closer. Was it true that they smelled like wet dogs….
Pete watched the fascinated faces around him and felt superior. These country cousins had no idea. They just didn’t know. He’ had experience of dealing with whites and he knew what they thought, how they acted. They held no mystery for him.
He leaned back against the pew and tried to look like he was an old hand at this.
So far it’d been quiet as a grave and twice as uneventful. They drove out to the little shacks and farms along dirt roads and talked to folks, tried to get them to come into the church to get registered. Sometimes it made his head pound with frustration. Those brown eyes turned up to his, full of kindness, those heads nodding and mouths full of agreement, yes, suh, yes, yes, we’ll come of course—yes—and the minute they were gone those little pieces of paper begging folks to take the reins to their lives in their own hands went into the stove. Eyes shut down again and mouths turned hard and sometimes they didn’t even wait for them to leave.
Sometimes.
Other times, a light went on inside those folks, a light like—Moses probably saw when God set that bush on fire…or something like that, he really should have paid more attention in church. Anyway, it was enough to make him get up and drive to the church instead of the interstate.
*************
Assignments for the day had been handed out and Pete and another guy, local, were paired to drive out to the airport and pick up the newest arrivals, a couple of rich college kids from Kansas, oddly enough. He was looking forward to meeting them, curious about Kansas and what it was like there now. He looked at the card with their names, Logan and Kent…he sincerely hoped they weren’t going to be pains in the ass. Some of those rich kids didn’t get it. The worst were the colored ones with money—shit, he’d happily lynch their asses himself. He said as much to the driver, who laughed out loud. He was a good looking kid, chocolate skinned and muscular, Pete had to stop himself watching the muscles on his arms slide and bunch as he drove…yeah. He was tired of Mary Palm and her daughters. But he wasn’t trying to get himself killed for being a queer either. He glanced at the kid, and he was smiling at him. Not enough for Pete to take a chance though. Not yet. Besides he was a little more partial to bright boys than brown.
They were waiting outside the terminal, two tall and gangly white boys, looking about with lost puppy expressions. Nate, the driver cut a look at him and snorted, and he tried not to grin. Yeah. Had to be them. One of the kids had the ugliest ass glasses he’d ever seen on any person perched on his nose. It was like the kid was trying to hide something—like the fact he had a face--those glasses were huge. Without them big black crooked frames he probably wouldn’t be bad looking at all—for a white boy.
Pete caught up with them, “Excuse me. Snick?”
The white kid with the glasses exhaled like he’d been holding his breath since Kansas. He shoved the big frames up his nose and grinned. “Yeah, that’s us. We’re sure glad to see you.”
Pete nodded and grabbed for their suitcases, had a bit of a tugging match with the bare faced kid. “It’s okay, son, really. Just get in the car. Folks are looking, okay?”
The kid blushed like a stoplight and Glasses shoved him into the back seat of the sprung out old Buick. Along the way, they got around to introducing themselves and Nate explained a bit about what the schedule was for the next few days. “Ain’t gone lie to ya, ya’ll are gonna hit the floor running, and hardly take a breath. We got a lot to do, don’t have a whole lot of time to do it in.”
“Dig,” Pete seconded. No one coddled his black ass when he set down here and was no one about to coddle their asses either.
The new boys got settled into the Motel, a few doors down from Pete. Nate came around for him at dinnertime, and he herded them into the back of the Buick again, and off they went, dinner was at one of the church sister’s houses. Pete was feeling pretty good about that—there was sure to be fried chicken, fish, greens, black eye-peas and rice and all kinds of cake and pie-- in his experience, these women could cook up a storm.
******
And there was always the exception to the rule, Pete told himself and tried to quell his noisy stomach with cornbread filled with mysterious greasy lumps and half decent lemonade. Those boys, Pete thought. They were pretty damn brave because he knew they were eating stuff they’d never seen in their whole lives, prepared with a lack of skill that was truly breath taking. No wonder Nate had dropped them and ran, the bastard.
Shit, Pete thought, watching the boys. You couldn’t pay him enough to eat chittlins, and the one kid was digging in like it was the best thing he’d ever eaten. Damn. Pete tried not to screw his lip up but Lord—he wasn’t eating anything a pig shit out of and that *included* stuffing it with who knows what and calling it sausage. He thought maybe them Nation of Islam boys might have a point, pig was a nasty animal.
Glasses—the name had just stuck in Pete’s head--looked a little pale…paler, as he watched the other boy shovel in what looked like dirty rags, and just kind of picked at his plate himself. Sister Spraggs watched the kid with the scary appetite wolf his dinner and smiled from ear to ear. Dang. He must have a cast iron stomach and no taste buds, Pete guessed and sipped at his lemonade.
Nate swung by to pick them up after dinner and after a flaming tongue lashing from Pete that he had a nerve to laugh his ass off through, asked did they want to go to the local and Pete said yeah—and for some reason he lost his damn mind and asked the white boys along. Glasses begged off, thank God, tired he said but the other one eagerly agreed.
Pete frowned. He was like some kind of giant puppy, the kind that was way too eager and flopped all over and that made him kind of dangerous to himself, he figured. Hoped like hell it wasn’t going to be dangerous for him too.
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(no subject)
2/1/06 02:42 am (UTC)*He was like some kind of giant puppy, the kind that was way too eager and flopped all over and that made him kind of dangerous to himself, he figured. Hoped like hell it wasn’t going to be dangerous for him too.*
Best description of Clark ever.
(no subject)
2/1/06 04:10 am (UTC)I hate to disappoint you but *koff* Glasses is not Clark. I do have this real childish need to pull little pranks...Glasses is Logan. *grin*
(no subject)
2/2/06 06:03 pm (UTC)(no subject)
2/4/06 04:09 am (UTC)(no subject)
2/1/06 03:37 am (UTC)Oh, fun.
I love that the 'sister' can't cook! Heeee.
And it must have been frustrating as hell to try and get people to vote when they knew they could die for it... Gods.
Teeny thing: the reigns to their lives in their own hands went into the stove.
Reins, rather. :)
(no subject)
2/1/06 04:01 am (UTC)(no subject)
2/1/06 06:49 am (UTC)Someone emailed me about a huge error in Changes the other day - i totally used the wrong names! And there it's been for *ages*!
Heeee.
*smoooch*
(no subject)
2/1/06 03:56 am (UTC)(no subject)
2/1/06 04:05 am (UTC)Really, this is the best thing that happened to me tonight! Thank you so much!
(no subject)
2/1/06 04:09 am (UTC)(no subject)
2/1/06 05:15 am (UTC)Bwahahahahaha!
// You couldn’t pay him enough to eat chittlins, and the one kid was digging in like it was the best thing he’d ever eaten.//
I wouldn’t even kiss Glasses after eating chitlins. He could be naked and ready, but uh-uh, no chitlin breath for me.
::waiting (im)patiently for more::
(no subject)
2/1/06 05:31 am (UTC)Well, folks didn't know any better back then, did they?
Chitterlings are the devil's snack food. *shudder*
(no subject)
2/1/06 07:33 pm (UTC)Oh, Clark, you goober. *happy sigh*