Author: otter
Summary: This is the particular problem to being Lazarus revived: he's not sure who he's supposed to be, now that he's alive again. Dan is dead, he thinks. Long live Dan.
Wilby Wonderful | Duck/Dan | PG | Jan 2007 
There's something terrifyingly intimate about shopping for clothes with somebody. Dan doesn't notice it, doesn't even think about it, until he's standing between a rack of cardigans and a rack of ties, with Duck close behind him and hemming him in. He's so surprised by it that he stumbles to a stop, blinking and staring at all the little round islands of clothes at the Bargain Giant like he's just taken a wrong turn and ended up on the moon.
It's Duck who brings him back to earth, Duck who doesn't quite stop in time to keep from running into Dan's back. There's a moment of shocking contact: Duck's chin against Dan's shoulder, Duck's steadying hand on Dan's hip, Duck's breath scudding across the back of Dan's neck. It's warmth and cigarettes and something like comfort, and then Duck mutters, "Sorry," and, "Hey, you okay?" and takes a half-step back, out of Dan's space. His hand lingers for a moment against Dan's hip, his thumb sweeping once, as if by accident, against the line of Dan's waist, and then that contact too is withdrawn.
"Um," Dan says, and can't for the life of him think of anything to say for one long, terrifying moment. He can't ask Duck to leave him alone, can't just dismiss him, not after Duck went to the trouble to pick him up from the hospital, not when he's driving Dan around town like a taxi service. Not after... before. But he can't ask him to stay, either, because shopping for clothes is something to do with a lover, not... whatever they are. It would be like a date arriving hours early to watch him shower and dress, to scrutinize him before he could make himself ready for it.
Duck has, of course, already seen Dan at his worst, which is one of the reasons that Dan would very much like, for once, to put on a clean shirt and some aftershave, to face Duck when he's feeling like a human being again.
Instead he finds himself rooted to the spot, unable to forge onward into the unpleasant task of shopping, and unable to flee again back into the overcast afternoon outside.
Duck doesn't say anything, just watches him silently for a long moment. Dan can feel Duck's eyes on him like a touch, and starts wondering crazily, recklessly, what his hands must feel like, when he applies them with that kind of focus.
Finally, Duck says, "Hey, uh, I need to pick up a few things, while we're here. Why don't you find whatever clothes you need, and I'll get my stuff and catch up with you in a few minutes?"
"Yeah," Dan says, relief and gratitude loosening up his limbs until his joints unlock and he feels somewhat capable of moving under his own power again. "Thanks."
Duck nods, hesitates like he wants to say something else. In the end he just flashes an almost-smile and walks off toward the aisles, pausing on his way to pick up an abandoned shopping basket, letting it dangle casually from one hand.
Dan makes his way into the clothing section, pushing between racks of low-rise jeans and retro logo t-shirts, through the boys' section and into the mens'. He pulls a couple of pairs of khakis from the hangers, trousers just like the ones he's wearing except that these aren't stained with dirt and rust and storage-space grit, aren't marked by a long day's repeated attempts at self-execution. He reaches for a new white dress shirt, too, wants one without the stink of fear and desperation all over it, but he pauses as his fingers brush the collar, because he suddenly can't think of a single reason why he needs these clothes.
He does need clothes, certainly; he'd hardly want to walk around naked, and the ones he's wearing won't do at all; he's dying for a shower and he can't bear the thought of putting these dirty clothes back on, afterward. Everything else he owns -- owned -- is already gone, dropped off in a box at the church's backdoor, donations for the needy from a dead man who wouldn't need them anymore. The video store is closed up and emptied, all of Dan's assets willed away to Val before Dan had even managed to almost kill himself, so there's no professional front to present anymore, no need to mirror the orderly ranks of videos in the store with a crease in his pants and a freshly-ironed collar.
This is the particular problem to being Lazarus revived: he's not sure who he's supposed to be, now that he's alive again. Dan is dead, he thinks. Long live Dan. He drapes the slacks over the top of the nearest rack and leaves them there, just more scattered detrius from the life he'd wanted so badly to leave behind.
He can see Duck, just down aisle ten, and he's certain that Duck is keeping an eye on him, even though Duck's head is bent toward some product display and his shoulders are canted away. Dan stands for a minute, frozen under the warmth and weight of that concern, dragged under by the impossibility of deciding who he is, making a new life for himself on a Tuesday morning at the Bargain Giant. He braces himself against a clothing case, swallowing through a throat that's still sore, watching the way Duck stands, the line of his work jacket across his shoulders, the way his pants hang from his narrow hips. He looks like something from another era, Butch Cassidy in blue jeans, weather-worn and weary from long years on the open range.
The display Dan's holding himself up with is stacked deep with jeans, and when Dan rubs absently at the material with his fingertips, it's almost as if he's stroking the point of Duck's hip, just there, finding the line of muscle and the warmth of flesh beneath the material, from all the way across the store.
Dan pulls a few pairs of jeans from the rack, then a couple of shirts, and just draping them over his arm feels like he's putting on a new life, one layer at a time.
Duck finally edges his way back, hesitant, clearly ready to make himself scarce if he's unwelcome, but Dan's already finished by then, with enough clothes to last him a few days, maybe long enough to find his life again, or to chisel a new one out from island stone. Duck's basket is half-filled with the mundane essentials that living involves: toothpaste, toothbrush, shampoo, deodorant. No razor. It's a collection clearly put together for Dan, not Duck, and it makes Dan smile.
Duck smiles back, finally relaxes and comes close enough to touch the clothes in Dan's hands, skimming his fingers along the material of a checked shirt, fingernail stuttering over rivets on the jeans. "Little bit country, huh?" Duck says, and his smile widens, like being happy is just that easy, like all it takes to make the world right is for Dan to wear a checked shirt and keep watching western movies.
Maybe it is just that easy, Dan thinks, because it's surprisingly effortless to smile back, wide and genuine like he hasn't done in years.
"You'll uh, need some boots to go with that," Duck says, and shifts the shopping basket in his hands, like he's almost too nervous to say it. "You know, real cowboy boots."
"Yeah," Dan agrees. He puts his hand on Duck's arm, can feel Duck's body heat even through the thick work jacket, and it feels a lot like being invited to another man's fire, like coming in from the vast empty range and being welcomed home. "Maybe we can go shopping for some tomorrow."
the end