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On nights when Duck can’t sleep, he looks at the stars.
The balcony of his apartment is a dingy, cramped thing- the type they stick on the sides of motels so that the patrons have somewhere to go outside and smoke. He’s stuck a compact grill and a little yard bench out there, just so it looks a little less lonely. He stares up towards the sky quietly, rubbing his fingers against the mug of hot chocolate in his hands.
His nightmares always get worse when the seasons start to change, especially around the end of Fall. He’s stopped trying to figure out why- figures it’s some part of his “Magical destiny” or whatever Minerva’s calling it these days. They’ve just been more of a pain lately. Instead of waking up one or two times, he’ll find himself waking up three. It’s harder to get back to sleep, too. He swears he’s grown some sort of immunity to Nyquil.
Breathing some fresh air and being outside for a little while normally helps put him right back to bed, but tonight, for some reason, it’s different. The stars, usually a soft light, burn into his head like little tacks. He furrows his eyebrows and looks down into his mug, feeling the warmth on his nose.
Duck, in his solitude, decides to try something he’s never done before.
He pushes himself up off of the bench, muscles aching with the cold. He absentmindedly rubs his arm as he heads over to the wall phone by the sink. Jake gave him a copy of the number, just in case he ever needed it. He puts his mug down and begins to dial.
When the dial tone starts ringing just long enough to be awkward, Duck starts to feel like he’s made a mistake. He’s about to set down the phone when a voice picks up on the other end.
“Hello, Duck Newton.” There’s a stifled, staticy yawn. “May I say, I’m certainly surprised to see that you’re the one calling me first this time.”
Indrid’s voice is soft, coarse, stripped from all of the usual show that he layers on top.
“Hey Mr. Cold.” Duck scratches the back of his neck. “I’m sorry if I, uh-”
“Woke me up?”
Duck has to take a minute to process. “Yeah.”
Indrid laughs too. “I’m just messing with you. It’s alright.” There’s a shuffle of sheets on his end. “I have a feeling you need something.”
“Your feeling’s correct, then.” Says Duck. “It’s probably a dumb question to ask, but, uh,” He hesitates a minute- he’s never reached out like this before, and, knowing himself, probably won't again if Indrid refuses him. “If s’alright with you, could I, uh…”
Indrid saves him the pain of stumbling through the rest of his sentence. “You’re welcome to come over.” He says. “I mean-- if that’s what you were going to ask. I haven’t got much to do.”
Duck lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
“It was, yeah.” He says. “Y’know, I thought you said your powers didn’t work like that, predicting conversations n’ stuff.”
Indrid clears his throat. “They don’t. I don’t like to brag, but I would say I’m quite good at reading people.” Duck can hear the smile in his voice.
“I can believe that.” He says. “Uh- I’ll be about twenty minutes, if that’s alright with you.”
“That’s a-okay, take your time!”
“A’right. See ya soon.”
“See you.”
Duck slowly hangs the phone back onto the receiver, moving the hair out of his face. He hadn’t realized his palms were sweating until he took them off the phone. He sighs, moving to grab his keys when a little head comes to rub against his leg. He jolts against the counter.
“Jesus, you scared the shit outta me.” He says, kneeling to his cat’s level. He runs a gentle hand over her head. “Be a good cat for me, a’right?”
She only replies with a murmur, rubbing against his palm. Duck smiles. He picks her up and sets her on his bed, grabbing his boots from beside his nightstand and slipping his feet into them. Before he leaves, he does one last check for anything he might’ve forgotten. When he figures he hasn’t, he makes his way out, saying goodbye to no one in particular.
The drive to Indrid’s is quiet. It’s that time of year when the snow starts to set in just enough to silence the world around him. Only the wind and the road make any noise. He turns on the radio, setting it just high enough to a background hum.
Now he walks in quiet solitude the forest and the streams
Seeking grace in every step he takes
His sight has turned inside himself to try and understand
The serenity of a clear blue mountain lake
And the Colorado rocky mountain high
I’ve seen it raining fire in the sky
You can talk to God and listen to the casual reply
Rocky mountain high
The rest of the ride seems to go by in only a few minutes, and the gravel crunches underneath his tires as Duck pulls up to the corner of the lot where Indrid keeps his Winnebago. Indrid, as if he were expecting him just in that moment, pulls open his door just a crack, peeking his head out. He parks next to him, hopping out of his truck before Indrid has the chance to freeze by opening his door any wider.
“Hello Duck,” He calls. “Come, come- I’d like to keep the hot air inside.”
He holds open the door for him, rushing after to clear off space on his couch so he can sit. There’s a particular look on his face, and Duck can’t tell if he’s embarrassed, cold, or both. He turns around and swings open the fridge, grabbing two glasses for eggnog. Duck pulls off his jacket and then sits, quietly messing with the ends of his sleeves.
“So,” Indrid brings up the question cautiously. “What brings you here so late?”
