They're flying, or as good as. Scotty has the wheel, driving on the raised road, set high above softly curving valleys sloping down to his left and right, brimming with blue and gold wildflowers. Here and there, a lone tree, gaudy red or bright orange, points up like a signpost to the majestic, sweeping cloud formations just starting to glow with the approaching sunset. Scotty's glad Kelly shares his love of riding in a convertible; breezing along, he feels ten feet tall, like a bird, like a plane, like the king of the world. He taps his fingers on the wheel in time with his lady Ella, keeping them company on the radio. America the Beautiful, indeed.

He steals a glance at his partner, lazy, relaxed all's-right-with-the-world half-smile on his features, lounging half-facing him against the side of the car, one arm stretched out across the back of the seat, the other alongside the open window, elbow lolling out into the road. He agrees – all's right with the world, for now, but it would be even better with food. "Look, Mr. High-and-Mighty, if you're gonna enjoy a personal chauffeur, least you can do is feed me."

"Feed you." Kelly bestirs himself. "People are gonna say I'm the woman in this partnership." He dives into the floorboards; for a moment, all Scotty can see of him is the back of his head and the black-and-white cable knit of his sweater. He rummages a bit more, and emerges with a cold ham and cheese on rye, tearing away the paper around it to make a fairly decent handhold, then neatly wrapping it in a napkin and offering it to his de facto chauffeur.

"Always wanted a maid," Scotty smiles as he accepts the sandwich, taking a big bite. "This should be caviar, though," he says thickly, "just for the image."

"Caviar on rye?" Kelly gasps. "Oh, the sacrilege!"

"Nah, we'd have some of those little crackers like they sell in the snooty places." He smiles, taking another bite, getting into his tale. "You could take your shiny white self into one of those gourmet shops and get us some while I stayed pressed up against the glass and pointed out the good brands, and I'd let you pick out a nice Pommery or Chateau Rothschild, and don't forget to get some Coke or…"

Oh, no.

He's said it without thinking, but Kelly's face is suddenly set in stone.

Appearing to feel Scotty's gaze on him, his partner turns away. "Hey. Hey." Nothing. "C'mon, Kel – I didn't mean that the way it sounded." His eyes on the road, Scotty can still see Kelly meticulously wrapping his sandwich back up and tucking it back into the sack, only it slips out of the wrapper and comes apart, slices of meat and cheese landing on the dirty floor-mat. Kelly gathers them up as best he's able, stuffing them back into the paper slowly, deliberately, wiping his mouth very fastidiously with his folded napkin, the controlled movements slipping a bit as he crumples the napkin in one fist. "Aw, Kel…"

There's no response, and Scotty pulls over, the whisper of the breeze loud in his ears when he cuts the engine and turns the radio off. "Kel, I'm sorry, all right? I wasn't thinking."

"That's right you weren't thinking. Do you think, for one second, that I would ever go anywhere that wouldn't let you in—" He judders to a halt. "I..."

"No, man, of course I don't think that. Look, I'm sorry – I was just trying to –"

"You're sorry?" Kelly mutters, still with his back to him. "I'm sorry…"

"No," Scotty snaps. "No, you are not sorry. You do not have a single solitary thing to be sorry for, okay, except being dumb enough to think I was being serious in the first place, so you can just…"

But he trails off at the tremor in the man's back. "Aw, man. Don't... I wasn't..."

"I said I'm… the one who's sorry, all right." The broken apology isn't a question, the tense body inhaling and exhaling in a deep, shuddery breath.

"Aw, Watson, you can't –" Scotty leans forward, trying to make eye contact, but Kelly's still somewhere else, too caught up in the image of Scotty – now, or younger, doesn't matter – face pressed up against the glass and gazing longingly at forbidden territory. Doesn't matter how many times he tells Kelly that he's used to it, that he knows who the real losers are, Kelly's still going to feel all the pain Scotty denies, and however much he tries to hide it from Scotty, there's agony in the set of his jaw, and the tendons standing out on his forearms as he holds that paper napkin in a death grip.

Scotty draws a deep breath and clambers out of the Lincoln, walks round the front and braces his hands against Kelly's window, finally squatting to meet the averted eyes. "Kelly, don't be a dumb cluck," he says firmly. "It's not you. You know that!"

A tiny muscle in the chiseled face twitches, but Kelly doesn't look up at him.

"Kel. It won't be forever," Scotty says softly, clearly. "It's not even gonna be that much longer. History's on our side, man."

"I m—" Kelly's voice cracks, and he swallows, "—majored in history." His partner's trying hard, so hard, and Scotty's heart goes out to him. Scotty's had a whole lifetime to get used to this crap, and Kelly's just barely got done with the crash course. No wonder he feels like a building fell on him, sometimes.

"See? History's on our side. You're on our side."

