Archive of Our Own

A knock on the door roused Tucker from gazing out the window in a stupor. He turned and was delighted to see his visitor. “Hey!” he greeted Dale, voice husky from disuse.

“Hey, buddy, how’re you feelin’?” Dale moved over to Tucker’s side, frowning to see his dear friend in such a poor state.

The past few days had been hell for both men – college kids throwing themselves in woodchippers, shooting themselves, setting themselves on fire; not to mention the policeman impaling himself on bad carpentry, and a madman chasing them through the woods and threatening their very lives. Dale knew Tucker had been hurt bad, and it showed now: Tucker’s face was blotched with bruising, a large cut on the bridge of his nose, and the recent transplant of two new ‘bowling fingers’ was causing severe swelling of his right arm.

Despite his injury, a blissful smile graced the face of Dale’s best friend. He responded, slurring slightly, “I’m feelin’ high on prescription medication.”

“Yeah, looks like it,” Dale agreed. He moved a chair and sat right beside Tucker’s bed.

Tucker watched him, eyes partially glazed. He laughed as he remembered, “They found my fingers.” He held up his hand to show Dale, “Check it out.”

“Yeah,” Dale could see very clearly they were not Tucker’s original digits – one still had a shiny, red false nail on it.

Tucker frowned at his own hand, “But I gotta tell you, I don’t remember that one lookin’ that way. That look funny to you?”

“No. No, not really.” Dale did not want to draw attention to his friend’s hand situation – he gently pushed Tuckers hand down to rest once more on the clean, blue hospital sheets. “That looks… natural. It looks good,” he reassured. “Hey, by the way, I brought you something,” he fished out a cold can of Pabst Blue Ribbon from his bag, decorated with a gaudy bow – a gift he knew Tucker would adore, and he wasn’t wrong.

Tucker’s face lit up, he reached for the can like a man just out of the Sahara desert (largest desert in Africa, 3.6 million square miles, almost as large as the entire United States – trivia popped up in Dale’s mind constantly, he considered it his least useful skill). Tucker smiled gratefully at his friend, “Oh, buddy, that is a thing of beauty.” He cracked it open one-handed, with practiced ease.

Dale pulled another thoughtful gift from his pocket, “And look what I got ya, a bendy straw,” he put it to the can and gently guided it to his friend’s mouth. “Your favourite sippin’ utensil.”

Tucker moaned gratefully, savouring the taste of the most refreshing beer produced in America. He drank long and deep, then rested his head back with a contented sigh, smacking his lips. He looked over at Dale, “So, did you ever ask that girl out?”

“What? Who? The gir- Ally? Oh, ah, no… not as such.” Dale couldn’t make eye contact with his friend, so he inspected the hospital room ceiling. He was certain Tucker would be mad at him for not taking the chance, for not seizing the moment.

Instead, when he spoke, Tucker sounded quiet and resigned. “Alright, what happened?”

Dale reddened, embarrassed, “Well, you were in hospital – you had surgery and all – and I was worried about you. She was real shook up too, we talked to the police a lot together, it was awful, Tucker.” Dale’s voice lowered to a bare whisper, “Plus, she said that she’d need some time to recover, and essentially that she’d never see me again, she never wanted to remember what we went through…” He trailed off, tears forming in the corner of his eyes.

“Oh, hey now, hey, Dale.” Tucker used his injured hand to clumsily pat his friend’s back. “She’s probably right, I don’t know if murderous weekends really do bring people together, you know?”

“I don’t know Tucker, I mean, we stuck together pretty well through it all.” Dale smiled wetly and sniffed.

“Yeah, buddy, yeah we did.”

A silence welled between the two men, prompted by certain thoughts left unsaid. Tucker realised he’d left his hand resting on Dale’s shoulder, and moved it back to his own side. Awkwardly, he took another sip of his PBR.

“Anyway, I thought I’d stay here with you, now the police are all finished with me, and, you know, keep you company.”

Tucker smiled gratefully, “I’d like that, Dale. Thanks.”

Dale leaned back in his seat and reached in his bag to miraculously pull out another cool can of beer. The odd tension between the two men fully dissipated as he cracked it open and put his feet up on Tucker’s hospital bed. “I ever tell you about the time I threw a skunk out of my cousin’s bedroom when we was kids?”

