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Find Out Who Your Friends Are - Pt 2; Clint & Wyatt
Topic Started: Feb 25 2010, 07:10 PM (123 Views)
Ricochet
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The Stalking Cat
[ *  *  * ]
(A/N - You may find part 1 here: Click. Also, what's written in italics, the beginning of the story, is a flashback of just saying a little about how they met~ I hope y'all enjoy reading! ><; )

[align=center]Teenage Wyatt Tanner sat with his boots up on the dashboard, arms folded, head turned to glare out the passenger window, a scowl on his face. Why was it that he’s in such a foul mood? This is because his father had refused to let him drive, one reason being Jacob wasn’t sure Wyatt’s permit extended beyond the Mississippi state lines. The other reason, this truck was new - a silver colored four door, hot off the lines. Jacob was no fool, and knew his son could get rather hot-headed at times, which is why, whenever Wyatt did start driving on his own, his first vehicle would be the old beat-up work truck. Yes, it had certainly seen some better days, long ago, but it was still a working set of wheels, plenty good for a new driver.

Yet for the present time, this did not help the young man at all, hence the foul mood.

By this time, father and son were past words, Wyatt already having tried about every argument he could think of. Jacob had always had a reasonable answer, and Wyatt could tell that he was beginning to wear on his father’s nerves. So he decided to finally button up, since this whole Summer trip was only thanks to his father’s agreeing to take him. They had already been down through Louisiana, to a junior rodeo there, and were now well on their way to Dallas, TX. Fort Worth, to be exact. Suddenly, his father started slowing down, and made a worried noise in the back of his throat. Wyatt turned to see what the problem was.

“Looks like someone’s broken down,” Jacob observed, beginning to turn the wheel away from them, to give the two people who were standing around outside of the broken down truck a wider girth. Wyatt suddenly sat up straight, his boots thumping as they hit the floor mat. He leaned forward in his seat, just about as far as the seatbelt would allow, and squinted his eyes.

“Hey, I think I know them.” Wyatt said, nodding his head. “Yeah, I remember - he was with me in some of the competitions, I think he took first in the bronc riding.” Wyatt said slowly, then looked to his father. “Should we give ‘em a ride?”

Jacob frowned, letting out a breath as he glanced in his rear view mirror to make sure no one was coming. “I don’t think so, son,” but even as he spoke, he was slowing down again.

“C’mon, pops. You and Mom are always tellin’ Kayla and me to go out of our way to help, help strangers even. More’n likely their heading to the same place we are.” Wyatt pointed out, for some reason wanting to help out the fellow rider and whomever was with him. After another, smaller sigh, Jacob could find no fault in his son’s reasoning, and turning on his blinker, he pulled off to the side of the road, coming to a stop behind the broken down truck. Also muttering something about, 'Just this once.' Before the truck was even completely stopped, Wyatt unbuckled and jumped out.

“Hey! Y’all need a ride?” Wyatt asked, calling out as he made his way over to the two leaning on the older truck. The older gentleman had been watching their approach, and was now smiling widely. His younger companion, the fellow rider that Wyatt had recognized, had been busy staring at something on the ground, until Wyatt had spoken. The teenager, a male with dark hair under a black hat, snapped his head up, taking a step away from their old truck, and glanced over their new arrival. Wyatt noticed this one looked rather edgy and distrustful, somehow reminding him a bit of an animal caught in a trap. Though yes, he had seen him around, they had not as of yet actually met.

“Sure do; which way are y’all headed?” The older man asked, looking up to Jacob as he likewise stepped down from the truck, at a much more sedate pace than his son.

“Forth Worth.” Wyatt replied, “The rodeo there.” He added, looking from what he had to guess was father and son and back again.

“Well, if it ain’t too much trouble, we would really appreciate a lift. I’ll chip in for food and gas expenses, of course.” The unnamed father said, looking to Jacob solely now. Jacob nodded.

“Hop on in, and just throw your ‘quipment in the back. Wyatt, why don’t you help him.” Jacob instructed, seeing the rigging that was laid at the other teen’s feet. Wyatt nodded and took a step towards him, but the teen in question quickly grabbed up his own gear and shook his head.

“No thanks, I got it.” He said, causing Wyatt to stop and shrug his shoulders.