"Yeah, well some days I don't feel like I'm on your…"

"Uh-uh." Scotty cuts in shortly. "Not 'your' side. You don't get to say that. It's our side. You and me both. 'Less you've gone and switched sides when I ain't been looking."

Kelly's eyes meet his, and he blinks.

"You dig, partner?"

"I…" There's a spark of hope in his eyes, but still so much pain. "I can't…" He trails off.

"Kelly, man," Scotty says earnestly, "if you give in to them…" he takes a breath, "if you let them make the rules—if you let them divide you and me into us and them—just because of this—" He lays his left arm along the car window, alongside Kelly's right, looking down at their contrasting skin tones so that Kelly follows his gaze down, too, "…then they've won." He raises his voice just a little. "You gonna let them win, huh, or is my bullheaded, stubborn partner gonna fight them till his last breath?"

The wind rustles in the tall grass as Kelly stares down at their twin arms. Scotty turns his hand awkwardly against the joint, like someone's twisting his arm, to grip Kelly's hand, lifting and turning it under and then over his, so his own arm is back in a normal position, interlacing their arms as well as their fingers. He stares at their joined hands for a moment, then brings his right hand across to lay over the clasped grip.

Kelly's been frozen, like a statue, but then his fingers tighten, tight enough to break, or so it seems, and he reaches out with his left hand and grabs Scotty's right, pulling him in, locking eyes with him, the fire of understanding in the hazel eyes blazing a trail all the way to Scotty's core.

"You gotta ask, man?"

A little wave of relief pulls Scotty up, maybe back to shore.

"Naw, I know I trained you up right."

"Yeah."

Scotty breathes in through his nose, forces his tone to be languid.

"Well, all right, then. What are we gonna do about lunch, though?"

Kelly's still gripping Scotty's hand like a lifeline, but he's willing to play along.

"I gave you your lunch – not my fault if you can't look after it."

"I mean your lunch, Dumbo. Dropped your sandwich on the floor, you know." Scotty rubs Kelly's hand as much as he can in the firm grip.

"Nothing a little dusting won't cure."

"You are disgusting, man."

"Don't you know…" Kelly steels himself, taking a deep breath, and it's Scotty's turn to grip his hand tight. "Us white people – when we do it, it's the opposite of disgusting, man. We got a lock on proper etiquette."

Scotty looks Kelly full in the face, deliberately lets him see the amused affection in his eyes. "Well, you just go ahead and believe that, partner." He rubs his hand some more. "And you can remind me of it next time you use my good shirt as a towel."

"I have never, in all my born days, used your shirt – good or otherwise – as a towel, man. That's just slander."

"Hey, Hoby," Scotty shakes his head in mock sorrow, "Mom hates it when you lie." He holds his partner's eyes, lets them remind him that they share family. "Now. What I want is for you to break out the Green Book and find a place a pair of guys like us can hang loose and knock back a couple of tall ones."

"Guys like us?" A beat. "You, sir, are a fraud." Kel's expression flickers for a moment, then dawn breaks across his face, hazel eyes shining like the sun. "You don't even drink."

"I may be in the minority," Scotty breaks into a sincere grin, "but that is no reason to discriminate against me."

"You're the one who discriminates against me, man, always making me go buy the drinks."

Slipping his hand out of Kelly's, Scotty slides it in a soft grip up the white arm, all the way up to squeeze the back of Kel's neck, holding on, smiling his most wicked smile to be sure to take any sting out of his words. "Uh huh – after two hundred-odd years of slavery and Jim Crow, you don't think you owe me a Coke every now and then?"

This time, Kelly's smile is warm and true. "Now, really, Stanley, that's beneath you. Have you ever known me to give in to emotional blackmail?"

Scotty feels a knot he didn't know was in him loosen. "Invariably, if a cute chick is involved."

"You, sir," his partner looks at him askance, "are most definitely not a cute chick."

"True, true." Scotty narrows his eyes. "If I was, you'd listen to me."

"Well…" Kelly makes a show of thinking. "I guess I could be persuaded to buy, but do you think it'll be safe to drive afterward?"

Scotty claps Kelly on the shoulder and rises easily, leaning casually on the Lincoln's warm hood. "I do not think, sir, we are so much of a unit, so to speak, that it qualifies as illegal if one of us does the one thing and the other one of us does the other, y'see." He gestures airily. "So you just move yourself over and drive till we find a place, and I'll drive after you have partaken of the demon rum."

"A demon, you say?" Kelly slides across into the driver's seat, catching Scotty's eye and smiling. "I am a match for any such being who would work his powers of evil on this earth," he guns the engine, the roar sending a flock of startled birds fluttering up out of the bushes, "so long as you'll be there to drive my drunken carcass home."

Scotty slides into the car without opening the door, pulling in his legs and watching the birds circling upwards into the clear blue sky. "You are, Hoby," he murmurs, turning on the radio, letting Ella's sweet voice fill the car as they pull out onto the open road. "And I will."