muchtvsocfic

Of Brothers

vegasedj@yahoo.com — Mon, 07 Sep 2009 14:08:15 GMT

I owe famous a story that I keep trying to jumpstart. It's in my head. I just can't get it out. And I owe her an apology for not apologizing sooner.

I spent a lot of this weekend reading my muchtvs journal, all of it, since 2004 and it made me sad and happy.
Mostly, just bittersweet.
But one thing it did do, is remind me I'm not ready to give up the OC community. I think, at this point, it's like most of my friendships in RL. Either I have to work a hell of a lot harder at it, or risk losing it altogether.

This is a one-shot future fic.

Title: Of Brothers
Pairing: None
Rating: T
Warning: Not betaed.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Of Brothers

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Trey

2008

Vegas is a tough town right now. The recession is suffocating the city, like a bonfire smoldering with its last gasp of buried orange embers. The homeless, once kept far away from the glittering lights by LVPD, are now begging on The Strip. Yes, they might be semi-hidden, tucked away on the pedestrian bridges or on the corners of the outskirts of the main tourists traps.

But they are still where they once didn’t used to be.

It’s worse in the residential areas. The desperate or despondent or disturbed, wander up to shoppers coming out of grocery stores or coffee houses or convenient marts, begging spare change.

Trey always gives them something, even if it’s just a few bucks, because he remembers what it was like to be alone and hungry when he first came to this city.

Still, it’s uncomfortable to be approached, so he rushes to his Ranger, head down to avoid eye contact with a woman fast coming towards him as leaves the Von’s parking lot after stopping for Enfamil and diapers.

His infant son has to have soy formula, it’s all his stomach can tolerate.

When the doctor told them why their baby was spitting up so much, that they had to switch formulas, Trey remembered when he was a child and his mom and dad brought Ryan home.

“Ryan had to have soy, too,” he told his wife on the way home from the pediatrician. “It cost a lot more and my dad had to get an extra night job just to pay for it.”

They were at a stoplight and he turned to his wife and gave her a small smile. “That was before either of my parents started drinking too much. It’s kind of funny, isn’t it, that I can remember that far back.”

His wife reached over and ran her fingers through his hair.

“It’s time to see your brother.”

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

2007

Trey met Tara at a night club he was bartending at. That was only two years ago, although it feels almost like a different life.

She wasn’t beautiful, just average, dressed in dark blue jeans and a cropped top. But she said, “Please,” and “Thank you,” every time she came up to the bar and the fourth time she ordered a drink she asked him, “Do you want to go out sometime?”

Trey almost said no because he was getting a lot of quality ass back then, lots of prettier girls than the one standing in front of him. But there was something about the way she smiled and something about how lonely he was feeling that night. So he said yes and by the third date, after she told him all about her family and life and dreams, Trey told her about his.

And she still continued to see him, even after he confided in her ever single reason why his brother no longer talked to him.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

2009

Trey’s little boy is walking now, or rather, precariously stumbling.

Shit, who would have ever guessed he’d be this person. This person watching his son trying to make his way over to a large plastic ball that Trey has brought to the park.

This person who’s clean and sober and dressed like he belongs in this middle class neighborhood.

They have an adobe home, he and Tara, that looks just like all the other cream and white adobe houses in the planned community they live in. They aren’t rich, but despite the recession, they’re comfortable, and this level of comfortable, given most of the years he’s been alive, is more or less to him, the same thing as being rich.

His son tumbles face first into the grass.

That’s what happens when your legs are still learning how to communicate with your brain.

Sometimes, like right now, his child resembles Ryan so much that Trey has to stop looking at him, has to turn his head away in a different direction.

Who would have ever thought that Trey Atwood would turn into this person, this person who sometimes disappears into his two car garage and sits in his truck and spends a minute or two trying not to cry.

Because despite everything that he now has, it’s difficult not to think about what he no longer does.

Tara pulls him into a hug one night when she meets at the side door as he’s making his way back into the house.

She whispers into his ear, “Honey, please. Why are you doing this to yourself? It’s been almost four years. Go see your brother.”

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

2010

“I bought three plane tickets to Berkeley this morning,” Tara casually tells him over breakfast.

His son is throwing oatmeal onto the floor and Trey has spent the last ten minutes trying to explain to his toddler, “No.”

Their dog is thrilled at the situation and is more than happy to assist in clean up.

He turns from the chaos and looks at his wife.

“What?”

“I figured I would go ahead and buy three, even though we could have saved money by putting the baby on our laps. It’ll be better, having the extra room.”

A clump of oatmeal sideswipes the edge of Trey’s cheek, but it barely registers because his wife is talking about plane tickets and ….

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he tells her and although he’s upset, his keeps his voice calm.

He’s not the instantaneously angry person he once was.

Tara has cured him.

He’s only lost his temper once with her, in their first year of marriage, and she warned him point blank that is he ever spoke to her that way again, it would be the last time he ever saw her.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he repeats, standing up and gently lifting the baby out of the highchair.

“Yes, I should have, Trey,” Tara tells him. “It’s time to see your brother.”

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

He spots Ryan coming out of the apartment at eight in the morning, with a backpack slung over his shoulder in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

His little brother is older but still younger.

His hair is shorter.

He looks like any other college kid rushing to class.

There’s another guy that Trey assumes must be a roommate.

Trey follows them up the street for ten minutes until they reach Berkeley’s campus. Ryan goes one way and the other guy heads off in the opposite direction. Another ten minutes pass before Ryan stops outside a large concrete building. It’s different than the majority of the older, more classical buildings on campus.

Wuster Hall: College of Environmental Design

Fancy name, but then again, Ryan always was smart.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It’s sunny out but cool in the mid-morning of September. Trey wishes he would have worn a jacket.

Ryan emerges from the building still lugging his backpack but sans the coffee. Trey lingers a distance, suddenly losing every ounce of the already shaky confidence that he flew to Berkeley with.

His son squirms in his arms, wanting down.

He’s two now and is discovering the power of words.

“Down, down, down, down” he mantras.

Trey capitulates, easing the toddler to the ground and taking ahold of his hand.

It would be easy to lose Ryan now, because Trey is moving at his son’s pace. But his brother stops to read a flyer taped to a concrete pillar and Trey keeps walking until he’s closer to Ryan than he has been since that night in Newport, when Ryan stood outside a bus while Trey sat inside it.

He starts to say Ryan’s name, but the word gets stuck, stalled, and he has to clear his throat before, “Ry.”

Ryan turns towards him, searching for whoever has said his nickname.

Trey’s been practicing what to say into his hotel bathroom mirror, but now that the moment is here, he finds himself forgetting everything, so he lifts a hand and says to Ryan, “Hey little brother.”

Ryan looks confused, then aware, then pissed, and then blank, his face assuming that unreadable expression that Trey recognizes as protection.

“Hi, Ryan.”

Ryan doesn’t ask Trey what he is doing here or tell him to get the hell away from him.

He just walks away.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

“He wouldn’t talk to me,” Trey tells his wife, shaking his head back and forth. “I told you this was a mistake.”

“No, it’s not,” Tara assures him. She tells him he needs to do this or he’s going to drive himself crazy. He needs to either heal his relationship with his brother or let it go, but whichever it is, Trey needs to make sure it’s Ryan choice and he can’t do that if he doesn’t confront him.

“Try again,” she tells him and that’s why, seven hours later, Trey finds himself standing on the stoop of Ryan’s apartment, ringing the doorbell.

Ryan answers it, head slightly down, silent.

Trey has brought his son with him because what are small kids for, if not the ultimate expression of,

‘I come in peace.’

He licks his lips, his throat suddenly a desert.

Words.

Words have always come easy to him, words and a smart ass smile.

But he finds himself fumbling.

“This is, um, this is your nephew, Ry. His name is Kelly, but we call him Kel.”

The apartment door is open and Trey spots the same guy that Ryan walked to campus with. The kid watches Trey closely, suspiciously, as he asks Ryan, “Is everything cool?”

Trey lowers his own head now, low enough so he is able to force Ryan into eye contact.

“Ry. Please. Just let me in. Just for a few minutes.”

Ryan’s eyes dart away, giving Trey the impression that his brother wants nothing to do with this impromptu reunion.

But Ryan quietly answers his roommate, “It’s fine,” before opening the door a little wider, allowing Trey and his son to enter.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

His brother stands on the other side of the room, arms wrapped around his midsection, stewing in his own Ryan Atwood juices.

It’s been a while since Trey has witnessed Ryan in this mode but God, the kid still hasn’t lost his ability to glare.

It’s a classic, this glare, and it’s always made Trey feel a little guilty whenever he was the recipient of it because if he’s honest with himself, he always was…a little bit guilty.

Kel is running in circles around the center of the small living room, shouting “Blurp, blurp, blurp,” with every turn he makes.

The entire situation is surreal and Trey once again can’t find his words until a minute passes and he remembers what Tara told him to say if Ryan gave him a chance to do it.

“I’m sorry, Ryan.”

Ryan shifts his glare, stares instead at Kel’s frantic movements.

Another minute passes before Ryan answers, “Marissa’s dead. It’s too late for sorry.”

Trey nods. He knows that, about the accident. Jess called him and he knew that Ryan was there with Marissa, when it happened. He should have gone to Newport to make sure his brother was okay. But he couldn’t face the music of his sins.

Not then.

“I’m not the same person who hurt her,” he says. “I’ll never be that person again.”

But the words sound flat and Kel is still, “blurp, blurp, blurping,” and Trey realizes for sure now, no matter what his wife says, it was a mistake to come.

It’s obvious.

Ryan still hates him.

Kel flops over in a dizzy heap and an amazing thing happens.

Ryan walks over to the little boy, joins him on the carpet and says, “Hey.”

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Trey sits on the couch, watching his brother cut up a banana for Kel.

It will never be the same like it was.

Ryan will never love him unconditionally like he used to or try to emulate him but really, in retrospect, Trey knows those days were long over, probably even before the stolen car plowed into the concrete wall. Ryan was always different than the rest of them and no matter how much Trey and his mom and dad reform their lives, Ryan will always, in many ways, be the sole survivor.

He came to Berkeley not to find forgiveness, but just the chance to see Ryan long enough to ask for it.

“I, uh, I got my act together, Ry. I have a good job. I’ve been married for three years. Her name is Tara. She’s an elementary school teacher.”

He smiles to himself. “That’s kind of funny, right? Me married to a teacher?”

Ryan doesn’t acknowledge the one-sided conversation but Trey knows he’s listening simply by the sheer fact that he and his son haven’t been kicked to the curb.

Kel is standing next to Ryan, looking up, excited at the prospect that eventually, the banana is coming his way.

“I have a dog, and a house. Can you believe that, Ry?”

Ryan walks back into the living room, Kel on his heels.

“He’s gonna make a mess with that,” Trey warns. “He’s gonna squish it.”

“I don’t care,” Ryan says, placing the plate in front of the toddler.

Trey tells Ryan a little more, mostly about his sobriety, even though he’s a bartender.

And he no longer uses drugs, not even weed. Tara would kill him.

“She’s amazing, Ry.”

Ryan still hasn’t said more than ten words so Trey keeps on talking for both of them.

“She’d really like to meet you.”

“I have a test tomorrow,” Ryan mutters.

Trey watches Kel smush the banana pieces in his little fists, rubbing the slime on Ryan’s carpet.

“Well, so maybe tomorrow night? If…you have time.”

Ryan disappears down the hall and returns a minute later with a pen and a piece of paper.

He might have some time tomorrow night.

Maybe.

Trey writes down his cell number.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Ryan has excused himself from the dinner table to make a phone call to some girl named Taylor.

Trey bets she’s beautiful.

“Well, he’s cuter than you,” Tara teases once Ryan is out of earshot. “And he has better manners, but then again, so does Kel.”

“Hey,” Trey acts indignant, “Give me a break. At least now I use a napkin.”

“Seriously,” Tara says, her eyes sparking, “He’s really sweet, Trey. Quiet, but sweet.”

Trey can’t look at her.

God, what his wife must be thinking about him now that she has met Ryan.

She must realize, for certain, what kind of animal Trey must have been to try and rape his own brother’s girlfriend and then…and it hurts so bad remembering what happened that night…and then to almost kill him.

To almost beat his own brother to death.

And a gun.

He held a gun up to Ryan’s head.

Suddenly he can’t breathe, doesn’t want to be here.

This was a mistake.

He looks up when Kel begins banging a spoon on the table.

Tara takes the spoon away and asks, “Are you okay?”

Trey shakes his head, ‘no,’ but he gets his shit together and when Ryan returns, he's back to being the new man Tara’s formed him into.

Later, after dinner, after they have told Ryan goodbye and are back at the hotel, it’s everything Trey can do not to slink away for a drink and eventually he builds up a sort of panic, a doubt about himself, that he can’t maintain who he has become, because being with Ryan has reminded Trey about who he once was.

He punches the mirror and Tara rushes in.

