The Drive Back

By Kay

Disclaimer: Oh god, I do not own Mississippi Burning or its characters, especially since I've been told they're based off of real ones. I feel shame, people. I feel shame. Sort of.

Author's Notes: Yes, it's Mississippi Burning slash. I love the movie. I love the main characters. I get bored easily. Thus, you get Anderson x Ward fic. Post!film, directly after they drive away and Anderson actually gets to hold the damn keys.

No one will ever read this. But if you do! Thank you, and I hope you enjoy!

"You wanna drive, Rupert?"

Anderson wonders when they started using first names.

Then, his fingers sweating on the steering wheel because the heat is just as damned bad as he remembers in Mississippi, he wonders why the hell he feels so proud of becoming "Rupert." It means somewhere along the line, he's done it right. Proven himself to Ward. Been accepted. The only problem, Anderson figures, is that he could've sworn he'd never wanted to pass some sort of moralistic, high-seated-perch pain in the neck test. Ward is a frustrating, straight-collared, clean-shirted, stick up his ass agent, the kind that drives Anderson crazy because they're drunk on doing "the right thing" and end up fucking things up even worse. He's entirely too formal. Doesn't know how to talk to people. Always seems to be looking down his nose, especially at Anderson.

Ward is also a clever son of a bitch. Plays hardball, but does it within the lines so he can't get caught. Still stupid enough to stick his neck out where it doesn't belong just for the sake of some cause. He still hurts, too; he responds to injustice fiercely, feels pain at suffering, and that's not something Anderson sees in many agents. He doesn't take Anderson's shit, not even a little, and he still let Anderson take the reigns of the investigation when it could've gone to hell any second.

Anderson's got nothing to prove. But he could get used to this. "Rupert," and driving the car, putting on the radio to hide the fact that their silence is not nearly so awkward.

They don't have the same sense of humor. But Anderson reckons if he said something right now, Ward might even grin at him.

It's a long drive back to Washington, but now they're not racing for time. Paperwork and some tricky slight of hand to hide their conduct are all that await them. Ward's in no hurry for that, Anderson can tell. He gets this scowl on his face when Anderson mentions the Bureau. "I hope you know how to cover your tracks, Rupert," is all Ward will say about it, and Anderson can't help the quirk of his mouth when he hears that. It still sounds strange.

"With palm leaves," Anderson tells him. He doesn't call him Alan. Not yet. Ward doesn't even look like an Alan. Anderson knew an Alan in Mississippi; sloppy fella, brown hair like mud, green eyes like glass, a real sidewinder in the grass. Used to cheat at cards. Ward looks like Anderson's uncle who became an accountant and earned the family scorn.

Ward's the kinda fella that Anderson's daddy would've hated.

(Anderson kinda likes him. For a bastard. One who wouldn't know how to handle an FBI investigation "proper-like" if it bit him in the ass. There's proper and then there's useful, and they're usually mutually exclusive.)

About twenty miles out of the shithole town that Anderson almost misses (he was hoping to see it, the seeds of change Ward's always announcing), Ward pulls out the map and makes a brief "hmm" noise.

Anderson looks at him blankly.

"Perhaps we should make our next stop in Keenley," Ward says, casual. His glasses reflect the soupy yellow of the sun coming in the windshield. They're still taped at the corner, where Anderson slapped him. Anderson wonders why he doesn't buy new ones. He seems the type. "There was a hotel there, if I remember correctly. Much better than the one we were forced to acquire on the job."

Anderson considers this. Keenley. They'd get there about six, not very late at all. They could stop for dinner and still have two hours of driving, after all, to put 'em near the border. "You think?"

Ward hesitates, as if just thinking of something. "But—you will be wanting to go home, I assume." His finger slowly traces upwards, further north. "There's always—"

"So long as you don't embarrass me at the local café again, I'm thinkin' I could use a mattress that doesn't sink like a stone in molasses."

Ward chuckles in a way that doesn't sound amused. But Anderson's getting used to that, too. "They were… certainly a new experience."

"Hell, you think that's new? I once slept in this one roach nest, see, somewhere in Iowa…"

Anderson talks. It's what he's good at, charming people. Telling stories. When he glances over, Ward is reclining against the seat, his eyelashes closed behind his glasses and hands folded over his chest. But his face isn't as severe. And when Anderson pauses, Ward's fingers shift, to show he's listening—or maybe it's all a coincidence, but Anderson doesn't much care so he just goes on as always.

He doesn't think he's ever seen Ward sleep without criminal pictures sharing the bed, actually. He can't help but wonder about the sight.