“Suit yerself.” Wyatt remained where he was, as the dark-haired teen walked passed him, head down. Wyatt turned, and slowly followed the grumpy fellow. After he had thrown his rigging into the bed of the truck, Wyatt was about a foot away from him now, and offered his hand for a shake.

“My name’s Wyatt Tanner, and that’s my dad.” A small pause, as the other teen glanced from Wyatt’s hand, up to his face, and just looked at him. Wyatt glanced away, then, looking at him again, hand still out stretched, he added, “I figure we should ‘least know each other’s names, seein’ as how we’ll be riding t’gether for a while.”

After another pause of silence, the other teen finally shook his hand. “Clint Allen. ... ‘Nd my, father...Chris Slocum.”





-=FOUR YEARS LATER=-[/align]




Wyatt, in his old beat-up once-white truck, slowly pulled up to a stop behind the black truck that his friend normally drove. Just about a week ago, he had received a call from a mutual friend, one that quite unsettled this Mississippi cowboy. So he had come all the way here, the first chance he got, because Witch did not appear to be answering any phone calls. Well, it was a small relief at least, to see that it looked as though the truck hadn’t been used recently, if what the mutual friend had told him over the phone was indeed true. Killing the engine, Wyatt grabbed his duffel bag and jumped out, slammed the door, and headed for Slocum’s trailer. Knocking on the door, he stepped back and waited.

Silence.

Wyatt knocked louder, knowing Clint had to be in there. The truck was here, and according to what he’d heard, where else would he be going?

Silence.

Now getting a mite irritated, Wyatt pounded on the door and shouted, “Clint?! I know yer in there, so open up right now or I’m kickin’ in the door - And I ain’t payin’ for no damages!”

Well, that finally got a response. A small thud, followed by a crash and a few colorful words were heard from inside. The sound of footsteps, and, finally, the door slowly opened. The man on the other side of the door was not the same man Wyatt had parted with those months ago. That man had been full of energy and life, an easy smile, laid back but always ready for the next thing. This man...he was slouched over against the door frame, hair a mess, more than likely hadn’t bathed in at least two weeks. And his eyes, they were dull and lifeless, so hollow.

“So it’s true then, ain’t it?” Wyatt asked; Clint just blinked at him. Wyatt shifted the duffel bag to higher up on his shoulder, and said, “I know words can’t help, but...I’m sorry all the same, Clint, ‘bout yer father.”

Clint scoffed and lowered his head. Wyatt was a little irritated that Clint had not called him, it had been nearly three months since it had happened! Still, apparently Clint didn't think company nessecary. After a pause of silence, he looked back at Wyatt, stood a little straighter and with as much of a glare as he could currently manage said, “What’re ya doin’ here, Tanner?” Wyatt merely looked at him a few seconds, but finally, standing tall, he replied with,

“Hate ‘t break it to ya, but I plan on stayin’ here ‘til after the rodeo next week. It’s what I always do, not that I’d ‘spect you t’ remember right now.” Wyatt replied, and with that he shouldered his way inside.

“Hey, did I say you could come in?!” Clint growled, a little late, taking a step back and looking at Wyatt, whom was looking around the little living area one would walk into upon first entering the trailer. It was a mess, but not quite as much of one as Wyatt would have feared.

“No, but I think you could use some company - other than Mr. Daniels.” Wyatt said, though he wasn’t sure what kind it was that Clint had managed to get his hands on.

“I don’t need yer com’any.” Clint muttered in response, Wyatt turned around. Breathing a small sigh through his nose, Wyatt approached Clint.

“Well I aim t’stay anyhow, and if you throw me out, which I really don’t think is possible with the state yer in, then I’ll just sleep in m’truck outside. It’s time ya rejoin the livin’, Clint.” Wyatt spoke, ending by reaching out and placing a hand on Clint’s shoulder. With a pat, he then removed it, seemingly before Clint even noticed, though the other man did take a step back. Wyatt turned around again and dropped his duffel in a corner of the living room and moved on to the little kitchen area. There was more grumbling heard, but Clint shut the door and dumped himself onto the couch, amidst a half-empty whiskey bottle and empty boxes of pizza. Clint sighed and rubbed a hand across his face; Wyatt was here, he should be happy...yet he wasn’t, couldn’t hardly bring himself to feel any emotion. Glancing at the half-empty bottle beside him, he was beginning to think, that was why.