“I don’t understand how you can be with me,” he says, staring down at the bathroom floor. “You know what I did, what I almost did to my own brother. I don’t understand why you want to be with me. I don’t understand how you can love me.”

His hand is bleeding.

She turns on the water and he allows her to wash the blood away.

“Come to bed,” she says.

And there’s no more talk about it.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Trey doesn’t know if Ryan even told the Cohens he’s in town.

He suspects he didn’t, or Sandy would have probably been around, checking things out, making sure Ryan was safe.

It’s time for them to leave for Vegas.

Real life and jobs are waiting.

Trey’s ready to go back home. Seeing Ryan has been harder than he realized it would be. Five years have passed since their last disastrous reunion, but not much has been resolved, other than the fact that Ryan is at least willing to be in the same room as him.

There’s a knock. Trey glances to see if Tara is going to get it, but she’s busy zipping up Kel’s jacket.

When he opens the hotel door, Ryan is behind it.

The two brothers stand there for a second, Trey shocked at the arrival and Ryan maybe regretting his decision to come.

It’s Tara to the rescue.

“Ryan!” she says, bouncing over with a smile. “Kel, look who’s here.”

Kel runs over, trips, falls down, pops back up, and scoots past his father.

“Up, up, up,” he commands and up he goes, into Ryan’s arms and Trey continues to just stand there, watching his brother holding his son until he feels tears slipping from the corners of his eyes.

It’s awkward.

“I’m sorry,” he says and Ryan tells him, “I know.”

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

When they leave, things aren’t perfect.

They probably won’t ever be.

Time may heal wounds, but it can’t ever make the reason for them disappear.

Trey understands this, as he sits on the plane.

Understands that any hope at all for his and Ryan’s childhood friendship to return to what it once was, was lost that night on the beach, the minute Marissa said, “Stop,” and Trey didn’t.

If he could do one thing over in his life, just one thing, he would have stopped that night.

And that would have prevented everything else.

“Hey, what do you got?” he hears Tara say.

He glances over at his wife as she fishes a Hot Wheels car out of Kel’s jacket pocket, asking her son, “Who gave you this, Kelly?”

Trey recognizes the toy instantly.

He smiles to himself and leans his head back and closes his eyes.

Trey understands that things won’t ever be perfect.

But maybe this means, that despite everything, they have a chance of being better.

On the night I came over....

vegasedj@yahoo.com — Sun, 15 Feb 2009 07:33:59 GMT

No excuses for my absence:
Nada

An OC future fic:

Drive by fic

Throw it out there.

Oh...it's a mild crossover with Supernatural.
Sam and Dean hunt supernatural things. They are prominent in this story...until...they are not.

Dust

by muchtvs

There’s a ghost in the Berkeley house.

Ryan’s convinced of it.

He’s convinced…mostly because…he’s seen it himself, sitting in an unfolded, flimsy fold-up chair in the darkest corner of the laundry room, by the washing machine and dryer.

It was eating a ham sandwich.

######################

“I’m sorry….what?” asks Seth that night from Rhode Island….all sarcastic and stuttering. “Ham?" I’m sorry…you’d think after being dead, it’d be eating a steak or something. Maybe veal.”

“This is serious,” Ryan whispers into his cell phone, looking around him to make sure no one is overhearing the conversation. “I saw it.”

“It was probably just dust or something.”

“Dust? Seth. It smiled at me.”

There’s silence and Ryan waits for …more sarcasm…and yep…here it is.

Seth never disappoints.

“People see Jesus in clumps of dust or cookies, buddy. How far of a stretch is it for you to see a ghost?”

######################

“I can’t get the damn light in the laundry room to quit flickering,” Sandy says a few days later, sipping coffee as he sits at the breakfast bar, flipping through the morning paper. “It’s driving me crazy.”

“Call an electrician,” Kirsten advising him over the sink.

Duh!

“Yeah,” Sandy shakes his head, cringes. “I hate being held hostage by service windows. If they would just commit to an actual hour, rather than somewhere between 5:00 a.m. and midnight.”

Ryan shoves cereal in his mouth and tries to look inconspicuous but it’s no use.

He’s the logical step in-between Sandy’s attempts at fixing the light and an actual paid electrician.

“Would you mind taking a look at it, Kid?” Sandy asks, handing Ryan the sports page.

Ryan scratches the nape of his neck.

Hell no he doesn’t want to take a look at the laundry room lighting.

He’s been avoiding the laundry room since the whole pile-of-dust –eating-an –imaginary-ham-sandwich thing.

When he looks up, Kirsten’s got her hand on her hip studying him with concern.

“Are you feeling alright? You look a little pale.”

Ryan sniffs once and twitches a smile, a little habit he’s picked up when he’s trying to convince himself, yeah, I’m good.

“What?” he asks fast. “No, yeah, yeah, yeah. I’m good. No problem. “

Sandy pats him on the back once and steals half of Ryan’s uneaten bagel.

#################################

“You’re not going to be able to fix it,” the ghost tells him, staring up at the ceiling as he watches Ryan on the step ladder ,unscrewing the white glass dome that conceals the light bulb.

“You’re not real,” Ryan says to himself as he speeds up the unscrewing. “Not here.”

“Son, I’m afraid the light bulb isn’t working correctly because of me.”

The ghost sounds genuinely apologetic and sorry. “It’s an unfortunate side effect of... my presence.”

Ryan blinks and stares at the flickering light and stares and blinks.

Then he removes the light bulb altogether and shakes it and sure enough, it’s perfectly fine.

“I really am sorry,” the ghost reiterates as Ryan replaces everything he’s just removed. “Please convey my apologies to the Mrs. of the house.”

Ryan does no such thing.

“It must be the wiring,” he tells Sandy.

###############################

Kirsten does the laundry.

Everyone’s.

Even Ryan’s, although he makes a half hearted attempt every now and then to tell her she doesn’t have to.

But she always assures him she doesn’t mind and she’s already doing multiple loads anyway, so, just throw his in with the rest of the family’s.

Ryan doesn’t care.

Kirsten’s been washing his stuff for nine years now.

There’s a little guilt, cause, he’s a twenty-three year old man living again at home with his mom doing his laundry.

But not enough guilt to actually do anything about it.

So, because Kirsten does the laundry, Ryan doesn’t have to interact with the ‘talking dust apparition’ until….

Sophie.

#############################

“What are you doing?” Kirsten asks her daughter, amused as Sophie struggles to hoist a full loaf of bread onto the kitchen counter.

Sophie drags a chair over and climbs up onto it. She reaches for a butter knife and squirts mustard onto the bread.

“Makin’ a sandwich,” she tells her mother.

“You just had lunch,” Kirsten reminds her. “You didn’t even finish it. Why are you making a sandwich?”

Sophie reaches for the paper thin white bag of deli-sliced pastrami and flops three pieces of the meat onto the open sandwich bread.

“For the man.”

Kirsten’s confused now and her antenna is up because her daughter is talking about an unknown person. A stranger.

“What man, honey?”

“The man in the laundry room.”

Ryan’s head pops up and he stands quickly, abandoning his project spread out on the dining room table.

“Sophie,” Kirsten says. “Honey, there’s no man in the laundry room.”

“Yes there is,” she answers confidently. “And he said, ‘please,’ so I’m getting him a sandwich.”

Ryan smiles and shakes his head and he hopes he’s coming off as placating and not terrified as he winks at Kirsten and says to Sophie, “The man in the laundry room. I know him. Let’s go give him the sandwich together.”

Kirsten smiles back and mouths, “Thank you.”

Translation: ‘Thanks for humoring her, Ryan.’

###########################

“Here you go,” Sophie tells the ghost in the unfolded, folded chair, as she hands him the sandwich.

Ryan watches in amazement as the ghost smiles and bows his head and answers, “Why thank you little lady. Aren’t you just the best little hostess in the world.”

Then he reaches out and physically takes the plate out of Sophie’s hand, which seems impossible since his body is flickering in and out at almost the same tenuous rate as the light bulb is oscillating.

“What’s your name?” Sophie asks.

“Philip,” the ghost tells her, taking a huge bite out of the sandwich. “Philip. It’s so nice to meet you…Sophie. That is…Correct?”

Sophie nods and tells him, “This is my brother, Ryan. He’s an adult, so I don’t think he can see you.”

“Oh contrary, Sophie, your brother and I have met.”

The ghost holds out his free hand for Ryan to shake it.

##########################

“Sophie’s talking to the ghost,” Ryan tells Seth, hand cupped over the cell phone, head swiveling around in paranoia. “Do you still think its dust?” he hisses.

“Ummmm,” And now Seth sounds a bit more hesitant and a whole lot less sarcastic.

“She’s bringing him fucking pastrami sandwiches.”

“I thought he only liked ham,” Seth questions. It’s the first solid words he said since, “Ummmmm.”

“WE’RE OUT OF HAM!” Ryan shouts into the phone.

“Well, I suppose pastrami is Ham’s sister meat,” Seth verbally shrugs and Ryan is out of patience.

“Are you hearing what I am saying? There’s a ghost in the house and your five year old sister is bringing him sandwiches.”

“Are you positively sure it’s not dust?” Seth asks and Ryan wants to strangle him.

“He reads to her every night. She brings a book into the laundry room and repeats everything he says because he’s teaching her how to read Gone with the Wind, Seth. Your goddamn dust ball is sounding out words. Kirsten and Sandy are convinced Sophie’s gifted.”

Seth, for once, has no pithy comeback and Ryan hangs up on him, but not before saying, “You know what? Just forget it. I’ll take care of it myself.”

#####################

Turns out?

He doesn’t have to.

Two guys in city maintenance uniforms knock on the door in the middle of the afternoon and Ryan just happens to be at home.

“We’re here inspecting homes for faulty wiring,” the shorter guy says.

His uniform has the blue stitch name of, “Steve.”

The taller one, “Neal,” elaborates, explaining, “All these houses from the fifties are reporting the same problem.”

“Why would that be a city issue?” Ryan asks….not at all believing… because it’s not at all believable.

“Because…” the shorter one says unconvincingly …“It just is.”

All three men stare at each other.

Thirty seconds.

Staring.

Then…

“Look. No bullshit. Are your lights flickering in just one room?” the taller one suddenly asks. “You can’t figure out what’s going on. Something seems….wrong.”

Ryan blinks and stares.

And blinks.

He says all in one fast, fast, fast breath, “There’s a ghost in the laundry room that likes ham sandwiches.”

“Yeah,” the short one nods. “That’s pretty much why we’re here.”

####################

They have a black handheld thing they call an EMF reader and it’s screaming static.

Ryan straggles behind Steve and Neal, listening into the conversation as they cover every square inch of the laundry room.

Is it a poltergeist?

Is it doing mischievous, bordering on dangerous, pranks?

Nope, Ryan tells them.

Is it a deceased family member?

Not Caleb. Nope.

Does it attempt bodily harm? What does it look like? How does it manifest itself? Does it resemble anyone he has ever seen?

Does it look human?

“It’s right there,” Ryan says, pointing in front of the washer. “He’s separating the darks from the whites.”

The taller one swings the black EMF thing in the direction Ryan is pointing and it goes crazy.

Looney Tunes with frantic noise.

“Holy Shit,” says Steve, before closing the door, effectively shutting Ryan out of the room.

##########################

Kirsten is still running errands when Sophie is dropped off from kindergarten and Neal and Steve are still locked in the laundry room, cussing up a storm, so Ryan has to hold his hands over Sophie’s ears while she eats a sliced apple lathered with peanut butter.

“Are those men going to hurt Philip?” Sophie asks. “Because that would be mean.”

“No,” Ryan assures her, “They’re only here to fix the light.”

The laundry room door swings open and…

“That is one stubborn motherfucker!” Steve shouts, stomping his way into the kitchen. “I freaking HATE ghosts.”

He notices Sophie and goes quiet, coming to a sudden halt, causing the other guy, Neal, to run smack dab into him.

“We’re sorry about the language,” Neal tells Ryan and Steve holds his hands out in a balanced Lady Justice style shrug.

“Philip doesn’t like mean people,” Sophie pouts though a bite of apple.

“Whatever,” Steve mutters.

############################

“The thing is,” Neal tells Ryan, “My name isn’t Neal. It’s Sam. Steve isn’t Steve. He’s my brother, Dean.”

Ryan doesn’t care what their names are.

He just wants the ham eating ghost gone.

“Why is it here?” he asks. “Can you guys get rid of it?”

“See…that’s the suck,” Steve…no…Dean, says.

“He’s got a Get out of Jail Free card.”

That makes no sense to Ryan….”What?”

“We’ve never run into this before,” Sam tells him. “The ghost has …has….papers. To temporarily get out of …wherever he came from”

“Papers?” echoes Ryan. “Like a visa?”

“Papers,” confirms Sam.

“Motherfucking papers,” adds Dean. “I fucking hate ghosts.”