“I don’t think so – sounds like quite a story…”

The next week saw Dale practically living in Tucker’s hospital room – he only really left to shower, change clothes, and collect supplies. They consumed less beer than they were used to, of course – a nurse had warned them to keep it to one PBR can a day, any more and they’d be messing with Tucker’s pain killers.

They swapped stories, listened to the radio, and – to Tucker’s pleasant surprise – Dale read to him. They’d been friends all this time, and Tucker hadn’t known his friend was a regular book worm. He brought in hunting magazines and read reviews of the latest rifles, he collected a newspaper now and again to keep Tucker abreast of what was going on in the outside world, and he brought in a few select novels, reading them aloud, cover-to-cover for his bed-ridden friend.

The first book was The Catcher in the Rye. Tucker found the story captivating: Holden’s journey through New York, his love for his little sister, the way he dealt with loss. Both men found themselves crying in the second-to-last chapter, as Holden watches Phoebe on the carousel. Of course, they both masked it with manly coughing, surreptitiously drying their eyes with either sleeves or hospital sheets.

The second book Dale brought in was different: a slim volume of poetry. Dale was obviously embarrassed when he pulled it out. He chuckled, and excused himself, “You know, I just really like the way Whitman describes America. He gets it. Even though he was alive in, like, eighteen hundred and something…” Nonetheless, Tucker remained perfectly quiet when Dale read Song to Myself in an almost-reverential voice. The prose captivated him – or is it just the way it was read. Perhaps, Tucker thinks to himself, he likes it just because it’s his friend reading it.

The third book Dale found in the hospital shop: Angels and Demons by Dan Brown. Dale could tell Tucker loved it, even though it’s not his personal cup of tea. Tucker sat up straight as Dale read aloud the climax, waiting on bated breath for the thrilling conclusion. Dale was simply intrigued by the ambigrams used throughout the novel. It pleased him to see his friend was recovering so well to stay awake and engaged for so long a story.

Upon discharge, Dale immediately offered to drive Tucker home.

They both lived just out of a tiny town in Pennsylvania called Falls Creek (mentally Dale rattled off the usual trivia – founded in 1891, current population 1,037, Falls Creek borough is 0.94 square miles).

Tucker had grown up there, the last of an old hillbilly family, he lived alone in an decrepit house on the edge of town, taking up regular farm-hand jobs in the surrounding county. Dale, on the other hand, moved to Falls Creek at a young age in search of work, and found it with the town mechanic. The friends first met in a bar brawl – admittedly, they had caused it, when Dale demanded a burly man apologise for spitting at Tucker. Later, Tucker explained that the man had been angry at Tucker for getting a promotion as head ranch-hand, and their friendship had been cemented when Dale replied, “That ain’t no reason to be rude to nobody.”

They arrived at Tucker’s house late at night, after driving a number of hours from the city. When Dale pulled up, in between the two rusting Fords in the front yard, Tucker was snoring and drooling slightly. Dale left him to rest in the car as he collected their bags to take inside. Finding Tucker’s front door key with ease (always on top of the door frame), he let himself in to familiar surroundings. He’d been here numerous times. Although, their usual place to crash after a night at the local bar was Dale’s – as it’s closer to the center of Falls Creek – the two friends often found themselves hanging out, playing board games more often than not, at Tucker’s.

It was musty in his friend’s house, so Dale walked to the back door and opened it to let in fresh air. Moonlight shone through the window on a pile of unwashed dishes in the sink, spilling over onto the bench, he tutted at his friend’s messiness. Turning on a few lights, he walked out front once more, and found Tucker sleepily stepping out of the pick-up.

“Were you just gonna leave me in there all night, huh?”

Dale reached his friend’s side quickly, taking hold of his elbow to guide him inside. “Nah, I was comin’ to get you, I just thought you should sleep some more, that’s all. The doctor said you still need rest, she said you’ve been through major trauma and all, and that I’m supposed to make sure you recover full well.”

Once inside, Tucker shrugged off his friend’s help. “I don’t need you nannying me. I can get to bed just fine.”

“You hungry?” Dale asks, a shade reproachfully.

“Nah, just beat. I’m just going to turn in, you’re welcome to stay of course, you shouldn’t drive home so late. You help yourself to anything in the kitchen, y’hear.” Tucker shuffled upstairs, where Dale knew his bedroom was.

