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“You seriously want to see that hippie western?” Cliff smiles bemusedly at Rick. "You don’t think it's gonna be an insult to the genre or something? Sharon’s favorite film critic called it 'a glorified vacuum'?”
“Yes and everyone else loves Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, including Variety,” calls Francesca over her shoulder while flipping through the trade mag.
“Oh come on man, it's Redford and Newman in a Western. How bad could it be? I told Trudi we’d take her. She really wants to see it and she’s too young to go alone. Her parents think it's too violent.”
“For her?” asks Cliff.
“For her parents! Anyway with my recurring role—hopefully our recurring roles—on Lancer, seeing a critically acclaimed new Western is a professional obligation!”
“Redford AND Newman!” Fran calls out from the other room.
“See, Fran wants to see it too.”
“So take your lovely wife—” Cliff retorts.
“Come on man, you gotta get out of this house and come with us,” Rick pleads quietly, making eye contact for a moment before looking down and then looking away.
Cliff has been back from the hospital for about a month. The doctors said he's healing better than expected for a guy his age. His gait is still off, he hates being seen with a cane in public but he won't admit that's why he’s been sticking closer to the house.
He does the stretches the doctors prescribed religiously. Rick's been doing them right alongside. Figured it couldn’t hurt to add that to his fitness routine which he needs to take more seriously as he gets older too.
The Lancer pilot was picked up and Rick’s character, which was initially written as a one off, went down so well with test audiences that now that the show is going to series he’s been asked to be a series regular.
He'll have time to audition for lead roles in movies— and more calls are coming in since the attention around the Incident— and through his friends Sharon and Roman. But if there’s one thing for certain it's that nothing is certain in Hollywood and having a big meaty role to dig into that gives him pretty regular work is worth hanging on to.
The studio head had described Rick’s performance in the pilot as Caleb DeCoteau as “an impressive transformation into a formidable brooding villain—too good to kill off.”
So contrary to Schwarz's generally reasonable psychoanalysis, Rick's decided to take the job and stick around.
Speaking of sticking around, for all the self assurance Rick tried to display to Cliff the night of the attack, Rick expected Fran would be gone the next day. He wouldn’t have blamed her. This type of fucked up shit didn’t happen in any other country, that was for sure.
But Fran didn’t leave. Because fuck those fucking hippies trying to scare her. This was her home too now.
Francesca’s insistence that Brandy stay on as guard dog while Cliff was in the hospital turned into an open invitation for Cliff to stay as well. The guest room was practically the size of a closet but Cliff didn’t complain; “a small room means I don’t have to stumble far to pass out in bed.”
It had occurred to Rick it might be awkward having Cliff sleeping next door to the room that he and his new bride were having vigorous sex in but when he and Cliff passed each other in the hall the next morning he’d saluted, they smiled and that was that.
The house doesn't feel crowded. It feels like home. Even if on some nights he sees flashes of things he’d rather forget.
A few nights after the Incident he broke into a cold sweat from some Vietnam footage in the news. He's quietly avoided watching anything even slightly violent after that. But he’s an actor in Westerns damnit. This is the job. Deal with it.
Trudi’s Mom drops her off at their house and the four of them pile into Rick’s car. Girls in the back seat. They arrive at the theater with just enough time to buy popcorn and get settled in.
* * **************. *****. *****. **** ** * **
When the lights come back on, Francesca's black eyeliner has run in the corners, Cliff’s eyes are wet, Rick is a blubbering mess and Trudi is ready to deliver her full cinematic analysis.
“The posse they can’t shake represents the unstoppable march of time. It’s Civilization encroaching on the Wild West. Butch and Sundance and Etta—their way of life is finished. It doesn’t work anymore. That’s what the movie means,” proclaims Trudi.
“Yeah that’s what the movie has to say about outlaws. About hippies maybe too. But I’ve been in the industry a long time. I’ll tell you what else I notice—this is the first time in a long time I’ve seen a Western with this many hip young people in the audience. This movie? It proves that the Western isn’t dead. It’s changing. And maybe we get to be a part of that?” says Rick, dabbing the corners of his eyes.