################################

The rub is, Philip is cleared to be in the laundry room. The powers upstairs know he is downstairs and his presence is sanctioned….something that a few of the old hunters in Sam and Dean’s profession have claimed to have run into, but something neither one of them ever have.

“God said he can be here?” Ryan asks, that blank stare consuming his face because just when things couldn’t get any weirder…

“Not God,” Dean tells him. “Well, maybe God. That’s Sam’s territory. I just kill things.”

Sam says that Philip has promised to leave once Ryan sits down and talks to him.

“Why me?” Ryan asks because of all people? Sandy maybe, he’s contributed to society. Maybe had a few clients that died or killed people.

Him?

“Why me?”

“We don’t know,” Sam says. “But I don’t think there’s any reason to believe he would ever hurt you.”

#########################

Famous last words.

Philip thought Ryan came into the laundry room after his talk with Sam and Dean because Ryan finally understood that it was safe, but Ryan wasn’t ready for the ghost to throw himself into a full on hug and he backpedaled and fell over a three gallon jug of Tide and broke his wrist in the fall.

Crack.

Clean break.

Just a quick cast…after a tenuous jeep drive and excruciating pain.

And surgery because the break after all?

Not really all that clean.

Ryan is high on morphine and why the hell not talk calmly to the ghost sitting next to his bed?

There’s a concussion too, because the laundry room floor is cement. Not so much carpet or actually…not so soft in any way at all.

Yeah.

So the nurse just smiles at the concussed patient and adjusts the drip and ignores the fact that the guy lying in the hospital bed is asking the thin air next to him, “Why are you here?”

“I had a daughter once,” Philip tells Ryan. “She looked like your Sophie.”

“Okay,” Ryan sighs, closes his eyes and turns his head away. “Why are you here?”

“Beautiful little girl. Blonde hair, big eyes. Her favorite doll was Dressy Betsy and she used to meet me at the door and show me how well she had tied the doll’s shoes.”

“Okay,” Ryan says.

“But I was always so busy with work. I was never home….”

“Why are you here?” asks Ryan.

When he opens his eyes, Sandy is standing there.

And Philip is gone.

############################

Ryan is going home as soon as the doctor signs the release.

It’ll be a few hours, Kirsten informs him.

He overhears a nurse say that the concussion is a little more severe than they at first thought it was and that Ryan isn’t exactly responding …coherently.

He’s talking to thin air and that’s not really a good sign.

Kirsten comes back in the room, holding Sophie’s hand, and telling Ryan that now “they” are saying he has to stay another night.

###########################

It’s pitch black in the hospital room except for the pulse and heart rate monitor screen.

Philip’s face glows eerily in the shadows of the machinery.

Sandy and Kirsten went home because Ryan told them to and he already feels stupid enough about breaking his wrist…tripping over a plastic jug of laundry detergent.

What he really doesn’t need is the guilt of them pulling a second all-nighter.

So they go home and Ryan is alone with his shadows.

“Why do you still live at home?” Philip asks.

“I moved back in,” Ryan vaguely explains. “After college. It’s just…my girlfriend lives in Paris. It seemed stupid to get a house without her.”

“You wanted to live with them one last time,” Philip nods leadingly. “It’s understandable.”

There’s a manly silence.

Men don’t acknowledge some things.

Ryan doesn’t expound.

Philip respects that.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

“I had a daughter,” Philip tells Ryan. “Are you hearing me, Son?”

It’s early.

Two in the morning.

Ryan woke up ten minutes ago, the drugs wearing off and the concussion rallying.

He rubs at his temples and listens to the ghost.

“She looked just like her mother. Just like your Sophie. So sweet.”

“Why are you here?” asks Ryan.

If Philip did have an answer, Ryan doesn’t stay awake long enough to hear it.

##############################

At four, right before the birds start their chirping, Philip tells Ryan to wake up.

He’s all over Ryan, hovering, floating, then back in the chair.

“I have to go. I need you to listen. Are you awake, Ryan?”

“Yes,” Ryan says, his hair frictioning against the pillow case, the short ends standing at attention.

He’s awake.

Groggy but with it.

“I have two things to tell you.”

Ryan already knows one of the things.

“You had a daughter.

“Yes,” Philip nods.

“What else?” Ryan asks. “Why are you here?”

“She’s all right,” Philip tells him and Ryan opens his eyes just a little.

“Your daughter?”

“No,” Philip shakes his head. “Your girl, she’s alright. She said to tell you that.”

Ryan blinks and stares a bit.

Then he knows.

“Marissa?” he asks and Philip says, “Yes,” and neither one of them talks for a few minutes, because guys don’t do that.

They don’t talk about why Ryan has to turn his head and be quiet for a little while.

##################

“I had a daughter,” Philip tells Ryan.

The birds are doing their annoying vocal best to slice through Ryan’s closed window, but it’s still dark and no one has been in Ryan’s room for hours.

“I know.”

“She was beautiful and loving but I worked too much and by the time I had time… to pay attention to her… she was gone. And then..then I died.”

“Why are you here?” Ryan asks.

“Her name was Dawn,” Philip says. "And I should have been a better father. Then maybe she would have been a better mother."

Then silence.

And Ryan stares.

####################

“He was sorry for something,” Ryan tells Sam and Dean.

Dean knows that’s a bullshit answer but Sam can sense it’s good enough and he doesn’t push for an actual explanation.

The laundry room is clean of EMF and that’s...evidently…a satisfactory reason for the brothers to disappear from wherever the hell they came from.

####################

“Where did Philip go?” Sophie asks, standing at the laundry room door, holding a plate full of ham sandwiches.

“Who?” Kirsten asks.

“I’ve got this, “ Ryan tells Kirsten, his wrist in a cast.

He’s fully mobile.

############################

It’s been a week.

“Will he be okay?” Sophie asks through tears, realizing no one is going to reappear.

“Who’s gonna feed him? He needed us.”

“He’s fine,” Ryan assures her. “He was only visiting. He has people he lives with. They’ll take care of him.”

“Do you promise?” Sophie asks.

She has her arms around his neck.

Ryan listens to her.

All her concerns and tears and questions, “Will he be okay?”

Sophie is the here and now and maybe someday…

Maybe someday he has a daughter …

Maybe someday he has a son…

Ryan listens and he understands why Philip came.

Why Philip came to apologize.

“I promise,” he tells Sophie. “I promise he’ll be okay.”

Ryan listened.

He understands why there was a ghost eating a ham sandwich in the laundry room, sitting in a corner patiently, in a house in the hills of Berkeley.

“Don’t worry about it,” he tells Seth later.

Calm.

“You were right.”

It was nothing.

You were right.

You were right, Seth.

“It was dust.”

##############################

The End

\

Shameless....Still posting Advent Prompts

vegasedj@yahoo.com — Tue, 13 Jan 2009 04:11:24 GMT

*driving by*

*throwing drabble out window*

*tires screeching*

Ryan doesn’t remember punching Trey.

He only remembers the gunshot and struggling to stand and being stone still, his head down, as he listened to Marissa’s short breaths and Seth and Summer’s silence.

In the end, he’s an Atwood and as he sits in the waiting room contemplating whether his brother will live or die, Ryan doesn’t remember why his mother was punched.

He only remembers the aftermaths and being next to her, stone still, his head down.

Sandy is talking to him about doctors and “Let’s get you checked out,” but Ryan doesn’t think it’s even worth the effort.

Advent Prompt Seventeen: Gold

vegasedj@yahoo.com — Wed, 31 Dec 2008 19:35:43 GMT

I think I might be spamming today. I feel like responsibility free writing.

His father had a small locket made from gold. The clasp was sealed shut by time and he had to pry it open with a prong of a fork, the lids separating like a reluctant clam shell.

Inside were pictures of his parents like he’d never seen them before, young, his father with hair and his mother without wrinkles.

This was all that was left of his father.

Gold locket, faded pictures.

A lifetime spent of backbreaking work, too many children and unrelenting poverty.

Caleb built an empire, burying his father’s legacy deep in the foundation of his first home.

Advent Prompt Eleven: Snowflake

vegasedj@yahoo.com — Wed, 17 Dec 2008 04:46:23 GMT

Moving right along...out of order....*shame*.

I'm dedicating this one to my first flist get together in New York City.

Snowflakes melt into Ryan’s outstretched palm.

He’s 20 and this is the first time he’s ever seen snow up close and personal.

The Nana is sick again.

Sick as in no bouncing back this time.

Sick as in a sadness that avalanches for Ryan the awe of being in the largest city in America.

Sick as in, “Please. Take me home, Sandy. I want to see my friends, my old friends. My dearest friends.”

There’s an overwhelming feeling of inevitable inside, so Ryan searches out Sophie and brings the little girl to the sidewalk and shows her the falling snow.

Advent Prompts Fifteen and Sixteen

vegasedj@yahoo.com — Tue, 16 Dec 2008 21:22:54 GMT

Thanks for reading!

Visitor

A visitor shows up on Christmas Day with a child who looks at Ryan as if he’s the man on the moon.

Theresa is warm and soft and kisses Ryan on cheek without letting go of Daniel’s hand.

Instant clarity.

Ryan’s not sure if he’s about to receive a present or a lump of coal.

“I lied about Eddie. I had to. You weren’t ready. But Daniel asked me today and I can’t lie to him and he wanted to meet you. I’m so sorry, Ryan.”

There’s plenty of food.

Kirsten cooked extra.

And soon, it’ll be a new year.

Miracle:

“It’s a Wonderful Life?” Seth asks hopefully. “A Christmas Story? National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation?”

Ryan stares at him. “Ummmmmm.”

“Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer? Miracle on 34^th Street?”

Seth stares intently back, asks skeptically, “Are you actually telling me you don’t have a favorite Christmas movie? How is that possible?”

No, he doesn’t have a favorite Christmas movie because, well, for starters… no man should.

“Uh…no. Got nothin’.”

“We rescued you just in time,” Seth tells him, nodding furiously. He stops suddenly and asks, “You have heard of Santa…right?”

Ryan raises his eyebrows and fastballs a shiny bulb at Seth head.

Advent Prompt Four: Stars

vegasedj@yahoo.com — Sun, 07 Dec 2008 06:18:48 GMT

Better late than never.

This one is dedicated to helen_c .

Thank you for reading.

Circles and shiny silver.

Paper plates and aluminum cuts.

“This is the stars,” says Ryan’s son.

“This is the solar system,” says Seth’s.

This is the sky.

Vast and immense.

Sandy and Kirsten have the boys on here and there.

Weekends and sometimes on holidays and it never gets old.

“Isn’t it amazing?” asks Julie, watching her own son laugh and smile and be a part of what is happening in the living room with aluminum foil and paper plates and imagination.

Boys will be boys.

Conquering other worlds.

All of it in the living room.

And isn’t it amazing?

Advent Prompt Three: Eggnog

vegasedj@yahoo.com — Sun, 07 Dec 2008 05:43:06 GMT

This one is dedicated to fifimom .

Thanks for reading.

Seth.

He drinks and he watches.

As his mother kisses Ryan on the cheek.

As Ryan accepts without a second thought and it dawns on Seth that Ryan isn’t his replacement while Seth is in Rhode Island.

Ryan isn’t the new Seth.

Ryan is the one his father wanted and his mother craved.

Isn’t it funny?

Isn’t it clever?

What happens?

Ryan isn’t the new Seth.

Ryan is…maybe…what Seth should have been.

Seth needs more eggnog.

Ryan is grateful without begging and charity without donation.

Ryan is the reason Kirsten married Sandy.

Ryan is Sandy’s ideals in flesh and blood.

Advent Prompt Five: Reindeer

vegasedj@yahoo.com — Sun, 07 Dec 2008 04:35:47 GMT

My god...I'm so intoxicated.

I'm dedicating this one to My Bottle of Wine. Alas, it does not have a LJ name.

Thanks so much for reading.

Reindeer he promised to place on a roof resulted in a fallen ladder and a dream.

A dream of what could have been and what glad what wasn’t was and mostly…

Mostly of redemption.

He wakes up to a lover and a brother and “sisters,” and Sandy and Kirsten and Julie.

This is what he heard when he was sleeping, “Ryan, can you hear me?”

“Ryan, come back to me.”

“Ryan.”

He wakes up.

Past into dust.

When his eyes open, it’s to family and ham and peace and colored lights and mostly…

Mostly, he wakes up to redemption.

Advent Prompt Six : Latkes

vegasedj@yahoo.com — Sun, 07 Dec 2008 03:24:12 GMT

This one is dedicated to maudgonne for reasons I can't really determine. Very odd.

I am few behind but am determined to catch up.

As always, thank you for reading.

Sophie Cohen makes sweet potato latkes, different from tradition, but then so is Sophie.

Two sweet potatoes peeled and shredded.

Two eggs lightly beaten.

One husband, first hopeful and loving, then aloof, now missing.

Three children.

All separately disgruntled, distant, denied.

One job, she wants to save everyone, but can’t even salvage her own family.