The trip goes a little something like this.

They drive for about four hours a day, give or take. This is about four hours less than they should be, but Ward is good at convincing the higher ups over telephone booths in diners that they're still tying up loose ends as they go. Anderson samples the pie in about every restaurant they frequent. Then he tells Ward it's not nearly as good as his momma used to make. Ward smiles politely and refuses the offered forkful. Anderson hasn't decided if he just doesn't like pie or if he just doesn't like the idea of being handfed by another man.

Ward apparently has no other clothing besides suits, two pairs of slacks, three dress shirts (one of suspiciously lavender coloring, even if Ward calls it smoke-blue), and a white t-shirt that he wears to bed. It looks worn, and old. Anderson wonders if Ward has ever worn anything but black and white and blue.

Anderson buys a new hat in Corderly, Tennessee. It makes him look jaunty. His boys back at the Bureau will love it.

Ward arches an eyebrow.

They make small talk while they drive, asking questions about each other's lives because there's not much else to do. Ward now knows that Anderson's mother had a yellow apron with a sparrow sewn into the pocket. That he used to keep dogs, before he moved to the city. That he's a baseball fan because everyone forgets the world when they step into a diamond and god, that smell, clean grass and rubber and chalk. Anderson once saw a man shoot himself in the head rather than be arrested for robbing a few bills, and that's when he learned sometimes it's better to step back than step forward. He talks like his daddy, a fact of which he's proud of, even if he's not always proud of the rest. He's proud because talking's what got Anderson this job, and talking's what kept it for him, and talking's the only thing he's good at, sometimes.

What Anderson learns about Ward is more fragmented but also more valuable. Ward doesn't like music. He would rather spend an entire day in the quiet than listen to a string quartet, even if he looks the type. He keeps three clocks in his house, even though he's rarely there. He enjoys games of tactics, strategy, like chess or mahjong, but he doesn't gamble. He also has a guilty fascination with dime-store Western novels. He's not married. He had a friend, a black man, named Theodore—says, very softly, that he'd been a good man, a watchmaker, right up until they threw his body full of holes into a water barrel and left him dead. That remembering that is the only thing Ward's good at, sometimes.

Anderson watches the way Ward leans as though he'd like to rest his forehead against the window, eyes dark and drunk with secrets. He remembers watching Ward cradle the boy—deep in the woods, as though he could bury the agony of seeing what had happened by burying the boy into himself—and pressing his mouth near the boy's ear, his cheek to his head, not even thinking twice about color or boundaries or what a man or especially an agent should do in this situation—

He watches and he wonders. If the last two facts he's collected of Ward, if they're not related in any way.

It's none of his business.

In Kentucky, they share a hotel room. It's cheaper, considering all the traveling they've been doing—and the Bureau is already discontent with how much Ward has spent, Ward admits as he hangs up his coat, buying entire hotels and abandoned theaters and all the Navy boys whose hands aren't tied in knots. It'd been worth it, but they may as well cut corners. Anderson just nods because it makes good, clean sense, and he doesn't mind sharing besides. He would've done it the entire trip.

Ward has a lot of particular, fussy habits. He washes his hands far too often and does not seem to believe in "kicking up his feet." He glances at the clock too often and reads the reports over and over, as if he's going to glean some new bit of information to use in his briefing back home. When it grows dark, he takes a shower at night instead of waiting for the morning, which surprises Anderson because he always thought it'd be the other way around. Ward is all bright-eyes after sunrise, after all. Apparently it's natural.

There are two beds, of course. Little rickety things with floral blankets that smell like mothballs and lemon cleaner. Ward sleeps on his stomach, another thing that gives Anderson pause, and his wet hair sticks up in the back in stubborn tuffs of brown. Anderson very, very carefully does not think about damp necks and the scent of soap, but it's a close thing. It's certainly a night for startling revelations. Anderson himself lays on his back, shifting his old shoulders until they feel right at home against the lumpy pillow—he says, "Good night," and Ward repeats it very patiently, his voice halfway to a slur.

Anderson closes his eyes and tries to fall away.

Some twenty bare minutes later, Anderson sighs and turns on his side. He can barely see Ward's body beneath the blankets, silhouetted by the light of the bathroom that barely touches them.

"Rupert," says Ward. Anderson, to his credit, only jerks slightly.

"Huh?"

Ward is silent, and then he murmurs, "I was wrong about you."

'So was I,' thinks Anderson, his heart racing too hard for his age. He doesn't know exactly what he means; maybe he means a little of everything, but that's too intimate to consider. He swallows and says, a little louder than necessary, "Yeah, most people are."