Ah, but more important things were beckoning for his attention. Like what he had been doing before he had been so rudely interrupted...sleeping. Sinking down further into the sofa, he lay his head back and closed his eyes, deep asleep within minutes.

Several hours later, Clint awoke to a silent and dark room. Looking around, he slowly came to realize that he was still on the couch. His headache was making it hard to think, but, it seemed as if there was something else, something important, something he was -- Wyatt! He had come, hadn’t he? Lifting himself up a little, Clint looked over to the little kitchen area, but saw no one. It was dark. Had, had he been imagining things? Had he merely been dreaming? Finding that thought amazingly depressing yet more than likely true, he slouched in his seat again and let out a sigh.

His headache, however, wouldn’t let him focus on much of anything at the moment. He leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees, and started massaging his temples. Ooh, he hated this part of it, when he’d drunk too much. ... Dream-Wyatt had been right about something, though. Clint turned his head a little to look at that half-empty bottle. He knew he should get rid of it, but... Part of him was still wanting to hide in that bottle, and it was pulling on him quite hard. He wasn’t thinking that he could find the will to crawl out himself, he was in too deep.

Suddenly, a mound of something fell upon him. Startled, he batted away at the things, trying to get them off of him...only to them realize, it was a pile of harmless clothing. His clothing. Taking a shirt in his grasp, he brought it up and sniffed. It smelt, well, clean. How...?

“I’ll wash yer junk, but better believe I ain’t puttin’ it up fer ya.”

That voice, he knew that voice. Looking up, he saw dark green eyes peering down at him, from under a familiar white Stetson hat.

“Wyatt!” Clint yelped, twisting around to see his friend better. Wyatt’s lips twitched upwards as he took a step back.

“What, forget I was here already?” Wyatt asked, raising a brow as he looked down at Clint. Frowning, Clint’s previous joy at seeing his friend was now gone, replaced once more by a melancholy expression. He lowered his head, looking at his hands.

“I...wasn’t sure if it were real ‘r not,” Clint provided, quite meekly. Wyatt frowned at Clint’s words, getting the sense that there was something more going on in the other man’s mind, but not having a clue as to what. Wondering if perhaps even Clint himself didn’t have a clue as to what. Clint gave a sigh and scrubbed his hands over his face.

“What you said,” he paused, staring off at some point beyond the wall. Then he blinked and glanced at Wyatt, and continued. “I want to, I just...don’t know how.” Wyatt sighed and stepped around the couch, knocking off a pizza box to sit himself on the other arm of it.

“T’ start, you need t’ pour that out.” Wyatt told him, pointing to the half-empty bottle. Clint turned his head to stare at the bottle, as if he had never noticed it before. Slowly, after a moment, he shook his head.

“I can’t,” He said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“You’re the only one that can, Witch. I can’t do it for ya. ... C’mon, ‘s easier than ya think. Just pick it up, walk over to the sink, an’ pour it out.” Wyatt told him, standing up from his perch and gesturing as he spoke. He had used Clint’s rodeo name, hoping that might also move him to make some changes. Clint blinked quite owl-ishly at Wyatt, slowly turning his gaze towards the kitchen. Was that...really all there was to it? At his friend’s encouragement, Clint finally grabbed the neck of the bottle, stood up, and slowly advanced towards the kitchen sink.

“To join the livin’, ya need t’ stop hidin’ first.” Wyatt spoke again, leaning against the doorframe as Clint paused and looked up, the bottle just above the sink now. Nodding his head, Clint understood, and with a slight renewed sense of determination, he poured out the remainder of his father’s whiskey. He frowned as he watched it go down the drain, but he knew it was causing him more pain than it was worth. And he felt glad, once he got over that fact. Wyatt came up behind him and slapped him on the shoulder.

“Good work there, Clint.” He said with a grin, then stepped back and started to turn away. “A good start, an’ reckon I’ll hang around t’help ya with the rest.”

“Thank you,” Clint whispered, still facing the sink. Wyatt paused by the door way, and looked over his shoulder. A small grin on his face, he spoke quite sincerely, before turning off to head off once more.

“Hey, that’s what friends ‘re for.”
Ulysses & Trey Sloane | Clint Allen | Irene Parker | Wyatt Tanner
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