She stands over the oven with frying pan and flour and brown sugar and cloves.

Sticky clumps of cinnamon.

The youngest, Sandy, usually angry, this morning is eager to help.

“Here,” she says, handing him a bowl and spoon.

In two years she’ll cook alone.

Advent Prompt Two: Holly

vegasedj@yahoo.com — Tue, 02 Dec 2008 23:49:17 GMT

This one is dedicated to

brandywine421

Warning: “character” death, language, and “ew.”

Everything you want in a Christmas story, lol.

Thanks for reading.

Did you know that holly is mildly toxic?

It can cause vomiting and diarrhea when ingested.

Ryan is now well aware of this because in the backseat of his jeep is the calico kitten he bought Sophie for Christmas and unfortunately it’s emitting brownish fluids from several orifices.

For the purposes of ventilation the jeep is currently a convertible.

The veterinarian tries but….

Oh shit.

Murdering Volchok he could have lived with.

But a kitten?

Wow…that’s worse than criminal.

That’s…

“Sophie, Kitty decided she missed living with Santa. She’ll e-mail you.”

They settle on a fish and name it Fluffy.

Advent Prompt One: Glitter

vegasedj@yahoo.com — Tue, 02 Dec 2008 06:04:40 GMT

Thanks to mel39 for organizing this fun fabulous 100 word holiday fest. I wrote this one just for her.

Thanks for reading.

There’s confetti of glitter floating like snow.

Landing everywhere.

On her shoulder.

In her hair.

He’s out of breath from hundreds of steps but that’s not why Ryan can’t breathe, why he can’t capture enough air.

“I love you,” he says and smiles when she tells him, “Thank you.”

He and Marissa were never perfect.

It was always messy.

Overly complicated

Never simple.

Rarely successful.

But there were moments when they shined and New Year's Eve was one of them as the clock counted down the seconds he had left to catch her.

Running up stairs.

A long time ago.

Discovering Chapter Fourteen: Part Two of Two

vegasedj@yahoo.com — Sun, 07 Sep 2008 20:11:47 GMT

Please see previous entry for disclaimers, etc..

Discovering
Chapter Fourteen: Part Two of Two

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

I’ve been settled back with Ryan for about an hour. He’s was squirming around a bit when I first came back but Sasha, worried he might be in pain, injected another dose of NOT morphine pain meds and now Ryan is in a deep sleep.

My phone is set on buzzer and I feel it vibrate in my jeans pocket. Assuming it’s Kirsten, I take it out and glance at the display.

The last person I would expect to be calling is the person who is.

Theresa.

I sit up straight.

Glance at Ryan.

No twitching or moving.

I take a chance that it’s safe to briefly escape.

I stand up and tip-toe out of the room, continuing to the closest hallway where cell phone usage is acceptable.

Theresa has hung up, but I hit return call and wait for her to answer.

After several rings she does with a tentative, “Mr. Cohen?”

I find an empty chair and plunk down into it.

“Hi Theresa. Sorry I missed your call.”

“No problem,” she says. “I was worried it was too late to disturb you.”

“Not at all, I was awake, sitting with Ryan.”

She asks me how he is, and I give her a brief update, leaving out all the details I have yet to tell Kirsten or Seth.

When I’m done reviewing Ryan’s current status of health, there’s a pause.

“Are you still there, Theresa?” I ask hesitantly.

A few more seconds pass by before she answers, “Yeah, sorry. I haven’t stopped thinking about Ryan all day. It’s good to hear he’s doing better.”

“Yes it is,” I agree.

More silence follows and I’m getting déjà vu of my previous phone conversation with her.

The game of touch and go we played concerning Ryan’s past in Sacramento.

“Is there anything else, Theresa? Are you just calling to check on Ryan?”

I have a gut instinct there’s more.

“Ummmm, well,” she says, “I uh, before when we spoke, when you called, I um, I wasn’t completely honest with you….about…knowing something about Ryan, when he was little. When they lived in Sacramento, before his dad went to jail.”

My ears immediate perk.

I stand up, feeling a surge of energy rushing through my body.

She knows something about the shooting, I just know she does. I can sense it.

I try and keep my voice calm when I say, “That’s alright. It’s understandable. I threw something at you that you weren’t expecting and I know it’s important to you, that you are loyal to Ryan. And you are a good friend to him, Theresa. But you know Ryan. Sometimes he needs other people to bridge gaps for him. He’s not the best at conveying his feelings or talking about himself.”

“Really?” she asks. “I hadn’t noticed that.”

Clearly she’s being sarcastic. “I bet you haven’t.”

This time when she answers, she sounds sad. “He was miserable in Chino and I kept asking him what was wrong and I knew he missed you guys and that Marissa was calling at night but he never confided in me. Ryan…he can be so frustrating. I knew he didn’t want to be with me but he never admitted it.”

This time I keep silent until she says, “Sorry. That was random. I shouldn’t have said those things. That’s not why I called you.”

I jump at that, asking, “Is there something else you’d like to tell me? Something about Ryan?”

I wait with anticipation, holding my breath.

Why would she call back? Yes, to check on Ryan. I can see her doing that.

But there’s something else.

I heard it in her voice earlier and that same hesitant tone is back, as if she is clearly wanting to share information with me, but isn’t sure how to present it.

“Theresa?” I ask.

“I’m here,” she says, then more silence.

I need to coax her into talking about whatever is clearly bothering her.

“We love Ryan unconditionally,” I say quietly into the phone. “There isn’t anything that you could tell me that would ever change that.”

“I know,” she whispers. “I know.”

“Theresa, please,” I say, trying not to sound desperate. “Do you know something you haven’t told me? Did Ryan ever say anything about the shooting? You can tell me.”

I hear her take a deep, shaky breath and I can tell she’s on the verge of saying something, but all of a sudden the voice of a small child fills the phone.

Loud crying, wailing.

I recognize the sound from when Seth was a baby. There’s a child that clearly wants something and most likely won’t give up until he or she gets it.

“Mr. Cohen, I’m so sorry. I have to go. My…I’m babysitting for my cousin and her little boy just woke up. I’ll call tomorrow, okay? And check on Ryan. I promise. ”

Click.

Just like that the phone is dead.

I hold it out and stare at it, as if I can will it to reconnect with Theresa.

What in the hell that was all about, I haven’t a clue.

Only, actually, I think I do.

Theresa knows something.

I’m sure of it. I had some serious suspicions when I spoke to her this afternoon, but now there is absolutely no doubt in my mind that she must know information about the shooting.

How much and what she’s willing to share is the real question, which evidently won’t be answered until tomorrow.

How in the hell I am supposed to get any rest or relaxation now, after what I expect will be a revelation, is beyond me.

Ryan’s improving health temporarily distracted me from thinking about when he was shot, but now it’s all rushing back at me.

I glance at my cell. I’ve been out of Ryan’s room ten minutes.

That’s long enough.

When I go back in, he’s thankfully still asleep.

The blankets have slid down his chest, most likely indicating that his body is continuing to emerge from the sedatives.

From the corner of my eye, I spot the black and purple bruising along his left side. With the multiple blankets covering him for most of the day, I haven’t had the visual reminder of how badly the damaged area is.

Poor, poor kid.

The nurse told me that a doctor will be contacting me soon about what the latest round of blood work and chest x-rays revealed.

I’ve made a million promises to whatever deity is residing above that if he or she just cuts Ryan a break, and lets him skirt a second infection, I will be forever a better, more attentive father.

Just allow the kid to feel better.

Stop having to go through this.

Ryan’s head shifts.

His closed eyes become tiny slits.

I gently rub the side of his cheek like I’ve seen the nurses do, trying to elicit some type of response. Maybe I’m being selfish, wanting him to wake up. But I want to…no, I need to hear his voice again.

“Ryan? Are you awake?”

He nods and mumbles something under the mask.

“Say it again, Ryan,” I tell him, lowering my head to right above his mouth. “I didn’t quite hear you.”

“My dad is mad,” he says so softly that I doubt myself that I heard him correctly.

His father?

“Your dad isn’t here, Ryan. It’s just me, son.”

“He’s yelling,” Ryan insists through labored breaths, his head shaking back and forth, indicating that he thinks I’m wrong. “He’s so pissed.”

“No,” I repeat. “You’re dad’s not here. You’re dreaming. Open your eyes and look at me.”

Ryan puffs in and out, like he’s trying to get enough air to keep talking and his hand slips down to the side of his left leg. There’s a few dry coughs followed by, “My leg hurts.”

“I’m sure it does,” I say, wondering which plain of reality he’s in. Is he here with me or still out of it? “I’ll get the nurse, see if they can give you something.”

Sasha just gave him pain medication. He shouldn’t be hurting this bad.

I’m reaching for the call button as I continue to watch Ryan and then it dawns on me.

His leg.

He’s reaching for the wrong part of his leg.

And I wonder if it’s not the broken ankle that Ryan’s trying to seek relief from, but from his thigh.

High up, where his leg meets his hip.

He’s rubbing at it now.

He’s rubbing exactly where the old gun shot wound is.

My hand remains hovering over the call button, mesmerized by Ryan’s actions.

“Ryan?” I call his name softly, reaching down to his hand, gently taking it off the area. “Son, you’re dreaming. I want you to wake up.”

“It hurts,” he says, trying to dislodge his hand from mine.

‘No…it doesn’t, Ryan. I promise.”

With my free hand, I cup his chin and turn his face towards me.

“Look at me,” I tell him. “Look at me.”

He blinks.

Gives up trying to escape my grasp.

“I thought it hurt,” he says, sounding detached, bewildered.

“You were dreaming,” I tell him for the second time. “Keep looking at me. See? No one is here but me. It’s just me, kid.”

There’s no answer for a moment but then he coughs and recovers and tells me, “Okay.”

I remove my hand from his face, put it on his shoulder. Let his left hand free.

He doesn’t make a move for his thigh this time, and I take that as a sign he’s more lucid.

I can tell exhaustion is catching up with him. I have to lean over once again to hear him.

Maybe he’s not so lucid.

“My dad is pissed,” he says. “He keeps yelling at everyone.”

I’ve read Ryan’s file from Social Services at least ten times. Frank Atwood was a son of a bitch. From what I can tell, he was always yelling.

“Where?” I ask Ryan. “Where was your father yelling?”

What I should be doing is promoting Ryan’s awareness of where he currently is because it’s apparent he’s trapped in some zone of past and present. But I want to know what he was dreaming about.

I want to know why he was rubbing at his leg.

I want to know if Ryan remembers what happened all those years ago.

“Where was your father yelling, Ryan?”

His right arm rises up to his face and his knuckles dig into his eye.

“I don’t know. He won’t stop yelling.”

I decide reluctantly that enough is enough.

It’s time to stop his confusion.

I’m not doing what’s in Ryan’s best interest. I’m not acting responsibly.

“Frank isn’t here, Ryan. No one is yelling. You were dreaming. I want you to look at me.”

He takes his hand away from his eye and I can finally tell that he’s trying to concentrate on my words.

“Ryan?” I ask.

“My throat hurts,” is all he says, not really giving me an indication if he’s still dreaming.

Beside the bed is a cup of mostly melted ice chips. The nurse told me no water, but ice chips are alright.

“Here,” I tell him, slipping the oxygen mask down his face and coaxing his mouth open by touching his lips with the plastic spoon. “Open up. This is the best I can offer.”

He complies, opening his mouth.

After swallowing with a cringe he tells me blankly, without emotion, “I’m confused.”

It’s the same thing he said when he woke up the first time in recovery, after the first surgery.

“You were in an accident. You had surgery. It’s going to take a while for you to wake up. Don’t worry about it. Give it a little time. You’ll remember.”

I repeat every single thing I always tell him.

He’s going to be alright.

Kirsten and Seth are stuck in Providence.

They send their love.

They’ll be here as soon as they can.

I’m staying.

I won’t leave him alone here.

“Do you understand what I’m telling you?” I ask him after I’m done with the brief synopsis.

“Okay,” he says briskly between puffs, his working vocabulary evidently restricted to just a few words.

The word, ‘okay,’ didn’t really answer my question, but at least he’s listening to me.

“Alright,” I pat him on the shoulder. “That’s good enough for now. Close your eyes. Sleep off some of those drugs they have you on.”

It’s so unfamiliar, so odd to see him so confused and disoriented. Ryan’s severe vulnerability and lack of control is something I haven’t seen before.

At least not until three days ago.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Scampering away as I say,

To be continued….

Discovering Chapter Fourteen: Part One of Two

vegasedj@yahoo.com — Sun, 07 Sep 2008 20:03:22 GMT

I also posted Chapter Thirteen (Parts One and Two) today : http://muchtvsocfic.livejournal.com/tag/discovering+chapter+thirteen

Title: Discovering
Chapter: Fourteen: Part One of Two
Season: Mid-Season Three
Beta: the marvelous beachtree (see previous chapter for gushing)
Constant Warning: There be shameful hurt/comfort in these waters.