Dale usually slept on the couch when staying the night at Tucker’s, so he collected a pile of blankets from a cupboard, found a pillow, and settled in. He’d grown so used to sleeping by Tucker’s side in the hospital, with the bustling of nurses outside the door, that the stark silence of the Appalachian town’s outskirts was unnerving. After an hour tossing and turning, Dale finally fell into a fitful and shallow sleep.

Tucker was awoken by the sound of yelling. Judging by the lack of light, he knew it was still well and truly night-time. He leapt out of bed, and ran down the stairs.

“Dale! Dale, you alright? What’s going on?” Tucker was surprised to find Dale still on his couch, tangled in blankets, thrashing in his sleep. He could just make out what his friend was mumbling.

“No, hey no. Don’t do that. Hey,” Dale murmured. Then he let out a terrified yell, covering his face with his hands.

Tucker rushed to his friend’s side, took hold of his wrists and talked in his most calming voice. “Hey, Dale? Buddy? Wake up now, you’re having some sort of dream. It’s ok though, you’re safe. It’s all good, Dale.”

At the touch of his friend, Dale woke with a start, sitting bolt upright. Tucker could see that tears had been running down Dale’s cheeks, and he was breathing heavily. “Oh, Tucker. It’s you. I just… I was back there, Tucker. Back in the woods, with that kid.” He closed his eyes tightly and released a shuddering breath, “It was awful Tuck, and I was right there again.”

Tucker folded his friend in a tight hug, resting his chin on Dale’s shoulder and petting his back. Dale simply sobbed, unable to hold back his terror in his friend’s warm embrace. In a few minutes, Dale’s tears had subsided, he was left sniffling and breathing shallowly.

“That was pretty bad, huh, Dale?” Tucker said, pulling back, holding Dale’s shoulders, and looking him in the eye.

Dale nodded, “I had a few dreams like this at the hospital, with you. But I usually woke up, I think cos I knew you were there. I don’t know what happened now. It was like I was back there, with those kids. It was so real.”

“Well then,” Tucker stood up, suddenly businesslike, “There’s an obvious solution, ain’t there? You’ll have to come up and sleep with me. Then we can both get some rest.”

Dale was shocked. “Really, Tuck? You’d let me sleep in your bed?”

“Well don’t stand there gawpin’, just get up, bring some more blankets and come upstairs.” Tucker grabbed his friend’s hand and led him up the narrow staircase to his own room.

The room was sparse: peeling wallpaper, bare wooden floors, a chest of drawers and a double bed were all it contained. Tucker pushed Dale down onto the bed, gesturing that he should move to the other side to make room. He then lay down heavily beside his friend, smiled at him wanly yet reassuringly, and turned out the light.

It was late morning when Dale woke up. He found that he and Tucker and moved closer to one another in the night. They were face to face, separated only by Tucker’s hand, resting on the pillow between them. Dale noted it was the hand with newly transplanted fingers. In the low light of the room, he carefully studied the two rings of raw, pink scar tissue at their base. He considered the pain and trauma Tucker had been through. Those kids had strung him up and cut off his fingers, then that manic boy had soundly beat him after their pick-up had crashed. Tucker had been through so much, perhaps even more than Dale himself.

“You know, I actually can’t feel with them.” Dale was surprised to discover Tucker was also awake, and looking back at him meditatively. Tucker wriggled his fingers in demonstration. “Yeah, they said that nerves don’t connect so good, and I should be lucky that the blood vessels are doing fine.”

Dale frowned, bringing his own hand up to poke Tucker’s middle finger. “So you can’t feel that at all?”

Tucker chuckled, sticking his middle finger up in an undeniably rude gesture. “Nope, absolutely nothin’.”

Dale felt a bizarre compulsion take over, he quickly leaned forward slightly to bring his lips to the tip of Tucker’s finger. As soon as his kiss connected, he realised what he’d done, and recoiled, swearing. “Fuck, Tucker, fuck, I’m so sorry.” He scrambled out of bed, tripping over the mess of sheets on the floor and rushed out of the room.

Tucker just lay back, staring at his ceiling – so much more familiar than that in the hospital. He was in shock. His mind was racing, one thought standing out among the rest: what just happened?

Not more than ten minutes later, Tucker stumped downstairs and found Dale in the kitchen, feverishly washing dishes. He walked over to stand beside his friend, putting a calming hand on Dale’s wrist to still his movement. “Do you want to talk? I think we should talk.”

