Ryden Oneshots

Don't You Know I Love You (When You're Down And Dirty)

.:. Rating : NC-17 .:.
Rodeo Cowboy AU
*Lyrics throughout from “Papa Was a Rodeo” by the Magnetic Fields.*

i like your twisted point of view

Ryan’s never been good with words, just never felt much need for them – not growing up surrounded by talkers and gossips. When your father runs a bar, you never lack for noise or company.

When your father yells, you learn to be silent. When your father drinks, you learn to hide. Ryan learned.

Took Ryan some years before he realized he preferred silence and solitude and the gentle touch of pen to paper to just about anything else. It took even longer for him to find a way to get it – in a city, many miles away. There he came alive among friends who’d hang around when he wanted them to and leave him alone when he didn’t, at a college where they let him write all he wanted, even told him he was good, said,  You have talent, Ross. Could take you places.

Many years and many miles, but only two words to bring him back:

He’s gone.

They meant his father, and they didn’t mean he’d taken off for a drive.

He’s gone , the lawyer told him over a phone crackling with static.  You gotta do something about the bar.

*

Ryan wipes down the chapped wood with a damp towel, pours a gin and tonic (heavy on the gin) and slides it across to Spencer. Spencer wraps his hand around the sweating glass and raises it to his lips, taking a large swig.

“You gonna play with us later?” Spencer asks, lowering the glass to the bar.

Ryan shrugs. All his muscles ache, coiled tight beneath his skin.

“Jon says he’s gonna make Cash pay for the last time,” Spencer says. “Big time.”

“Jon says a lot of things,” Ryan says, and tosses the towel onto the counter behind him.

Spencer’s eyes are bright and curious, but Ryan doesn’t feel like talking.

“If it’s slow, come join us, huh?” Spencer persists. “Even though you’ll kick our asses. It’s fun to kick our asses, isn’t it?”

“Not much of a challenge,” Ryan murmurs, a smirk nudging at the corner of his mouth.

Spencer snorts.

“All right, hot shot,” Spencer says. “I’ll see ya.”

He takes his drink and a beer over to a table in the corner where Jon and Cash are sprawled out, Cash’s ridiculous red leather cowboy boots kicked up on a chair beside him. Cash makes vivid and obscene gestures with his hands, and Spencer laughs, whole body shaking.

Ryan turns away.

*

“You got any good beer in this joint?”

Ryan glances up to see a guy with dark tousled hair and wide brown eyes staring at him. He’s got his hands pressed palms down on the bar, and he’s looking up at Ryan expectantly.

“What can I get for you?” Ryan asks.

Ryan can tell a lot about a person by what they drink. People who are looking for fancy microbrews don’t belong in a place like this one. Messy Hair Guy, with his well-fitting plaid shirt and tight jeans and dusty black boots, is probably playing cowboy. Seems like the thing to do out West. Ryan’s seen a lot of his type pass through. They’re often good-looking but they’re all the same – think they’re hard, rebels, God’s gift, and aren’t any of the above.