Discovering
Chapter Fourteen: Part One of Two

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

2 Days Ago

Neil has been gone a few hours. It’s almost midnight. I’ve been holed up in my recliner, flipping through the newspaper, but I realize how late it is and I step out of the room to give a few overdue updates.

I don’t want to make the first phone call, but I recognize I have to. Dawn. I really should call Dawn. I sigh and count to ten and just do it. The phone rings and rings and rings with no answer.

This whole time her son has been in the hospital, she’s never called to check on him and I want to believe it’s because she’s perhaps on another binge and not because she doesn’t give a damn. For now, there’s nothing else I can do to connect mother to son, so I hang up.

Kirsten is the next call.

Seth answers with his usual hyper series of rapid fire questions.

“How’s Ryan?”

“Did he say anything?”

“Can I talk to him?”

I tell him, “Better, a little, no.”

I make him put the phone on speaker while I update him and Kirsten on Ryan’s condition before talking exclusively to my wife.

“Are you alright?” is the first thing she asks and somehow her gently question makes me feel worse rather than better.

I want her here with me and Ryan.

I miss her so much. It hurts a little more each time we talk.

Even in the bad times, we’re a team, Kirsten and me.

I need her here.

“I’m fine,” I tell her. “Neil has been helping. I’m getting sleep, eating.”

“I’ve been focusing on Ryan,” she says, “But I forget sometimes, how draining this has to be on you.”

Again, her comforting words have exactly the opposite effect they mean to and I feel my eyes getting watery so I take a deep breath as I force my voice to be steady and I say, “Honey, honestly, I’m fine. Neil and Summer have been invaluable. I owe Neil ten rounds of golf when all this is over. And we owe our son a kick in the ass for anything he’s ever done to mistreat his girlfriend.”

Kirsten laughs for the first time since I told her about Ryan’s accident.

We all seem slightly more relaxed since Ryan was freed from the ventilator.

“Is there anything else you aren’t telling me about Ryan’s condition?” she asks before hanging up. “Don’t keep anything from me Sandy. I’m not the same…fragile person as I was before rehab.”

I am doomed to hell. Each phone conversation with her is another coal on the lying, liar fire I’m burning.

“There’s nothing else,” I say. “I’ve told you everything.”

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

I peek in on Ryan before I make one last phone call. His color is improving. He’s looking more pale than flat out grey. It’s a sad day when you’re happy that your kid’s pallor is the same as a ghost’s.

His cheeks remain flushed and his skin continues to be too warm, but it’s not nearly as clammy as it was before.

I keep watching him breathe little puffs into the oxygen mask, slow and steadier. More natural. And despite the fact that I know he should be breathing deeper and there’s a harsh, dry intermittent cough, it’s still a beautiful sight, seeing Ryan breathing on his own.

Dr. De Graff predicted that given his level of exhaustion and a sedation hangover, Ryan wouldn’t begin to wake up and be aware of his surroundings until early tomorrow afternoon, but he’s starting to give me little signs that he’s going to return to the land of the living sooner rather than later.

His head has been shifting back and forth, and despite the two IV’s, he’s managed to angle his right arm onto the pillow, instead of pressed against his side as it has been for his duration of the CCU stay.

He’s been moving his right leg, but the left leg, encased in gauze and the soft cast, and mounted on top of two pillows, hasn’t budged.

But maybe De Graf is right about Ryan not waking up completely because despite the small movements, his eyes have remained firmly shut, even with the brief interruptions of coughing.

Still, there’s no tube anymore to prevent us from speaking to each other and…I just want Ryan to wake up and talk to me and tell me what he’s feeling and understand that he’s going to be alright.

I’d like to settle into my chair, but I promised my ma I’d call tonight, so I stop at the nurses’ station to make sure with Sasha that everything is alright then I find my spot in the waiting room and call The Nana.

“Stanford,” she answers. “Is it me or does three-thirty in the morning not qualify as last night.”

“I’m sorry,” I apologize. “I lost track of time. I didn’t realize how late it was. I meant to call you earlier.”

“Uh-huh,” says, adding sarcastically, “Don’t worry about it. I’m used to being the last one to hear about things happening in your life.”

She’s just trying to relax me, I know that, and she’s not really mad at all, which is obvious when her tone softens and she asks, “How’s Ryan? He’s much better, am I right? That kid is a fighter. Tough as nails.”

I smile.

I love my ma. She’s a pain in the ass….but I love her.

“Yes. He’s much, much better.”

I check off all the updates.

No more vent.

A little communication.

Breathing is improved but not perfect.

Fever is still too high.

There is probably another infection, maybe pneumonia. Maybe another surgery on the leg.

Maybe this….maybe that.

I tell her more than I tell my own wife and son because it feels okay to do it, although it shouldn’t.

But I’m not worried about my mom. Ma hasn’t been in rehab.

“Eh,” she says when I’m done telling her everything. “Doctors smockters. They told me I was dying and I’m still here, aren’t I? He’ll be fine.”

“I’m still scared,” I say after a moment of silence. “I’m still terrified for him even though I know things will probably be okay.”

“You’re a parent,” she tells me. “You don’t think I don’t wake up every morning hoping all my kids are happy and healthy? It’s what parents do. It’s what makes you an excellent father.”

“I’m far from excellent,” I confess. “I’m not even competent. I shouldn’t have let Ryan into that building.”

“Are you still on that?” she scoffs. “Sandy, please, listen to an old woman. Do you have any idea how many things I have regretted doing in my life, especially when it comes to you children? There’s a million things I could have done differently but what’s done is done and that’s life. Maybe you shouldn’t have sent him in that building but you did and you know what? Don’t do it next time. There. It’s that simple. Now stop feeling sorry for yourself and move on. Concentrate on your son.”

She’s right. Doesn’t make me feel better…but she’s right.

“You’re right,” I concede. “Sophie Cohen. Always right.”

“Dear God, can I have that in writing?” she asks, joking, “Actually give it to me in duplicate so I can give that too skinny wife of yours a copy.”

I love my ma so much.

“Bye,” I say about to tag on, ‘I love you,’ but she beats me to the punch with a rarely said, “I love you Sandy. You’re a good son and a good father.”

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

To be continued in Chapter Fourteen, Part Two

Discovering Chapter Thirteen: Part Two

vegasedj@yahoo.com — Sun, 07 Sep 2008 19:27:43 GMT

Part One already posted.

Please see Chapter summary and disclaimers via part one.

One more shout out to beachtree</lj> .

Discovering
Chapter Thirteen : Part Two of Two

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

A call is in order to Kirsten and Seth.

Seth answers his mother’s cell on the third ring.

“Good evening. Hotel Hell.”

“Lovely,” I counter. “Where’s your mother? Can I speak to her?”

“Mom’s on the room phone turning all Grandpa with a representative from the airline.”

I smile at the image. My soft spoken wife can turn Dr. Jekyll when needed.

“I’m claustrophobic,” Seth continues. “This place sucks. My Internet went down. All the cable stations are off the air. I’m watching Hilton TV. Have you ever watched hotel TV?”

“I’m sorry,” I tell him, barely listening to his complaints.

“How’s Ryan?” he asks.

“Better. Much better. They’re removing the breathing tube.”

“Really?”

He sounds emotionally ten times improved than he did twenty seconds ago. “Isn’t that sooner than you thought they would?”

“Hours sooner,” I say. “And he’s waking up, sort of. Well…there’s less sedation at least.”

“That’s awesome, right?” Seth asks. “I mean that’s awesome.”

I whole-heartedly agree with him. “Yes. Yes it is.”

“Mom’s threatening a law suit if we don’t fly out of here by tomorrow. The airline is telling us we have to wait until all the flights that were scheduled before us go.”

“So they are finally going to let planes out?” I ask.

God, things are looking up. Ryan is finally improving. My family might be coming home. I’m afraid I’ll jinx all of us if I get too excited.

“Evidently,” Seth tells me. “I’m not holding my breath. I’ll believe it when we’re in the air and I’m eating my complimentary six peanuts.”

He doesn’t sound the least bit mad at me anymore. He’s evidently not holding a grudge from our previous fight over the phone.

I imagine that his shift in mood has something to do with Ryan getting better and the possibility of him and his mother getting the hell out of Rhode Island.

“Can Summer see Ryan?” Seth asks. “She could stay with him while you sleep. You’re sleepy, right? Even the Cohen men must sleep.”

I love how he’s pretending that his only reason for wanting Summer to get a firsthand look at what’s going on with Ryan is purely out of concern for my well-being.

He’s so full of it.

What he really wants is a detailed report from an objective source.

“I don’t think he should have visitors,” I tell Seth. “Now that Ryan is awake, or at least has a chance to stay awake, he’s in charge again of who gets to see him. We’ll let him decide once he’s officially processing information whether or not Summer can drop in.”

“Can I talk to him?” Seth asks, accepting for the time being my decision about Summer.

“No,” I answer. “Not yet. Give him a few hours to recuperate before you start in on him. He’s still very sick.”

There’s a second of silence before Seth asks, “He’s not dying, right? I mean... he’s getting better, but if he’s so sick I can’t talk to him...”

“Still not dying,” I assure him. “Ryan was never dying, Seth.”

There’s silence and I can tell that he doesn’t necessarily believe me.

“I’ll have Mom call you back as soon as she’s done castrating the guy on the phone.”

It’s a very disturbing mental picture he leaves me with.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

I can’t stand staying in the lounge, but Dr. Murphy told me to, so I pace and watch TV that has the sound muted and then I pace some more.

I glance at my watch.

It’s five o’clock in the afternoon.

How in the hell did that happen?

In reality, it’s been only a half hour since I had to leave Ryan’s room.

It feels a lot longer.

“Mr. Cohen?”

I’m caught off guard. Expecting to see Dr. Murphy, instead I see Dr. De Graff, Ryan’s ER doctor, along with Neil Roberts.

“Hey,” I say, extending my hand to greet De Graff. “I thought you had a few days off.”

He smiles and tells me, “Yeah. I did. Then Doctor Jefferson’s wife decided to deliver their baby early and poof, no more days off. It’s no fun being on the bottom of the attending food chain.”

“I don’t imagine it is,” I respond.

Truth be told, I’m relieved to see a familiar doctor. There’s just something about De Graff that instantly makes me feel comfortable.

“So,” he says, “I’ll be taking over for Dr. Murphy. Ryan’s off the breathing machine and resting. We have him on 100% oxygen because his left lung is giving him trouble. Hopefully we can remove the mask by tomorrow. It’ll depend on the amount of fluid in his lungs and how deep of breaths the bruised tissue will allow. The dialysis is completed. We’ll reassess how his kidneys are doing in 24 hours to determine if he’ll need another round.”

“Can I see my son?” I ask eagerly.

De Graff nods and I follow him and Neil into Ryan’s room.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

As I enter, it appears as though Ryan is asleep. The nurse, Sasha, is organizing things around the bed, adjusting the sheets and tubes and mounds of wires.

Just as De Graff warned me, there’s an oxygen mask covering much of Ryan’s face, but good Lord, is it nice to see that fucking tube gone and not hear the dreaded whooshing of the vent.

Ryan’s head is turned slightly to the right on the pillow, his preferred position when sleeping.

Sasha holds a finger up, motioning to me to hang on a second.

She places a hand on Ryan’s shoulder and gently tells him, “Open your eyes, Ryan. Your father’s here.”

I jump ahead to the side of the bed, watching in anticipation for Ryan’s eyes to open.

Sure enough, after a moment, they do.

“You’ll have to lean over to hear him,” she tells me. “His throat is quite sore.”

I nod and do as she suggests, craning over, getting as close to Ryan’s face as I can.

“Ryan? Son? I’m right here, kid.”

His chest is exposed again, the multiple layers of blankets reduced to just a few thin ones and along with noticing the still black and purple bruising along his side, I am aware of the fact that his breathing, despite being vent free, still seems forced in a way, almost irregular. I wonder if it’s a side effect of having the tube down his lungs or simply the lingering congestion and pain from the broken ribs.

Ryan’s eyes slide almost shut, staying open just a slit.

He asks in a barely audible, gravelly voice, “Sandy?”

“Right here,” I assure him, placing my hand in his. “How are you doing, Ryan?”

“Confused,” he says with a slurred whisper. “Everything’s blurry.”

I wonder if he means visually blurry or mentally and honestly? It’s probably both.

He voice sounds, literally, awful, like he’s chewed on broken glass, but I’ve never been so happy or relieved in all my life to hear him speaking.

“It’ll get better,” I tell him. “Give it a little time. You’re okay, that’s what matters. Why don’t you go back to sleep? We’ll talk more after you’ve gotten some rest.”

He nods slightly, closing his eyes.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Neil ends up hanging out with me for hours. He brought a deck of cards, the County Register for me to read, candy bars and a dozen stories about his ex-wives.