Duck starts to rub his temples again, scrunching up his face like he’s trying to figure out the right way to answer. Indrid comes back to sit next to him, silently offering the second cup of nog, which Duck takes gratefully.
“I understand if you need a minute.” He says.
Duck takes a sip of the eggnog, then sighs.
“Sometimes, cause of the whole… ‘Chosen one’ thing,” He hesitates. “I get dreams. Like, what d’you call em, premonitions? Or something?” He starts to rub his thumbs over the cup again- a nervous habit. “But I guess I also get nightmares? I, uh… I dunno. I feel like I’m makin’ this whole thing way too complicated.”
“By all means.” Says Indrid. “Life is complicated.”
Duck bites the inside of his lip. “Yeah, I know. But I just-- I’unno. The dreams n’ nightmares have been keeping me up a bit more than usual lately. I’m gettin’ some real messed up stuff.”
Indrid laces his fingers together in his lap, looking as sympathetic as he can look behind two big red frames. The frizz of his hair catches in the light like little sparks.
“I’m sorry.” He says. “It must be hard.”
“Don’t be, it’s alright. I just… I feel real responsible, y’know? For everyone else. I don’t wanna fuck up and feel like,” He takes his head in his hands. “Like I…”
Indrid suddenly looks serious. “Like you could’ve prevented it?”
Duck peeks out from behind his fingers. “Yeah.”
Indrid stares down into his eggnog like he’s divining the ripples in the glass. Duck shifts his head onto one hand, sitting pensively. Silence fills the room like a third person, and all of the sudden, Duck can feel the space in between them on the couch- the space between himself and the walls, the space around the both of them. He swallows uncomfortably.
“Kinda’ messed up lives we lead, huh?” He says. “The universe makin’ us see stuff before it even happens. Ruins the surprise.”
Indrid tries to stifle his laugh in his fist, but ends up doubling over. Duck can’t help but let a snort slip from the side of his mouth, and suddenly, they’re both laughing, holding onto the couch to keep themselves in place.
Indrid wipes away a tear in the corner of his eye. “I suppose it does.” He says. “I’d never thought of it like that.”
Duck shifts on the couch restlessly, still letting out the last of his laugh. He’s never known the right way to talk to people. He thinks that there’s virtue in being polite, asking about others, saying please and thank you and all those other things, but he’s never known how to make a conversation flow. He’s too honest, too stilted.
“God, I just,” He lays his head in his hand again, staring nervously at the floor. “I just came over to talk to you, cause I felt like you’d be probably the only other person to-- to really know what it feels like, y’know?” He runs a hand through his hair. “I mean, I only get a couple visions every once in a while, you get… I’on even know…” He looks at Indrid. “How do you even handle all that?”
Indrid pauses for a moment, looking like he’s trying to find exactly the right thing to say.
“I’ll be honest with you, Duck,” He takes another sip of eggnog before setting it down on the floor. “There are times when I don’t. When I don’t know how.”
“You’d think that after so long, you would’a figured it out.” Duck snorts.
Indrid snorts too, looking only mildly offended. “Do you want my wisdom or not, Duck?”
Duck waves him forward. “Sorry.” He still has a grin on his face.
Indrid takes a breath. “As I was saying,” He folds his hands in his lap again. “It’s alright not to know what to do, how to act. You’re responsible to some extent, yes, but there comes a point when other people are in charge of their own destinies. There is a balance as to how much support you can provide, and how much support the other person has to provide in order to meet you.” He says. “It’s a two way street, Duck. You can only do so much.”
When Duck doesn’t respond, he hesitantly reaches a hand out to touch his arm, rubbing gently. Duck sinks into the couch, head tipped upwards on the back of it. He rubs at his eyes with two fists.
“You’re probably right.” He says. He closes his eyes, arms crossed over his chest like he’s giving a coarse look to the ceiling.
Indrid fidgets at the silence like he expected him to have a longer response. He takes his hand back from Duck’s arm, rolling his necklace around in his fingers.
“Do-” He fusses with his hands in his lap. “Are you alright with possibly… describing some of your dreams? Premonitions? Whatever they are.”
Duck’s eyebrows suddenly knit together in the middle of his forehead, his face tensing up. After a moment, he heaves himself slowly up off the back of the couch, sitting upright again. He stares seemingly off into nowhere with tired, tired eyes.
“I-” He rubs at one of his temples. “I’m not sure about that, Mr. Cold. I, uh… I dunno if I really wanna talk about it right now.”
Indrid shakes his head. “No worries, there’s no pressure.” Unsure what to say next, Indrid segways into his most reliable conversation saver. “More nog?”
Duck laughs under his breath. “Sure.”
-
They find a certain rhythm in conversation and spend the next few hours talking aimlessly, more with the goal of staying awake than anything else. Even when Duck’s eyes start to droop, he finds himself not wanting to leave. He has a moment of lucidity when he remembers that he has a cat and a sword, both waiting for him at home. He stands up suddenly.
“Oh shit.” He mumbles. “I gotta get back. Gotta feed my cat in the morning. N’ check on Beacon, too. The bastard.”