There is a soft chuckle. "Good night, Rupert."

When he was seven, his daddy shot a rattlesnake at his toes. It sent a bolt straight up through his body and so does this, that very same shock of fear and confusion and excitement. He takes his chances. He always has. "Night, Alan."

Ward laughs again, though there's nothing funny about it. But he doesn't protest and he doesn't comment, and when Anderson tries to sleep again, it's as easy as hay day in August. If he wants to touch Ward's goddamned hair, that's his own business, too, and it's not nearly as bad as it could be, he reckons.

In Pennsylvania, they stop at a local diner and Ward orders another chicken sandwich without mayonnaise. Anderson has never seen him touch beef and he says so, after the waitress takes their menus and leaves with a sashay to her apron-clad hips that's more about being on her feet too long than a bigger tip.

Ward carefully spins his water glass so that—and it took Anderson ages to catch onto this little trick—the place where the waitress touched it with her fingers is farthest away from where his mouth will be placed. "I have nothing against beef, Rupert. I suppose I've just always been partial to chicken. It's easier to choke down."

"You ever go vegetarian?" Ward looks and acts the type. To Anderson's amusement, Ward crinkles his nose and makes his glasses tumble slightly.

"No. No, I'm not much for vegetables. I like fish. I used to go fishing at the river when I was younger, but I was never any good at it."

"You don't say. I was never much of a fisher myself, either."

"Caught a bass once. Very large. It was satisfactory, but the highlight of my short and somewhat unproductive fishing career."

"Always fancied catfish."

Ward smiles with his teeth. "You do strike me as a man who prefers his catch to have some sting to it. Or perhaps, if not a fight, some added danger—the man's wife in Mississippi…"

Anderson frowns in irritation at the reminder, a flash of soft curls and a tentative grin latching to his eyelids, so real that he almost blinks her into existence. "It wasn't like that. She just needed someone to be brave for her until she could stand up herself. And look where it got her… Sometimes I think I'm a real bastard, Alan." The name's getting easier to say, especially since the rest of it's even harder.

Ward looks, for the first time—the manipulative prick, he'd probably known all along—a little sympathetic. "You could have… Well. You could have."

"No." She'd deserved someone better. Younger, too; he wasn't old yet but neither was he young, too fickle in the joints and wrinkled in the face. She had other things, greater things, just waiting for her in the bigger world she'd always dreamt of breaking into—and he wished her well for it. Shaking away her visage, Anderson turned the question around with more than an ounce of deliberate mocking. "What about you, Alan? How do you like your catch?"

Ward made a face as if he found the idea unpleasant, and very possibly he did. "First, I try not to think of them as a catch. And to answer the intent behind the question, someone honest. I have very few stipulations besides that."

"Now, I find that very hard to believe, knowing you." The list of expectations would have to be a mile long, at the very least. In Anderson's brain, he is already composing it. "Surely you wanted some smarts. Someone who wouldn't argue with you or mind the hours."

"On the contrary," replies Ward with perfect serenity, "then I would be dating myself and that's hardly interesting. No, a perfect honesty is difficult enough to find, I limit myself to the point of crippling with it."

Anderson has to concede to that.

Eventually they work out a driving pattern. In the morning, Ward drives because he's the most awake, even though Anderson's spent half his childhood dragging himself up at the crack of dawn to do chores. After lunch, Anderson takes over and Ward lies back as if he's resting or on vacation, listening to the talk show radio that Anderson switches on or conversing, in a fashion, about contemporary events. Anderson doesn't know much about what's happening in the world, but Ward is more than happy to fill him in on all the sordid details. Anderson wonders if the guy expects him to get fired up over all the injustice, but Ward doesn't seem upset, only measured, as if he believes the knowledge to be more vital than the reaction to it.

One more day away from home and they finally get to the point. Anderson had pretty much given up hope of it happening, but then it does, and it's so easily brought out into light that for a second he believes the entire thing to be unreal. He pinches himself in the flab of his arm, but he's awake, and Ward is saying, "I know my passion for justice seems to be overwrought. At first it was more for the principle of the matter. Men should all be equal. I was raised to believe this and so I went into the world preaching it."

"Where y'all grow up?" Anderson asks, his accent slipping comfortably into place. Ward doesn't spare him a glance.

"Delaware, naturally. You have seen my desk? No, but the ideal may have been taught, but I was only following because that was progression, it demanded to be followed. But everything changes when you meet someone," he adds, voice softening, its deep pitch almost sleepy in the fading light. Anderson makes a non-committal noise and flexes his fingers against the wheel.

