Things That Sometimes Happen at Denny's
Things That Sometimes Happen
Kieren knows that Ben is black. Ben has been black since Kieren met him and it isn’t something that is likely to change anytime soon. Or, you know, ever. Race just isn’t something Kieren, or anyone else in their band, really thinks about.
They’re somewhere in the Great South, Georgia or Louisiana or… someplace, stopped at a Denny’s for breakfast (partly because they were all hungry and partly because Nate had been whining about wanting pancakes for half the tour). A girl had actually recognized them, blushingly asking for hugs, which had been awesome. At least until the comments of others reached their ears.
The loudest of them all, sitting just a booth away, was an older man, perhaps in his late seventies. He had a wrinkled, weathered face and thin, white hair. He glowered and glared and muttered in a gruff voice, “In my day, niggers knew their place and kept their hands to themselves.”
Ben flinched and released the girl from his hug, taking a step away with a stricken expression. Sick Boy’s fingers curled into white-knuckled fists and Pat straightened to his full height (even though he was pencil-thin and rather feminine, at 6’3 and a half, he was pretty intimidating when he wanted to be), stepping between Ben and the man. Nate, completely horrified, wrapped his arms around Ben’s middle as if he could shield his friend from the man’s words.
Kieren blew up.
“And today, close minded, racist bigots know their fucking place,” he snarled.
Ben touched Kieren’s arm and shook his head, “You can’t change his mind. Don’t waste your breath.”
Kieren sent Ben a helpless sort of look and Ben broke away from Nate to drape an arm around the small man’s shoulders. Sick Boy pulled Nate close, fingers slipping into soft, pale ginger hair, and their young band mate sighed, leaning into the touch, as Pat tossed some cash on the table and they all shuffled out.
“You’re a good man, Ben Peterson,” Kieren said seriously, expression still dark. “I would have punched the fucker in the face.”
“You can’t fault someone for how they were raised. You can only pray for patience,” Ben advised before he grinned and tilted his head against Kieren’s, “Besides, we can’t all be assholes like you, elf boy.”
Ben would be okay, that much was clear. It’d take a while for the rest of them to be, though.
They’re somewhere in the Great South, Georgia or Louisiana or… someplace, stopped at a Denny’s for breakfast (partly because they were all hungry and partly because Nate had been whining about wanting pancakes for half the tour). A girl had actually recognized them, blushingly asking for hugs, which had been awesome. At least until the comments of others reached their ears.
The loudest of them all, sitting just a booth away, was an older man, perhaps in his late seventies. He had a wrinkled, weathered face and thin, white hair. He glowered and glared and muttered in a gruff voice, “In my day, niggers knew their place and kept their hands to themselves.”
Ben flinched and released the girl from his hug, taking a step away with a stricken expression. Sick Boy’s fingers curled into white-knuckled fists and Pat straightened to his full height (even though he was pencil-thin and rather feminine, at 6’3 and a half, he was pretty intimidating when he wanted to be), stepping between Ben and the man. Nate, completely horrified, wrapped his arms around Ben’s middle as if he could shield his friend from the man’s words.
Kieren blew up.
“And today, close minded, racist bigots know their fucking place,” he snarled.
Ben touched Kieren’s arm and shook his head, “You can’t change his mind. Don’t waste your breath.”
Kieren sent Ben a helpless sort of look and Ben broke away from Nate to drape an arm around the small man’s shoulders. Sick Boy pulled Nate close, fingers slipping into soft, pale ginger hair, and their young band mate sighed, leaning into the touch, as Pat tossed some cash on the table and they all shuffled out.
“You’re a good man, Ben Peterson,” Kieren said seriously, expression still dark. “I would have punched the fucker in the face.”
“You can’t fault someone for how they were raised. You can only pray for patience,” Ben advised before he grinned and tilted his head against Kieren’s, “Besides, we can’t all be assholes like you, elf boy.”
Ben would be okay, that much was clear. It’d take a while for the rest of them to be, though.
♠ ♠ ♠
I started this as a way to incoperate Kieren being an asshole (because he is) into a fic and have it be for good instead of evil (like bitching out evil bastards instead of ignoring fans) and to include Ben calling him an elf. Because Ben totally does. And I think its hilarious.Somehow, I ended up also trying to make a point.