“That’s a great point,” says Cliff, “and you know what? It’s a good movie. Thank you Miss Trudi for inviting us to join you.”
“Oh and the main couple, or trio I guess. Etta, Butch and Sundance? They’re like the three of you!” says Trudi.
“Yes, yes, if this was a John Ford or John Sturges or even Leone this would have been a love triangle—the men fighting each other for the woman. But this is like a modern Western. So the only violence is really by the government. The trio only show love for each other,” Francesca says, reaching across to hold hands with Rick and Cliff, dropping them only to pull out a purse packet of tissues to hand to Rick, who’s started tearing up again.
They listen to the radio in the car. Trudi and Fran love to sing along to anything they recognize. Neither is likely to become a rock star in the future but they're both on key and it's cute to watch.
“I-I-I, I'm hooked on a feelin'
High on believin' that you're in love with me”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~L____ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Before the Incident none of them had been much for weed. But hanging out with Sharon and her friends has made it seem appealing. And it cut down on the drinking significantly.
They're hanging around the pool. Fran brought several Pucci bikinis with her to America but didn’t feel like retrieving one, so she's floating in one of her equally expensive bra and panty sets. All black, and Rick knows if it had been any other color it would have been see through. Cliff has his jeans rolled up and is dangling his calves in the pool while Fran and Rick drift around in floating pool chairs. They pass a joint around very inefficiently.
“Think I could age into a Paul Newman type? He’s got what, ten years on me?” Rick asks.
“You’ve got the blue eyes going for you,” Cliff replies, “and those cheekbones!”
That makes Fran giggle uncontrollably which turns into a gasp and then a powerful coughing jag. She must have bogarted the joint too hard. Rick paddles over to her to make sure she’s ok but Cliff got right down to business, jumped into the pool, bad leg and all, to check on her.
“I’m fine! I’m fine! You are too sweet. Look what good care of me he takes?” Francesca says, brushing some of Cliff’s hair back behind his ear.
“Christ Cliff, did you put weight on your right leg getting in the water? What about your stitches?"
Cliff tries deflecting but Francesca joins in with, “Get out of the pool, let me check on your stitches!” so of course he moves to do as he’s told.
Cliff pulls himself backwards out of the water back onto the deck, audibly comes down too hard on his ass and lets out an embarrassing yelp.
Which of course Fran takes as license to fuss over him even more.
“My mother was a nurse during the war. I know how to check—” Fran prevails.
Rick and Fran ease Cliff up onto the poolside recliner and then over to his uninjured side.
Rick struggles to undo Cliff’s belt.
“Wow buddy, didn’t realize you were so eager to get me out of my pants, but I guess if your wife doesn’t mind,” Cliff chuckles.
“His wife is right here and we don’t want you to get un'infezione da stafilococco!”
Everyone knows better than to argue when she’s speaking Italian.
“Fair warning!” Cliff announces and it's unclear if he’s referring to the sight of the grisly wound on the side of his upper hip or the fact that he isn’t wearing any underwear. He’s not fully dick out at this angle but he’s not rated G either.
There’s a beat before Rick says,
“I, for one, can’t see shit in the dark.”
“Come here,” Fran gestures to Rick, her face less than an inch from Cliff’s exposed side. None of the stitches appear to have split but Rick hasn’t really come face to face with Cliff’s wound till now. Cliff never let him see how bad it looked and of course Cliff always tried to downplay the injury. Rick feels his heart seize up looking at it. At first he is focused on trying to wrap his mind around the reality of the wound and then by the fact that one small movement might result in his face on Cliff’s cock.
“The stitches didn’t split, but it is very swollen. The chlorine. Get him a bag with ice,” Fran directs.
She sits with Cliff in the dark while her husband scampers back to the wet bar. His face would be red if they could see it.