When nothing seems forthcoming, he takes a chance again. "You met someone?"

"You know of him. Theodore. When you know someone who's touched by cruelty, you can't help but make it your cause. Because he was a good man, and a good friend, and to see their waste sets things wrong in you. I suppose that's how it works." Ward sighs heavily. "He taught me how to understand literature properly. Do you read literature, Rupert?"

"I read the sports page, if that's what you mean."

It makes Ward smile, just a little.

Anderson continues, "I reckon that's exactly how it works. People don't get fired up the way you do until it's themselves facing the fire, see. When trouble's on your doorstep clamoring to get in, that's when a man finally faces it. But if it's your neighbor's house, good riddance. Thieves can take anything, but they steal in the night and take someone you love, well… Well, I figure that's about when a man takes a light out in the dark, starts making trouble of his own. You just gotta be careful," and he says this to Ward, who is watching him very pensively, eyes narrowed behind his lenses, "that you're not stirring a war where there ain't need for one."

There is a marked silence. When Ward speaks, it's in a slow but certain tone. "You're a strange man, Rupert."

"Always knew it was so," Anderson says with a laugh.

"I didn't say it was a bad thing." After that, Ward falls again into a wordless lull, staring thoughtfully out the window.

They share a hotel in New York countryside again. "What are you going to do when you're home?" Ward asks, untying his shoes and placing them neatly by the door. Anderson had kicked his off upon coming in, but also placed them by the door, much like his mama taught him.

"Don't know. See a game, maybe. Take a good, long nap in the air conditioning. Yourself?"

Ward rubs his ankle and gives the question proper consideration. "Finish our reports. Call some people who need to be called. Of course."

Anderson arches an eyebrow and throws himself on the bed. He can't help the groan of pleasure. It bounces. An honest to God Almighty mattress that bounces. That's quality, there. "On second thought, maybe I'll just take in that nap first. A really long one."

Ward spares him an absent smile and goes to take his shower. Anderson notes he doesn't lock the door and then sniggers at himself for doing so.

There's one lesson his daddy taught him that's stuck in Anderson's mind for a long time; long enough that it's festered and worn a hole in his skull, that thought's been there. It's about when Anderson had been twelve and the ballgames were awfully sandy because of the dry season, and how his daddy had said, "You wish for rain, you're gonna get a flood of it and just drown all ways awful, son. No, wait for a few drops at a time. You'll never get to the bottom of a barrel or see green at that rate, but it tastes damn well cleaner, and better for you." Then he'd ruffled Anderson's hair and added, "But don't you ever become a man like that, with secrets and the like. Give it all away, 'cause that's what men do. S'how you get to know your ownself."

Anderson figures it's the best damn advice his daddy ever gave him, drunk or sober alike. He's tried to live like that. Full-all-the-way.

He tells Ward this as they rest in bed, separated by a width of shadowed space and night noises and insects buzzing, because it feels like a good bedtime story. Ward huffs a bit. He says, "That explains a lot about you, Rupert."

"Don't it?"

"But it's nice. The most my father ever taught me was to never leave the table without finishing my milk."

"I could've told you that, Alan."

"Could you?" There is rustling, unexpected and curious, and Anderson turns his head in time to see movement in the dark. Ward gets out of the bed and approaches, and his old white t-shirt is the only thing Anderson can see well—that and the whites of his eyes. He stands by Anderson's bed, studying him—Anderson can feel it over every inch, that scrutinized consideration—and if Anderson's honest, he studies back. And Anderson is always, always honest when it matters.

Finally, he clears his throat and makes up his damned-fool mind. "Theodore. He wasn't just your…"

"Ah. Well. That's none of your business."

"I suppose not."

They have nothing to say then, but after it riles at him, Anderson heaves a sigh and reaches up to grasp Ward's forearm. It's got a light dusting of hair and yes, he can smell the soap from here, clean and uniform. Ward sighs a little, like he's lost.

"C'mere," says Anderson.

Ward says, "Hmm."

And Anderson had always known Ward would make love like he runs an operation—fierce, holding on like the world is burning around him, wanting every truth he can wrench into light and only letting go when there's nothing but ash and a sense of hope growing out of it. Afterwards, in the dark, Anderson keeps an arm around him and mashes his face into the matted, sweat-damp and shampoo-fragranced hair, breathing in the idea of tomorrow morning. They don't leave Mississippi behind; they take it with them, inside where it can thrash.

The End