He tells me a little about Summer’s mother, how it broke his heart to see his daughter suffering. How he thinks, despite what she says, that she is still deeply troubled from the abandonment.

I tell him a little about Ryan’s own experience with being abandoned by a mother. I don’t reveal too much, just what I think Ryan would be comfortable with and probably between Summer and the Newport gossip mill, it’s information Neal is already aware of.

Kirsten calls with the news that they are booked on a flight for tomorrow night, but she and Seth are going to camp out in the terminal and try and get on an earlier flight as a stand-by.

De Graff stops back in and tells me that Ryan will most likely be zonked out until the middle of the night at the earliest.

He actually uses the word, ‘zonked.’

Neil, the ever consummate professional, looks at DeGraff like he has two heads before recovering and telling me, “You should go lie down, Sandy. I’ll stay for a few more hours with Ryan. It’s my job to harass you into taking care of yourself.”

I glance over at my ailing kid. It seems so wrong to leave the room, especially given my earlier regrets of neglecting Ryan most of this year.

“You’re dead on your feet,” Neil says. “A couple of hours of sleep will make a world of difference. You can be back before Ryan wakes up. If he does surface, I’ll let him know where you are. Believe me, he’s going to barely register you’re absence. He’s still on quite a few powerful drugs.”

I feel an overwhelming sense of guilt, but I stand up and agree to get some sleep.

Neil’s right.

I’m basically useless at this point.

I shuffle to the family waiting lounge, lay down on the couch, and am asleep within minutes.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

I wake up to the sound of a kid yelling.

For a second, I think I’m dreaming. Then I crack open an eye and see two little boys, one sandy blond, one black haired, chasing each other around the room.

A woman enters, looking frazzled, and chastises the two boys to settle down. She spots me and apologizes.

“I am so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I tell her, sitting up and checking my cell to see what time it is.

My display says 9:15 p.m. and I panic.

I slept nearly four hours.

I find the nearest bathroom and then practically sprint to Ryan’s room.

God, how could I sleep that long? I’m a horrible father.

The door to the CCU room is open halfway and I slow down enough to enter it without making too much noise.

The familiar beeping of all the machines greets me, but one again, I’m so thankfully that there is no more whooshing of the ventilator. The lack of that constant, repetitive sound makes going into the room a whole lot less intimidating.

“Hey,” Neil says, standing up from the recliner. “You look better.”

I find that very much a lie.

I’ll be happy if I just don’t smell. It’s been over a full day since I got a shower or changed clothes.

“How is he?” I ask, walking further into the room. “I can’t believe how long I was away.”

“He’s about the same as when you left,” Neil answers, now fully upright. “He woke a couple of times, when the nurse was taking vitals, but other than that he’s been fast asleep.”

“Did he ask where I was?”

Neil shakes his head.

“To be honest, Sandy, I don’t think he actually fully woke up. His eyes just opened for a second or two.”

I rub my fingers over my ever growing stubble, keeping my eyes on Ryan and try and shake the exhaustion that is still lingering despite my nap.

He looks peaceful, the oxygen mask misting up with each breath he takes.

I would have never guessed I would be thrilled by simply seeing one of my kids breathe and yes, his breathing appears to still be labored, taking more effort than it should be, but at least he’s breathing on his own.

And I’m so very, very thankful for that.

I reach out and feel his forehead.

“102.8,” Neil informs me. “At least that what it was a half-hour ago. He might be fighting a secondary infection. Dr. De Graff ordered a new series of blood gases. They already took chest x-rays.”

“What does that mean?” I ask. “Does that mean the septicemia might be returning?”

Oh God, I can’t handle that.

Ryan’s body can’t handle that.

“No,” Neil says assuring, “Not at all. It could be a bug he picked up here at the hospital or possibly pneumonia. I know, after everything he’s been through, this is the last thing you want to hear. But unfortunately, it wouldn’t be surprising. It’ll set back his recovery a few days, but I don’t foresee things ever getting as bad as they have been with the septic shock.”

It’s such a blessing to have Neil here with Ryan and me. He’s a safe port in this insane storm. His constant reassurances go a long way.

Neil smiles and laughs slightly. “Summer called. She wants in. I told her no.”

“Thanks,” I tell him. “I told Seth I didn’t want Ryan having any visitors until at least tomorrow. Probably two days.”

Neil nods. “I don’t blame you. I’m surprised you let Summer in the room earlier.”

“She brought pastrami,” I tell him lowering my head and feeling guilt because I sold my kid out for a sandwich.

“Yeah,” Neil concurs. “She pulls that kinda’ stuff on me all the time.”

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

To be continued in chapter fourteen, which is posted.

Fic! and more Fic!

vegasedj@yahoo.com — Sun, 07 Sep 2008 19:15:56 GMT

I posted a one-shot on fanfiction.net last month but I posted the wrong link on this journal and then didn't bother to repost.

Here it is it in case you didn't catch it. It's a future Ryan and Sophie. No Ryan bashing, sorry, lol.

These Words: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/4461737/1/These_Words

.

Here is Chapters 13 and 14 of Discovering.

I thought I had to break the chapters up due to LJ posting limits, but Elzed pointed out to me I am simply posting in the wrong text...which makes me an idiot for bitching about posting limits in the first place.

Title: Discovering
Chapter: Thirteen (Part One of Two)
Beta: The long suffering beachtree . Each chapter we do together, this story becomes more and more a collaboration versus simply a writer and beta, especially since I stole some wording of ideas she gave to me. She's been wonderful. I do want to add that I have tinkered significantly since she gave this back to me. All mistakes are mine. And there will be some.
Season: December Season Three
Author's note: Thanks to anyone and everyone still reading.
Warning: This is pure, ridiculous, h/c. Get out your bingo cards.
Where we left off: Ryan in CCU...still. Bless his now normally beating heart.

Discovering

Chapter Thirteen

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Three Days Ago

After Kirsten’s phone call, both Ryan and I doze off. I’m woken with a reflexive jolt by the sound of a person buzzing around Ryan’s bed. My eyes fly open and see someone I don’t recognize in a blue pair of scrubs fidgeting with the ventilator equipment. He must hear me moving around in the recliner because he stops what he is doing momentarily and tells me in hushed tones, “Good afternoon.”

“Hi,” I say, pointing in question to Ryan.

“He’s doing great,” the man says, flashing me a brief smile. “We’re almost there.”

“Almost off the vent?” I ask, not trying in the least bit to squelch my excitement at the thought of removing the damn tube.

“Yep,” the guy answers, returning his attention to the equipment. “Are you his father?”

I stretch out an irritated neck muscle compliments of my new sleeping conditions and tell him, “Yes. Sandy Cohen.”

“I’m Dr. O’Friel,” he tells me. “I’m assisting Dr. Murphy. She’s wasn’t able to break free from the Emergency Department.”

I shake a nod of understanding.

“I’d say another hour or so and he’ll be breathing completely on his own. I could probably remove the breathing tube now, but I’d prefer to exercise a little caution. His blood pressure is still lower than we’d like.”

I’m disappointed that we aren’t getting rid of the damn thing this moment, but if I have to settle for one more hour to avoid future complications, it’s worth it.

“I’m putting in an order to further decrease your son’s sedation. Will you be in here with him? Having the vent is stressful on patients, especially as the level of sedation is lowered.”

“Absolutely,” I assure him. “I won’t leave the room. Hell, I won’t even leave this spot.”

“Sounds good,” he says with a smile. “I’ll see you in an hour.”

He excuses himself and I glance at my watch. I was asleep almost two hours. But the cat naps I am taking are doing little good to relieve my exhaustion. If anything, I’m a little shakier each time I wake up from one. I’m ashamed that my own desire for sleep is beginning to overtake my ability to concentrate completely on Ryan’s needs. I’m selfish, but at my age, my body decides things for me that twenty years ago my brain could veto.

Ahhhh, those were the days.

Ryan’s hand twitches and I’m immediately standing up. I slip my hand through the railing and place one finger between his thumb and index finger. Even if he doesn’t wake up fully, I want him to know I’m here.

I want him to know he’s not alone.

His skin continues to be a pasty grey and he’s still flushed, with pink splotches on his cheeks and around his eyes. He’s still too warm to the touch. Pretty much the same old same old I’ve unfortunately become accustomed to.

There are still a thousand wires.

Still a thousand foreign noises.

There are a few additional blankets on him, one pulled all the way to his neck, and I remember Dr. Murphy informing me that dialysis will make a person cold. The extra blankets signal to me that Ryan’s basic needs continue to be met even if I’m not around to advocate for him. I’m thankful people are taking such good care of my son. But I still wish Kirsten and Seth were here because as hard as I am trying, each of them fill an emotional component in Ryan’s life and just having me isn’t the same for him.

There’s more movement from the bed and Ryan’s eyes slowly open half-mast.

I smile and say upbeat, “You’re doing great, kid. This is almost over. They’re going to remove that tube soon. I promise.”

He nods, just a little bit, just a dip of his head, but it’s enough to let me know he might comprehend what I’m saying.

Then he falls back asleep.

What little he has of bangs are mashed against his forehead, causing his hair to fan out in sweaty spikes. He still looks so incredibly ill.

But his eyes have been brighter and brighter each time he opens them, a little more recognizable and vibrant and for now, I’ll have to settle for that as an indication that he’s coming back to me as they same kid that I ate breakfast with just two days ago.

Even though he’s asleep, I’m reluctant to let Ryan’s hand go, so I wait a full five minutes before I break the contact and sit back down in my recliner and resume rubbing my sore neck.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

I try everything to stay awake.

The doctor said not to leave Ryan alone, and falling asleep is basically the same thing as abandoning him, especially since I don’t trust myself to wake up if he needs something. I haven’t been around for him or Seth or Kirsten this year. I’ve been consumed by work and I’ve neglected my family and it’s taken this, this extreme set of circumstances, for me to remember that every single day might be my last with one of them.

I won’t fall asleep and lose any more important time with one of my sons, so I stand up.

I pace.

I jog in place.

I get caught, by a random nurse, jogging in place.

“Hel-looo,” she says with a smirk. “Getting your cardio in?”

Yep,” I answer, lowering my head in embarrassment.

It couldn’t have been a pretty sight for her to walk in on, seeing me jogging in place with my two day old emerging beard and my rumpled t-shirt.

She continues smiling while she makes her way over to Ryan’s IV stand. She injects several syringes into the half-full bag hanging on the pole.

I don’t bother to ask what it is. I’ve given up trying to keep all the medication straight.

She introduces herself. “I’m Sasha. We had to switch nurses around.”

“Okay,” I say.

Whatever.

Staffing comes and goes and I’m fine with that as long as everyone who works with Ryan continues to treat him with respect and dignity.

That’s not too much to ask.

Sasha has moved to the computer, entering data and she informs me, “Wow, your son is really rallying. Dr. Carson, from orthopedics, is on his way to check Ryan’s leg, and then someone should be up to remove the vent.”

I’ve been waiting what seems like an infinite amount of time for Ryan to be liberated from the breathing tube, and now that it appears to be happening, it seems like Ryan and I are on the medical Autobahn, speeding straight ahead, hoping we reach our destination without a crash.

“That’s wonderful,” I say. “This hasn’t been easy.”

“I know,” Sasha commiserates. “It never is.”

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Dr. Carson turns out to be a humongous giant of a man. He must be six inches taller than me, and his voice booms off the walls and bounces around the room.

“Mr. Atwood I presume?” he greets me.

“It’s Cohen, actually,” I say, “But Sandy is fine.”

“You’re the father, right?” he asks briskly. “I need a parent.”

“Yes,” I tell him. “I’m Ryan’s father.”

“Good,” he nods.

This guy is obviously not so much about the chit-chat.

He walks over to Ryan’s bed and removes the soft cast from his left leg, unwrapping the multiple layers of gauze with a practiced combination of swift yet cautious.

The man is far from personable but he seems technically competent.

“I’m from orthopedics,” he says halfway through the procedure.

I repress the temptation to say, “I’m from The Bronx.”

Ryan stirs, his head listing to the right, as Carson gets closer to the wound.

I glance at the doctor to see if the man has any intention of explaining his presence to Ryan and when I realize he doesn’t, I step to the side of the bed and tell Ryan, “It’s alright, kid. There’s a doctor looking at your leg.”

His eyes are open, but he’s just staring beyond me, probably still half asleep, still far detached due to his fever and the pharmaceutical cocktail they keep pumping into his IV.

I’m thankful that he has remained mostly unconscious despite the continued intrusion of the breathing tube. The prediction of Dr. O’Friel that Ryan might become agitated with the lower sedation hasn’t played out.

“You’ve managed quite a fracture here, young man,” Carson says, as if Ryan is totally engaged with the conversation.

He turns to me. “You’ll have to make sure he’s completely dedicated to the physical therapy.”

“I will,” I assure him, keeping my eyes on Ryan to see if he’s coming out of his haze. “He will be.”

