Disclaimer: I own nothing but my OC, everything else belongs to Susie. :) Also, the lyrics and the title of the story comes from "Don't stop believin" by Journey. Corny, I know, but it works. :P
A/N: Ok, guys, I'm taking a new direction with a whole new character. This was inspired by the "quickie – beginnings" thread on the WSOTT forums. I won't be updating with chapter 2 until next month, because of NaNoWriMo, but I'm posting this today for Good Fic Day. Enjoy!
Just a city boy
Born and raised in South Detroit
He took the midnight train
Goin' anywhere
The embers of the cigarette flared as I took another drag, looking around as I plodded along the side of the road. It was twilight, deepening into night, and I had no idea where I was going to end up by the next morning. Before, that might have concerned me, but now I simply welcomed it with open arms. I took one last drag before flicking the cigarette away. I listened to it fizzle out as it hit a puddle, and I pulled up the hood on my jacket.
It was a cold night. Not the kind of cold that chilled to the bone and made one wish for a roaring fireplace, a cup of hot chocolate, and grandma's quilt, but the kind of cold that made me wish for a warmer coat. I had hoped that I would be in Texas by now, but if I didn't get there soon I would have to lift a new coat from either this town or the next. Sure, I had some money from the odd-jobs I worked, but I preferred to spend that on places to stay or things that I couldn't easily lift. I wrapped my coat tighter around me as I sighed, hoping that the light drizzle would stay a light drizzle.
I had jumped off the train about two miles back, and my knee did not like it. My habit of jumping on and off trains onto uneven ground had turned it against me to the point where I tried to not use trains as much. Walking was better anyway; I got to really see the countryside I was passing through instead of just watching it whizz by from the open door of an empty freight car. Sometimes, though, the train was my only option.
I wondered briefly where I was as I wandered into the outskirts of a town; I was pretty sure I was somewhere in Oklahoma, but the name of my current location remained unknown. A large cement building loomed in the distance, and I could just make out the beer brand lights in the windows. Readjusting my duffel bag, I headed towards it; I needed a drink. My knee was killing me and I preferred to find an actual place to sleep tonight besides the wonderful outdoors. Even though I was only 19, my scraggly blond beard made me look older, and I was hardly ever refused service at a bar. I scratched at it absent-mindedly, wondering when I shaved last; I honestly couldn't remember.
Stepping into the bar, my senses were overwhelmed by smoke, cheap liquor, and Hank Williams. It wasn't exactly my style, but beggars can't be choosers after all. The mingling partygoers barely noticed my entrance and paid me no heed as I made my way to a barstool. Slapping my money down on the bar, I got the attention of the bartender and gave him my order. "Whiskey. On the rocks."
Holding the cold drink in my hand, I swished the amber liquid, listening to the ice clink against the glass before I raised it to my lips. I barely noticed the burning as it went down; I was used to cut-rate alcohol, and this was no different. Several sips later, the pain in my knee was easing, and I was starting to relax.
Suddenly a body lurched heavily against me, almost causing me to spill what remained of my drink if I hadn't put it down quickly. The other patron wasn't so lucky, however, and he spilled part of his beer on himself. "Hey, watch it, punk!" he slurred at me, and I looked at him, slightly puzzled.
"Excuse me?"
Blue eyes tried to focus on me from underneath dark, curly bangs. "You heard me, drifter, watch where you're goin!"
Indignation flared within me; I could tolerate many things, but being accused of something that I did not do was not one of them. I replied in my usual slow, even tone. "I believe you were the one to bump into me, sir. Not surprising, considering how drunk you are." I started to turn back around to the bar – and my drink – but the kid wouldn't let it go.
"What?" the boy exclaimed, throwing down his bottle of beer as I turned around again to face him. The shatter of the glass could be heard throughout the bar, and everyone hushed, waiting to see the brewing fight.
I maintained my calm tone. "You heard me."
Without warning, his fist flashed out and struck me in the chin. My head snapped to the side, and I paused a moment before throwing a punch of my own at his nose. He staggered back, stunned for a moment, and then lunged at me.
I was off the barstool in a second, tussling with him in the middle of the bar. The other patrons made sure we had plenty of room, and cheered us on. Most of them rooted for the dark-haired kid, but there were a couple of shouts of support for me. Some people live to root for the underdog.
Suddenly, we were being dragged apart. The dark-haired kid was pushed back, and the man that separated us swore at him. "Goddamnit, Curly, can't you learn to stay outta trouble?"
He then turned to regard me, and I assumed these two must be related. They shared the same dark, curly hair and blue eyes, but he was older, probably almost my age. Lighting up a cigarette, he flipped his lighter closed with a practiced finesse and took a long drag on his cancer stick before asking me, "What's your name, drifter?"
"Wade," I answered simply.
"Well, Wade, I'm Tim Shepard, and I'm in a generous mood tonight. Let me buy you a drink, to make up for my brother being a dick. What'll ya have?"
I told him the same thing I had told the bartender.
Tim flagged down the bartender and before you could snap your fingers, my glass was refilled and Tim sported another bottle of beer in his hand. He didn't really seem to be the one for chitchat, and truth be told I wasn't either, but I did ask him where I could get a room for a couple of nights. Tim directed me to Buck Merril, who apparently owned the place. I haggled with him a little bit about price – he seemed to be the type where if you bullied him enough he would cave in – and eventually I forked over the money and he handed me a room key.
Settling down on the barstool, my newly acquired room key safely tucked away in my pocket, I downed the rest of my whiskey before heading upstairs.