Rick watches her hand rest at Cliff’s bare waist where his belt would normally sit—below the belt in a very technical sense. Cliff weaves their fingers together and doesn’t move them. One might assume Rick would mind. He doesn’t mind. Why should he?
In fact, he can’t help but wonder what Cliff feels like where her hand is resting. He imagines the skin of Cliff’s waist and even further down. Taught. Soft to the touch. The muscles of his hip and leg would be like iron beneath him. And then the scar…
Rick carries back a clean towel, damp from sink water, and ice in a plastic bag. Francesca wipes the area with the wet towel to get the chlorine off,
“It will only sting a second,” Fran cautions.
“Just want the record to show, I didn’t hurt myself jumping in the pool, I hurt myself climbing back out of it,” Cliff insists.
“Yes and you are going to keep this ice on you for a little bit longer.”
“Anything you say Nurse Capucci. Speaking of medicine, does anyone know where that joint went?”
“Fell in the pool, I’ll get you a new one from the cigarette box,” offers Rick.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~L____ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When Rick heads into the house Francesca leans over Cliff’s face till she gets eye contact.
“He loves you. You know that right? And you saved our lives. But that is not the only reason you are here.” Francesca tells him.
“It’s for Brandy, right?”
“You are lucky you are handsome. Like Redford,” she pouts. She looks delicious when she does that.
Rick comes back with the fresh joint and a lighter, places it between Cliff’s lips and lights it for him, giving him the first puff.
Cliff pulls a drag in deep and reaches up to place the joint between Rick’s full lips.
“I’m still thinking about that movie. Like how Butch and Sundance are the only ones who know each other's real names? That’s heavy,” Cliff says.
“You know I didn’t always go by Rick.”
“Oh, was it Little Ricky?” Cliff teases.
“Much worse. See, my Dad was Rick— Big Rick. Tough as nails. And it was pretty clear from a young age that I wasn’t much of a junior to him. Anyway, the family got to calling me Dick, like from the Batman serials. I loved those. Or Dickey. I mean it didn’t sound obscene when I was a kid. I dropped the nickname as soon as I came to LA. But family back in Missouri still call me Dick when I see them.”
“That why haven't I met your family?” asks Cliff.
“Even Cliff hasn’t met your family? I thought it was special that I haven’t met your family. I thought you were protecting me and only me from their bullshit,” Fran jokes in her practiced pout. “I’m glad I don’t have to get our marriage certificate reissued in another name. Your government has too many forms to fill out!”
She pulls the joint from Rick’s lips, takes a drag, doesn’t cough it, and places it back between Cliff’s lips again. He feels her soft fingers and sharp nails on his lips.
They lose track of time but eventually agree that Cliff has spent long enough with the icepack, allow him the dignity of rebuttoning his pants and walk his half wet/half dry self back into the house. Fran excuses herself to shower off the pool water and get ready for bed.
“Do you ever wonder if you’d met Francesca first you’d be the ones involved?” Rick asks with the same look in his eyes that Butch and Sundance’s Etta Place had.
“Man, you’re getting faster at learning your lines, we only saw that movie once! Listen, I live in your house. You and your wife unbuttoned my pants and bossed me around tonight. In some countries that makes the three of us married! We are involved! ” Cliff says, placing both hands on Rick’s shoulders with a firm grip into the muscle and looking directly into his eyes, a smile growing across his face.
Francesca returns wrapped in a towel and announces, “I’m going to bed, marito e caro,” as she crosses the floor to give Cliff a goodnight peck on each cheek. Then she gives Rick the same Italian goodnight, plus a playful smack on his ass as she says, “Don’t stay up much later, we have things to do tomorrow."
After she leaves Cliff confides, “You know, when you got married…for a moment there I thought we were in trouble.”
“Now look at who's memorizing lines.”
“If I’m going to try out for that bit part in Lancer once I’m off the cane in a month or two I better.”
“Well…we invited you to stick around. All the way. Past the end of the trail and all that.”
“And I will. I mean, you’re Rick Fucking Dalton, man!”
and pulls him in.