Grabbing his jacket from the couch, he starts preparing to thank Indrid until the latter suddenly grabs his wrist. He looks almost startled at himself the moment he’s realized he’d made contact, and lets go.
“I- sorry, I just-” He says. “Look outside.”
Duck leans over and peeks his head towards the kitchenette window. It takes him a moment to adjust to the darkness of the outside, but eventually he sees the whole of the parking lot, covered in a thick, perfect sheet of snow. Little flakes flurry down from the sky, hitting the ground like soft, melting petals. Duck groans.
“Damn it all, I don’t got any chains on my truck. Fuck.” He gets closer to the window, watching the snow fall outside. “Even with four wheel drive… might get stuck.” He says.
“And…” Indrid starts.
“And what?” Duck turns around, standing against the kitchenette sink. Indrid rubs his arms nervously.
“I’m…” He shuffles with his glasses, running a hand through his hair. “Having more visions than I would like, of…” He looks strained, even behind his glasses. “Of you. Crashing.”
Duck’s eyes widen. “Shit, yeah. The…”
Indrid nods solemnly.
Duck pushes himself off the kitchen counter. “Guess I better stay put, then.” He drifts back over to the couch, plopping back into the warm spot he’d made for himself. He slips his jacket off a second time.
“I know this whole situation is probably inconvenient,” Indrid looks down at his hands. “But I’d prefer you stay alive, over anything. Wouldn’t want to risk it.”
Duck waves him off. “Naw, man.” He says. “I appreciate it.”
He leans back, resting his head against the back of the couch again. They sit in a few moments of surreal silence before Duck’s voice breaks the tension.
“S’ is probably weird, but do you got a TV?”
Indrid tilts his head curiously. “I do, actually.” He says. “It probably isn’t the most high-quality setup, I’ll admit, but it works.”
Duck waves him off again. “S’ alright.” He puts his hands on his knees, pushing himself up. “What d’you have?” He asks.
Indrid stands with him. “I’ve got a small collection of VHS tapes,” He rubs the back of his neck. “And I’ve tried cable, but I can never seem to figure out how to set it up.” He goes a little pink with embarrassment.
“Hey man, we all gotta start somewhere.” Duck claps his shoulder, making him jump a little. He cringes, making an internal note-to-self not to scare him another time.
“You’re right, again.” He says. He moves to push his little dining table to the side a bit, opening up the bedroom entrance. Duck follows behind, peeking cautiously into Indrid’s room.
It isn’t unlike the rest of the Winnebago. It’s probably the most concentrated area of Indrid’s mess, but it’s still decorated with drawings, sticky notes, and other various notes-to-self. Books and little knick-knacks litter whatever table, shelf, and floor space he has left, leaving a specific path from the door to the bed.
“I apologize for the mess” He says, face already full of a VHS-collection-box. “Again, I don’t have guests in here often.”
He walks carefully along the floor path towards Indrid. “It’s alright.” He leans forward a bit, looking for a glance into the VHS box. It’s mostly custom-labeled tapes, but there are a few vaguely recognizable titles in the pile. “What’cha got in there?”
Indrid furrows his eyebrows behind his shades. “...Not as much as I’d hoped, unfortunately.” He mumbles.
Duck sets a hand on his shoulder, craning further to see the titles of each tape.
“You should let me take a shot at pickin’ one, if you’d like.” He says.
Indrid pauses, trying to herd all of the tapes back into a more organized fashion, and then moves back onto the bed. Duck takes his place on the ground.
“Star Wars… all three of em’, too.” He flips over a few more tapes. “Back to the Future. That’s a good movie, right there.” He grins. “Kinda ironic, though.” Indrid laughs.
He keeps digging, looking, until he spots a white VHS sleeve, covered in red text.
“Holy shit,” He pulls it out from underneath the rest of the pile. “I mean, it’d be a little early to watch this but… please tell me you’ve seen it.”
Indrid looks even more embarrassed than earlier. “I’ve… only watched Back to the Future, to be honest with you. I get too distracted to watch movies all the way through. I mostly just collect these,” He plays with his thumbs. “Garage sales and such.”
“Good god.” He slips the tape out of its cover. “Then we’re definitely watching this.”
He pops the tape into the player at the foot of the bed, gently pushing Indrid aside so he can sit. The sound of bells fill room as the words “A Christmas Story” appear on the screen in red, Bavarian-themed font.
“It isn’t even December, Duck.” The screen reflects back on Indrid’s glasses as he stares, quizzical.
“It’s a good movie, man.” Duck yawns. “Don’t question it.”
Indrid brings the comforter up to his legs. “Alright.”
The opening credits lead into the first scene, Ralphie standing in front of the toy store, and Duck can feel his eyes start to droop again.
“I might close my eyes for a minute.” He murmurs.
Indrid is still staring intently as he can at the screen. “It’s alright. Go ahead.”
And just like that, Duck is out like a light.