“I don’t know what there’s to talk about Tucker, I was just being dumb. Just a dumb joke between buddies, you know.” Dale’s voice shook, Tucker could tell his friend was on the verge of tears for the second time in less than 12 hours.

“You and I both know it was something more Dale,” Tucker spoke firmly, but reassuringly. “Just… just, talk to me.”

Dale took a deep breath and braced both hands on the edge of the sink, gazing downwards at the soap suds. “I’ve known you a while now, Tucker.”

“Years, I’d say. Near a decade.” Tucker agreed.

“I haven’t known so long, well, that is to say, I haven’t known for sure. But, you know, I almost lost you that weekend, and I realised how lost I’d be without my best friend.” He finally turned his head to look at Tucker, appearing to gain some courage as he spoke. “Spending that week with you in hospital just, sorta, solidified it. For me at least. I love you Tuck, I think I’ve loved you for a while now.” He suddenly lost his confidence, and turned to look out the window above the sink. “Anyway, now you know and such, and I guess you can tell me to get out and leave you alone and all that. I might as well just see myself out.”

With that, Dale turned to go, but was caught at the shoulders by his friend. Tucker was smiling crookedly, “Why would you do that, now, Dale? Just when our conversation was gettin’ good?”

Dale would have said, “What?”, if it weren’t for the fact that Tucker kissed him that instant. Dale was too stunned to react until Tucker pressed his body flush against him and ran both hands through his long brown hair.

Suddenly, Dale was kissing Tucker back with a ferocity he didn’t know he contained. He pushed Tucker back towards the counter top, using his tongue to part his friend’s lips and plunder his mouth. Pulling away for a few seconds to help Tucker sit atop the counter, he took in his friend’s face. Tucker’s pupils were blown, his lips brightly pink, he was breathing sharply.

Dale faltered, once more regaining control of himself. “Is this okay?” he asked, concerned that he may have behaved somehow untoward.

Tucker huffed, face shifting from lustful surprise to bemusement, “Yeah, Dale. This is great.”

Dale grinned, fears abated. “Well, in that case…” He pressed forward and captured Tucker’s mouth once more, relishing the feeling of kissing a man he’d wanted to kiss for so long.

A number of admittedly stressful media deals – five different talk-shows, a documentary, and a true crime book – had allowed Dale and Tucker to build up funds to purchase a large plot of farmland far away from Appalachia. Both men adored hillbilly country, but had found that Dale’s PTSD was more controllable when they were further from it’s familiar landscape.

They’d moved to the west coast in Oregon (Dale had learned a delightful piece of trivia upon their arrival – Oregon is home to the single largest organism, a fungus that spreads near 2,200 acres underground). They had bought a small, but pretty, farmhouse near a tiny village called Denmark. Tucker found he was extremely fond of the sea air and the friendly local community, not to mention a surprisingly large number of people soon came to rely on Dale’s mechanical expertise. When marriage equality had been passed in 2015, they’d quietly taken themselves up to Seattle and had a simple registry wedding. They rarely discussed what happened that fateful weekend in the Appalachian woods.

One evening, the two husbands were relaxing before a roaring fire, the wood of which Dale had split just that morning. Tucker was laying across their couch, his head in Dale’s lap, one arm dangling to idly scratch the ears of Janger’s successor (a bright sheep dog). He shifted his head slightly to look up at his husband, “You know, Dale. Sometimes, I just feel so damn lucky that we bought that fuckin’ awful cabin in the woods.”

“What?” Dale looked down at him, eyebrows raised incredulously.

Tucker shifted to sit up, looking Dale seriously in the eyes. “Well, you know, I hate my dumb fingers, and that you sometimes don’t sleep for days, and all. But I’ve been thinking, well… If it hadn’t all happened, I wouldn’t be married to you now, you know. And while that whole business was shitty and stuff, and we’ve had rough times since, the fact that I have you now, kind of makes it all worth it.”

“Well, ain’t that a pretty thing to say, Tuck,” Dale responded reflectively, smiling warmly.

“I guess it’s just another way of saying that… I love you, Dale.”

Dale pulled Tucker towards him, crushing his husband to his side and placing a firm kiss on Tucker’s eyebrow. “I love you too, Tuck.”