“Alright, well, everything looks like it’s on track. His blood work is improving. The antibiotics are doing their job. Now we just need the swelling to go down so we can fit him with a hard cast. Has anyone explained the recovery process to you?”

I shake my head, no. “Not really. We’ve had…other issues. Someone from orthopedics stopped in, but I wasn’t here.”

Carson doesn’t really acknowledge what I’ve just said. Instead he trudges on with his speech while I think to myself, god, you idiot, my kid hasn’t been able to breathe on his own for a full day so excuse the hell out of me if I haven’t really had the time to finalize a physical therapy schedule yet.

“We’ll need your son back here in two weeks for a follow-up,” he tells me.

I don’t point out to the doctor the fact that we are still in the CCU and quite frankly, I’ll be relieved if we actually got to take Ryan home from the hospital before two weeks.

“We’ll image the fracture to make sure the bone is properly healing. If it is, we’ll most likely put on a walking cast and get him the using the leg. My goal would be for him to be able to weight bear in four to six weeks. If the ankle isn’t healing properly, we’ll discuss whether or not we need to consider more surgery to realign the bone. Of course, that’s a mute point if he rejects the pin. Then he’s facing another surgery no matter what. Debriefing, possible removal of the pin, maybe both, another pin. That’ll set him back a month.”

He rambles off all this as if he’s thinking out loud where to go on vacation. Maybe Cancun, maybe The Bahamas.

“What?” I asked stunned. “Another surgery?”

Jesus Christ, this man did not just mention another surgery.

God, I hope Ryan is zoning all this out

I step over to the bed and put my hand on his shoulder.

“It’s always a possibility,” he says nonchalantly, “considering the severity of the break. But, Dr. Winston is good at what he does. We’ll see how things look in two weeks. Hopefully he won’t have permanent damage.”

I’d take this guy out with a head butt if I could, for mentioning a second or third surgery and permanent damage in front of Ryan, but my forehead only reaches his chest.

Dr. Carson finishes rewrapping the leg, mumbling a farewell to me while completely ignoring Ryan altogether.

When he exits and is out of earshot I say out loud to myself, “What an ass.”

Whether or not Ryan did hear or understand any of the conversation is a mystery.

His eyes are closed again.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Neil Roberts is my next visitor. He strolls in carrying a bag of food, and in response to the visual, my stomach rumbles. I didn’t realize it until now, but it’s been hours since Summer brought me the pastrami sandwich.

I can’t eat here, not in this room, not in front of Ryan. That would be cruel. The poor kid hasn’t had a meal in days. I hope the smell from the bag isn’t wafting over to him.

“Hey, Sandy,” Neil says in hushed tones, reaching out to extend his hand.

I shake it, pointing to the bag and whispering, “Thank you.”

“No problem,” he answers with a smile. “Thought you might need it. I checked on Ryan’s condition before I came in. It sounds like there has been vast improvement since I was here last.”

“Yes,” I nod. “Thank God. I think we might be turning a corner.”

Neil pulls up the extra chair in the room and tells me, “You are. I’ve seen enough of these cases play out. I think it’s safe to say that Ryan’s on the mend.”

I almost cringe at his words because, after all, despite my constant outward optimism, I secretly have my mother’s penchant for pessimism flowing through my veins. I would rather put off declaring Ryan out of the woods until he is actually out of the woods.

Out of this bed, the CCU, the hospital. Out of the impending, multiple casts.

Neil must be able to read my thoughts.

“Sandy, I’m not exaggerating. I wouldn’t do that. He’s most likely on the upswing. You can allow yourself to begin relaxing a little bit. Clearly there’s no one-hundred percent guarantee, there never is, and that’s not to say there isn’t a world of misery ahead of him, but if I’m right and Ryan is indeed on his road to recovery, he’s seventeen and no matter what’s thrown at him, he’ll get over it. It’s what kids do. They heal.”

I think about how very true Neil’s words are, especially about Ryan.

Ryan somehow always seems to overcome everything, all the chaos that he’s periodically submerged in. To the casual observer, Ryan heals. He always picks himself up and carries on.

But I know in my heart that heal is too strong of a word.

Ryan may have, in many ways, moved on from his childhood and all other catastrophes he’s faced.

Marched ahead.

But there’s no way he’s fully healed, not emotionally. He’s still too volatile of a young man for me to buy into the theory that there has been sufficient healing. He’s still guarded and often completely unable to express he’s feelings and maybe, after everything he’s been through, maybe he never will.

“Are you alright?” Neil asked.

I was lost in my own thoughts for a minute, ignoring Neil’s presence.

“I’m fine,” I nod. “Getting better. This has been an absolute nightmare.”

“Yes it has,” Neil agrees.

Our conversation is interrupted by Dr. Murphy, looking like she could give me a run for my money in the race of exhaustion.

“Everything looks good,” she tells me, glancing up from a manila folder she’s holding. She spots Neil and greets him with a formal, “Good afternoon, Dr. Roberts. Putting in more overtime I see.”

Neil returns the gesture with a quick nod and a, “Yes, as I expect you are as well, Dr. Murphy.”

She smiles at the comment and says turning towards me, “We’re ready to take Ryan off the vent. If you would wait in the family lounge, Mr. Cohen, I’ll come find you when the extubation is done.”

I look at Neil imploringly, hoping he can pull some strings to keep me in the room.

I don’t want to leave Ryan.

“That’s a good idea, Sandy,” Neil agrees, sounding much more like a doctor than a friend.

Traitor.

He walks over to me and gives me the bag of food.

“With Dr, Murphy’s permission, I’ll stay with Ryan, alright Sandy? You don’t need to stay for this.”

I nod, because what other choice do I have?

At least Neil in the room is better than Ryan being completely alone.

Dr. Murphy proceeds to Ryan’s bed and lightly nudges his arm until his head moves slightly and he opens his eyes.

“Hi, Ryan. It’s Doctor Murphy. What do you say we get that breathing tube out of your throat?”

It takes a bit for Ryan to even acknowledge that there are three people hovering over him, but eventually he nods. He looks decidedly unsure of the situation and glances past Murphy until he finds me, confusion and wariness obvious on his face even with the obstruction of the vent.

This kid can convey every single one of his feelings through his eyes.

I step to the railing and put my hand on his arm.

“Piece of cake,” I assure him. “This will all be over in a few minutes.”

I know that’s not true.

His lungs are full of muck.

His ankle is badly broken and he’s still running a temperature.

But to Ryan, no tube will make it feel like a bulk of this nightmare is all over, at least until he is cognizant enough to realize that things are far from resolved.

Then again, maybe he has been cognizant. Maybe I’m being delusional, wanting to believe that this same kid who has always been a quiet observer since the minute I met him, hasn’t been absorbing all the things said around him since being in the CCU.

Everything said about his condition.

I’ll probably never know all he’s aware of, he’ll probably never tell me if he was scared throughout this experience or worried he might die.

One step at a time, Kirsten would say if she was here. “I learned, Sandy, in rehab, one minute, one hour, one step at a time.”

One small step at a time.

And that’s the last thing I tell Ryan before reluctantly leaving the room.

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Continued in Chapter Thirteen: Part Two, which is posted!

Mexico Chapter Two Part Two

vegasedj@yahoo.com — Sat, 19 Jul 2008 01:34:25 GMT

See previous post for disclaimer.

Had to post chapter in two parts.

Chapter Two Part One is posted below.

Chapter Two conclusion

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Ana eventually gathers up her things and gets ready to head home. She figures Ryan has had enough time to get his jeep and get out. She’s disappointed he’s not back. She wanted to absolutely apologize for Grail’s behavior as well as the whole…laying on his bed and um…wearing his underwear.

“He’s been gone a long time,” Ana comments worriedly to her aunt. “I hope he’s okay. He really shouldn’t be driving with that concussion.”

“He be back,” Tessa assures her.

She tells Ana that Ryan does that most days, he disappears for a few hours at a time and then he returns even quieter than he usually is, which means he doesn’t speak at all, and he heads straight up the stairs to his room, to his blaring music and punching bag.

“Del agua mansa me libre Dios,” she says with a sigh.

Still waters run deep.

“That boy is troubled, Ana.” She lifts a finger and places it on Ana’s chest, right where her heart is. “He in mourning, but I think he never tell us why.”

Ana nods.

Tessa is right.

She’s noticed it and she’s known Ryan less than twenty-four hours. He’s so withdrawn that it’s downright awkward to be in his presence, although she faked everything was fine during the examination yesterday and later on throughout the ride to the club.

“Even that maniquí grande over there know it,” Tessa says, tilting her head in Grail’s direction.

“Don’t call me a dummy, Tessa,” Grail hollers. “Asshole I’ll admit to. Motherfucker, yes. Dumb? Never.”

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Ryan’s been at Drake’s over two hours. His hopes have been slowly rising and rising and rising, like a kite incrementally finding purchase in a timid wind.

Drake is a creature of habit, at least when it comes to work hours.

Ryan knows it, he can sense it. Someone is in the house with the guy. There’s a reason Drake is unexpectedly home.

As the time has passed, he’s convinced himself that the person in there is Volchok.

Drake’s door swings open and Ryan reaches under his seat and pulls out a wooden baseball bat.

And there Drake is, talking to someone over his shoulder as he walks towards his dented and rusted truck. Ryan can’t hear what’s being said, but he can see Drake motioning towards the passenger’s seat.

Ryan starts his jeep, the keys already in the ignition.

When they get to wherever they are going, he’ll hit Drake first, aim for his leg, take out his kneecap so the guy can’t help Volchok.

Ryan grips his steering wheel.

He’s been waiting so long for this, he’s been waiting since the moment Marissa died, and now that it’s happening his heart is beating fast, and he’s sweating, so much so that he can feel each bead of sweat as it runs down his neck and then he sees…

He sees who Drake was talking to.

It’s a woman.

It’s not Kevin Volchok.

Ryan’s waited all this time, breathing through painful bruised ribs and a headache that has been gnawing out of his brain because he was so sure, he was so positive, that it was Volchok with Drake.

And it wasn’t the guy that killed Marissa at all, but an afternoon fuck.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Ana is sitting in her apartment watching television when Tessa calls, worried, because Ryan did indeed come back to the club and she’s never seen him like he is.

“He so enojado, Ana.”

Angry.

He shouldn’t be punching the bag, Tessa tells her. Not for so long. His body is still healing.

“Come and tell him to stop, Ana. You a medico, he listen to you.”

Ana gets into her car and drives over to the club, although she doubts her auntie is right.

She has a feeling that she’s the last person that Ryan has any intention of listening to.

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His head is killing him.

Eventually the relentless headache gets the better of him and Ryan leans over and vomits on the floor.

He has so much adrenaline flowing.

He was so sure that it was Volchok and Ryan was ready to kill him.

He was ready.

Now all he’s left with is yet another failure and he’s not going to be able to get into the cage tonight, Grail still won’t let him fight and Ryan doesn’t know where else to go or how else to channel his anger.

What he does know that he can…

not…

leave this room.

He’ll do something.

He’ll hurt someone.

He’ll find an excuse to replace the cage with someone’s head if he leaves this room and even though he’s no longer living with Sandy, Ryan would like to believe that something of the man, some semblance of his humanity, some piece of Sandy’s kind nature is still surrounding him.

He doesn’t know what will happen when Sandy finds out that he’s killed Volchok, how Sandy will react, but Ryan’s made peace with his decision. He’ll accept whatever the Cohens think of him.

But if he kills someone else simply out of displaced rage, he’ll never be able to look Sandy or Kirsten or Seth in the face again.

He can’t randomly hurt someone.

He has to stay in this room.

He’s caught his breath from getting sick and even though he realizes he’s acting out of control, pushing his body more than he should, he doesn’t care.

So he closes his eyes and he starts swinging again, one punch after another.

He punches through the pain in his ribs and his head and he thinks about the baseball bat and that someday it’ll have to be Volchok who walks out of Drake’s house. It’ll have to be. Volchok has to come to Mexico, because if he never does, if Ryan never finds Volchok, there’s no reason for him to live.

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Ana can hear Ryan’s music.

Hell, it’s permeating the whole club.

“I wouldn’t go up there if I were you,” Grail warns from behind the bar. “Even I know when to leave well enough alone. And that kid? Wants to be left alone.”

“He shouldn’t be boxing,” Ana says accusingly. “Why haven’t you stopped him?”

“Because it’s none of my fucking business,” Grail growls back. “Just like it isn’t any of yours or Tessa’s fucking business.”

Ana ignores the old man.

He can go to hell.

She takes the stairs slowly, trying to figure out how to handle things once she’s all the way up them.

She brought her medical bag, partly because she really should listen to Ryan’s breathing and get his blood pressure and mostly because she thinks the bag makes her look more important.

More like someone who should be listened to.

She doesn’t tap his door this time because the music is blaring. A loud knock is in order, so that’s what she does.

“Ryan?” she yells, hoping her voice will carry over the noise.

There’s no answer.

The music continues it’s bellowing.

