This is a little Wyatt ficlet for you! Remember the story I wrote for you during the I Miss Chris ficathon? This is set in that universe - but earlier on.
Wyatt Halliwell stared up at his brother from his place on the sofa. He had been happily dreaming about a redheaded raven of a girl and was about to make his move when he was whacked with a pillow. His brother would pay for that…for many, many hours. Wyatt forced himself into a sitting position and said, “This better be good.”
Chris rolled his eyes and replied, “I’ve got a baseball game in an hour and gramps in zoned out in front of The Golden Girls and you’ve got to drive me.”
“Can’t you walk?”
“It’s four miles!”
“That’s doable,” Wyatt replied, lying back down on the sofa.
Chris picked up the pillow and threw it at Wyatt again. Wyatt wasn’t sure when Chris had developed this annoying brave streak, but there used to be a time when a solid evil glare sent Chris off to his room. Wyatt stood up and hovered over his brother.
Chris smiled sheepishly, realizing he was the one asking for a favor, and replied, “Wy, I can’t waste all my energy rushing to get to the game. It’s an important game.”
“You say that about every game.”
Chris shrugged and said, “If I want my scholarship and a chance at the majors, then every game is important.”
Wyatt rolled his eyes. He knew how important baseball was to his brother, so even though he didn’t get it, he picked up his keys. He motioned to his brother and said, “It’s nice to know that being in college doesn’t get me out of chauffeuring your ass around.”
“Why else do you think grandpa and I keep you around? I mean, aside from mowing the lawn,” Chris replied.
Wyatt swatted at his brother and said, “What was that? You do want to walk after all—”
“I’m sorry. You’re the greatest big brother in the history of the entire world and I could never live without you,” Chris offered.
Wyatt smiled and said, “Good to hear it.” He opened the door and made his way to his beat-up truck. As he opened the driver-side door, he felt a weird rush come over him – the hairs on his arms standing up and the nerves of his hands and feet tingling. He glanced at his brother who seemed oblivious, caught up in rambling on about the best potential line-up for the game, and then glanced around the area.
Nothing out of the ordinary. A man and woman walked past, holding hands and lost in conversation. On the other side of the street was a young woman out walking her dog. Usual neighborhood movements, but Wyatt still felt like something was off, like he was being watched.
“Wy, come on!” Chris stated from the passenger seat.
Wyatt shook his head, trying to free himself of the strangeness, and hopped into his seat. He glanced at Chris again and asked, “Do you ever feel like something is just not right?”
“I always wonder if you’re a little off.”
“I’m serious, Chris.”
“I’m in game mode, Wyatt,” Chris replied. Wyatt tried not to snicker, remembering the many conversations he and his grandfather endured where Chris rambled on about “game mode” and how it kept him doing well.
“Right. And you think I’m a little off?” Wyatt muttered. He focused on the street and the other cars on the road. He could worry about everything else later. After the game, Chris would be more open to talking (barring no humiliating defeats) and maybe he’d be able to figure out what was going on.