She’s been in this position before, outside his door, unheard.

What to do?

Walking in on him conscious can’t possibly be as bad as last night, when she entered the room with him unconscious, so Ana hesitantly reaches for the doorknob and opens the door slightly.

“Ryan?”

She eases the door open more until she can peek in.

He’s in the corner opposite his bed, where the punching bag hangs from the ceiling. He’s swaying with it, his eyes closed.

His shirt is off, his chest glistening with perspiration. That’s something Ana would normally appreciate, but not right now. Because to be honest? She’s a little frightened by the atmosphere.

The room smells of puke and sweat and unrelenting heat.

Ryan stands up, opens his eyes, straightens the bag and begins punching it.

Slow at first, one, two punches, well aimed.

Then more.

Then he closes his eyes and he attacks the bag as if it’s done something to him, like it’s personal.

Like his life depends on completely obliterating it.

She can see now, as she walks a little further into the room, that he’s taken his gloves off, discarded them to the floor.

All he’s punching the bag with is his knuckles and a thin layer of useless tape.

His hands are bleeding, rivets of thin red lines running down his forearms.

He has to be in pain, from the concussion and the ribs and now the hands and how long has he been doing this? How long ago did Tessa call her? Maybe forty five minutes. Maybe a little more.

His breathing sounds terrible, labored.

“Ryan,” Ana says, soft at first, then a quick, fast shout, “Ryan! Stop!”

He’s not listening.

Maybe it’s the music or maybe he just doesn’t want to hear her but he doesn’t respond to his name and he doesn’t stop punching.

She circles around him until she’s behind both him and the frenetically swinging punching bag and all she needs to do to maybe get his attention is to reach out and touch his shoulder and hope he doesn’t swing around and reflexively smack her in the face.

Because that would most likely break her nose.

“Ryan!” She shouts again before taking a small step backwards. “Stop it!”

He abruptly halts. The punching bag, neglected, smacks against his chest.

He doesn’t speak, doesn’t acknowledge her presence.

His bloody hands drop to his side and his head slumps towards the floor.

His chest is heaving.

He’s wheezing, a side-effect of trying to breathe through the bruised ribs.

Ana reaches out for Ryan’s shoulder, taking a chance that now that he’s no longer punching, he’s aware that someone is standing behind him.

He flinches as she touches him, but allows her hand to stay, her palm instantly wet with his sweat.

“Ryan.”

He turns around slowly until he’s staring at her, his eyes dull.

No expression.

“Ryan, just stop,” Ana says quietly. “It’s okay.”

No expression.

Dull eyes.

“Just stop, just stop, just stop,” Ana repeats in a whisper, as she guides his body to the floor, leaning his back against the wall and she sits beside him, her hand still on his shoulder, as he once again closes his eyes.

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To be continued….

still written for cheeky....

vegasedj@yahoo.com — Sat, 19 Jul 2008 01:25:07 GMT

Title: Mexico (2/3)
Season: Post Three
Pairing: Ryan/Original Character
Rating: Still not "R"...but I am trying to get there.
Beta: Microsoft Word
Author's note: Still no sex...but I'm working on it.

URGH............Had to post in two parts again! hate LJ posting limits.

Mexico

Chapter Two

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Ryan awakens to a stifling room, his face and arms and chest covered in sweat.

The air is so heavy and dense with heat that his skin seems to have melted into the bed, causing him to have to peel the thin, scratchy sheet from his bare back.

He’s halfway though the process of liberating himself from his bedding when he sees her.

A lady…Ryan blinks… a lady, in a bra and…another blink…what appears to be a pair of his boxers…and huh…she’s just laying there, snoring, horizontal at the foot of his bed, resembling a random dog that just crawled into his sleep space.

No. That’s wrong, comparing her to a dog is wrong and what…in…the…hell?

Is going on.

He remembers a little bit, he thinks.

A voice, a girl’s, a woman’s voice, urging him to tell her things, not sure what, and a soft hand on his face, behind his neck, insisting he should drink something and maybe…fingertips on his wrist and occasionally, he thinks he heard his name, “Ryan.”

No, not “Ryan,” but “Ryan ?”

A question, not a confirmation.

Ryan processes confusion by backtracking, like a treadmill in reverse, covering ground he’s already run.

Always has.

What has he done to make someone mad at him?

Why is his mother drinking today? Why is she upset?

Why is Sandy looking at him like that or why is Kirsten frozen on the kitchen counter, one hand resting on her hip and staring at him and Seth like they’ve done something even more reckless and impulsive than the last thing they did?

Why is the lady doctor at the foot of his bed wearing his boxers and a black bra?

What in the hell did he do?

He sits up, not taking his eyes off the woman.

Ana, her name was Ana. Not Anna like Seth’s Anna with two “N’s” but just one “N,” the “A’s” more important and deserving the bulk of his pronunciation.

And, God, she's fucking hot.

Shiny black hair, nice ass, long, smooth legs.

Too bad she didn't sleep in the nude and...

What in the hell did he do?

His ribs wake up, reminding him that they don’t really want to help the rest of his body function and Ryan recalls pain pills, two too many and keeping with the Atwood tradition, maybe he blacked out, even though he’s never done that before.

He’s still a bit loopy from the pills and he’s hot and sticky.

It’s so fucking hot.

The woman moves, stretching her arms and Ryan retreats as far up the bed as his pillow will allow.

His ribs protest and he cringes a bit, a reflexive “ufffttthhhh,” escaping his lips.

He blinks at the doctor, at Ana, and holds his breath as she stretches all her limbs. Her head snowplows face down in the blanket she’s laying on top of until she’s facing him.

Then she yawns. Then she opens her eyes. Then she blinks right back at him.

Then…“Oh shit!”

And she’s off the bed, fast, in one fluid motion, like the entire mattress has suddenly caught on fire.

“Oh shit! Oh my God. I just…I was hot…and I thought I would wake up before you…and I’m tired...so I fell asleep…and oh shit…I borrowed your underwear because my jeans…and this is totally embarrassing and…”

Ryan stares at her, then he points to her…no, points to his boxers…and he says, “Don’t say underwear.”

“Huh?” she asks and Ryan mutters, “Never mind.”

He shakes his head, trying to chase away the effects of the pain pills and he squints at her and asks, “Okay, so, why are you here again?”

He’s given up trying to figure it out for himself. He needs her input.

“You overdosed,” she says and that’s not much of an explanation, at least not for Ryan, because he’s doubts the authenticity of that statement.

So he tilts his head and raises his eyebrows in the way that has never failed him in getting across the point of, ‘What the fuck?’

“Well not exactly overdosed,” she backtracks. “You took too many of the pain pills and since I’m the one that gave them to you, I didn’t want you to overdose, not that you would have, but your pulse was low and…”

She doesn’t finish what she’s trying to tell him.

Ryan’s used to dealing with Seth. He gets it, more or less, what she’s trying to say.

He attempts to take command of the situation and sitting in a bed isn’t exactly conveying the picture he wants, so he slides his legs towards the edge of the mattress, concentrating on not showing the full extent of pain he’s in and when he reaches his destination of standing upright, he scratches his hair at the top of his head and he asks, “I didn’t really overdose and that’s why you have my boxers on?”

“Well, no,” she says, tapping her heel in obvious nervousness.“I was hot. I already told you that.”

“Oh. Kay,” he nods once, as if that is that, no further discussion needed and he walks towards his bathroom because he’s pretty sure, judging by the sun’s position through the open window, he just slept 15 hours without taking a piss.

“That’s it?” she asks. “You don’t want to know anything else?”

“Yep. Nope.” He answers her, adding before he closes the bathroom door, “By the way, I need those today.”

He assumes she’ll figure out he’s referring to his boxers.

It’s not until he’s behind the closed door that he releases as deep of a breath that his bruised ribs will allow and unbuttons his jeans and rubs reflexively at his dick, because he’s got a serious hard-on and yeah, he could blame it on his need to use the toilet but…there was just a girl, no, a woman, standing in front of him with boobs practically popping out of her bra.

And as he leans against the wall and slides his jeans all the way down his legs and closes his eyes, he tells his bladder and ribs to go fuck themselves, because at the moment, there’s another part of his body demanding attention.

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“He didn’t even ask me why I was in his bed,” Ana tells Tessa, trying to disguise her disappointment.

He just left her standing there, in the middle of the room, feeling like an idiot.

“I mean, who does that? Who wakes up and sees another person sleeping on their bed, wearing their underwear…their boxers…and just stands up and goes in the bathroom? Who does that?”

“Evidently the Little Shit does,” Grail says smugly, rudely interrupting the conversation as he carries a keg on top of his shoulder. “So you and the kid did the horizontal mumbo jumbo, huh?” he asks her, gyrating and thrusting his hips.

Ana’s eyes pop out of her head and she looks at Grail as if he’s killing a baby with its own pacifier. Her mouth drops open and it takes her a second to regroup before she exclaims. “Oh my God! God...no. Absolutely not. We did not do… that! You’re a disgusting pig.”

“What?” Grail shrugs, setting down the keg and hoisting his pants over his beer gut. “Good for you. If the kid fucks as well as he moves around the mat, you must have gotten yourself quite a workout.”

Ana drops her head, shaking it in disbelief that Grail can still be considered part of the human race.

He starts gyrating again, thrusting at the keg. “Hey Tessa? Who am I?”

Tessa refuses to acknowledge the question, so Grail ups the ante a notch and adds dialogue to his display.

“Ohhhh, right there, right there baby. Harder, harder…”

Then he stops abruptly, because Ryan is standing at the bottom of the steps staring at all three of them.

And blinking.

Grail clears his throat and stands up straight and Ana mutters, “Oh God,” as she slumps, humiliated, into the booth she’s sitting in, hand covering her face.

She’s going to kill Grail.

Murder him with his own barstool.

“Buenos días, Ryan,” Tessa calls out, way, way louder than necessary, a big, innocent smile on her face. “You feeling better, yes?”

Ryan walks past them, not making eye contact as he mumbles, “I gotta’ go get my jeep.”

Ana almost offers to drive him, seeing as though his jeep is at her apartment, but...no…probably not a good idea.

She’ll just stay at the bar.

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Ryan hitches a ride from the guy across the street, Henry Sargio, who works construction during the day and drinks away his paychecks at the club each night.

“I go lento,” Henry assures Ryan, pointing to his stomach.

‘Lento,’ thinks Ryan, searching his limited but expanding Spanish vocabulary. ‘Lento.’ Slow. Henry’s going to drive slowly because he knows Ryan’s still hurting from the beating he took.

Henry was there at the cage. Witnessed the ass kicking. Ryan’s sure he remembers the guy’s blurry face through his bloody eyes.

He grimaces a half hearted smile indicating he appreciates Henry’s efforts.

The man smiles back and then proceeds to chat the entire way, mostly about his wife and daughters.

At least that’s what Ryan thinks Henry is talking about. He can only translate about every four words.

Anyway, he’s basically not paying any attention.

He’s thinking about Ana, about waking up to a girl in his bed and about another time he woke up in Mexico with a different girl in a bed, and he’s remembering Tijuana and pain pills and a real overdose with a real helicopter and Marissa, just a sweaty as he was this morning, being carried in his arms.

He was scared back there, back when she was still brand new to him, back when he thought he’d never seen a girl as beautiful and fragile as Marissa was.

She was barely breathing.

He knew she was upset about her father.

He should have kept a better eye on her.

Henry is droning on and on. He raises his voice in a question that Ryan wasn’t listening to so Ryan pretends to know what in the hell the one-sided conversation is about by nodding at the man before glancing back out the window.

He should have kept a better eye on Marissa.

He should have pulled his truck over. He should have protected her.

When he finally does find Volchok, and he will, he’s going to fucking kill him with his bare hands and he knows now, after months of fighting in the cage, that he can do it.

“We' re aquí,” Henry announces.

Ryan nods.

‘Aquí.’ Here. They are here, at Ana’s apartment house.

Ryan’s relieved to see that his jeep appears to still be in one piece. He’s amazed, given where he’s living, that it hasn’t been stolen or at least stripped. Grail lets him keep it in a locked garage, but he’s certain that one of these days the jeep is gonna’ get a working over.

That’s fine. It’ll help him blend in more.

He reaches for the door handle and thanks Henry for the ride while he fishes the jeep keys out of his pocket.

Ryan’s halfway back to the bar when he realizes that he has automatically taken the route that includes a drive-by of Drake’s house. He puts his sunglasses on as he approaches the exact street. And that’s when he sees it. Drake’s truck is in the driveway.

It shouldn’t be. It’s a Thursday and the guy is never around on a Thursday afternoon.

He tries to look into the house as he drives slowly past, but as always, the shades are drawn and it’s impossible to see anything. So he parks down the street at his usual spot, an abandoned house that conveniently has a big overgrown bush that’s big enough to obscure most of the jeep but provides a glimpse of Drake’s driveway.

And he waits.

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Part two of chapter two is posted.