Best Forgotten, a fic for Brandy (pt. 3 of ?)

[chazper]

Hmm: all these pictures of Officer Ben are showing up (and by the way--yum) but here I am, still with an AU season 1 Ryan Atwood. Plus, I still have so many WIPs to finish and what am I writing? Right this. Ah well.

Disclaimer: I own nothing except my own warped imagination. Oh, and the clinic staff.

Now on to part 3 in which, be warned, nothing really happens.

Best Forgotten, Part 3

Ryan could hear his own breathing fill the room. It hitched slightly and his vision blurred for a moment, but he didn’t relax his grip on the nurse’s wrist.

“Let go of me, Brandon.”

Ryan shook his head desperately. “That’s not my name. You have to believe me. Please.”

The nurse’s free hand wavered; her fingers stopped an inch above the call button, then slowly moved away, coming to rest on Ryan’s arm instead. She didn’t clutch him or squeeze, didn’t exert any pressure on him at all. In fact, her touch felt gentle, warm and almost comforting.

“Let go of me,” she repeated firmly. There was another note in her voice though, a kind of calm understanding. Ryan thought-he hoped-that he heard a promise in it, but he couldn’t be sure. He searched her face for a long moment. Finally, his eyes dark with silent appeal, he released her wrist.

The nurse patted the back of his hand. “Thank you,” she said, smiling.

Ryan nodded. She didn’t say that name-Brandon-he noted gratefully, but she did reach for the strap again.

He inhaled sharply. “Could you not do that? I won’t hurt you, I swear.”

She shook her head, her mouth crimping with regret. “I am not worried that you will hurt me. But for now I must put this back on. It is for your own protection.”

“No. Whatever they told you-it’s not true. I’m not dangerous.”

“I am most sorry. But it is the doctor’s orders.”

“It’s wrong.” His voice twisted, ragged at the edges, as Ryan struggled to find some argument to convince her. Reduced to mere words, he had no idea how to prove himself.

Sandy would know-even Seth might-but they couldn’t help him now.

“He’s wrong,” Ryan insisted helplessly. “The doctor . . . I’m not that person-the one he thinks I am.”

It was all he could think to say. He held his breath, gouging his nails into the mattress cover. Waiting.

The nurse frowned pensively. She studied Ryan for a moment. Then she leaned closer, still giving him space, her gaze liquid with sympathy. “Show him then,” she urged quietly. “When the doctor returns, let him see a young man he can trust. You can do this I know. You have shown me already.” Very softly, she stroked Ryan’s chin with her thumb. Then her expression changed, and her hand slipped down to his. “Meanwhile,” she sighed, “I am sorry, but I must . . .”

The soft strap touched Ryan’s wrist and he recoiled as if burned.

“I know it is horrible, being held here this way,” the nurse murmured. “But it is just for a small time. I will tell Dr. Keller I see no need for this. I promise.”

I promise.

The words meant nothing to Ryan. They had betrayed him too often before.

Defeated, he clenched his fists and turned his head away.

Moving with deft speed, the nurse fastened the restraint again. Instinctively Ryan yanked on it, testing. To his surprise, the strap slipped around his wrist, looser than before. It even allowed him an inch or two more movement. He peered sideways at the nurse, afraid that it was a mistake, but she had already reached over to release his other hand. When she finished, she wheeled her tray around to the other side of the bed, walking slowly, giving Ryan a chance to exhale, to savor that small measure of trust.

His muscles relaxed and he unclenched his fists.

Maybe, he wondered, moistening his dry lips, maybe she actually meant what she said.

Almost warily, he lifted his free arm to his face. The air tingled, electric on his skin, as he moved. Ryan rubbed his forehead, trying to knead away the ache above his eyes and dissolve the mists that still shadowed his vision. He didn’t try to grab the nurse again, though, and when she took his hand and began to guide it down, he forced himself not to resist.

Every muscle screamed to get out-of the restraints, the bed, the building, all of it. But Ryan had heard the door lock; he could feel the stubborn weakness in his limbs. Even if he managed muster any strength, in order to escape he would have to overpower the nurse, but he had promised that he wouldn’t hurt her.

He could not break that promise.

He would have to find another way.

“Good,” the nurse murmured. Very gently, she stroked lotion into his bruised flesh. “You are cooperating. That is most good.”

The lilt of approval in her voice allowed Ryan to look at her again. “Would you-could you-talk to me? Please? Before you call that doctor back?”

The woman tilted her head, still circling his wrist with light, soothing fingers. Her smile tipped at the corners. “Ah. I think you have been awake longer than you appeared to be, my friend. You were, what is the saying, playing a possum, perhaps? And now you wish me to delay notifying Dr. Keller?” Ryan waited, anxious, as she considered his request. At last she nodded. “All right,” she agreed quietly. “A few minutes only. What did you wish to talk about?”

“I’m thirsty.”

It wasn’t what Ryan meant to say, but the words slipped out. He realized suddenly that it was true. His lips were chapped, his throat parched and aching for water.

“Oh! Of course, yes, you must be.” Already reaching for something on a shelf that Ryan couldn’t see, the nurse stood up. She retrieved a straw and a container of orange juice and sat down again. Then, just as she was about to offer the drink to Ryan, she stopped abruptly. Glancing over her shoulder, she frowned and shifted deliberately to the left.

Bewildered, a little alarmed, Ryan peered at door behind her with its small, thick observation window. His eyes darted from it back to the woman next to him.

Then he relaxed.

It was all right. The nurse, he realized, had simply blocked the view into his room. No one glancing in from outside could see her place the juice in his unbound hand, or slide the strap confining his other wrist up the railing so that she could raise the head of the bed and allow him to drink more easily.

Ryan gazed at her with silent gratitude as his lips closed around the straw.

He had to force himself not to drain the entire carton in one gulp.

The juice tasted delicious, bright and sweet and pure. It reminded him of mornings in the Cohen kitchen: Seth, making elaborate plans for their day around bites of cereal; Sandy schmearing bagels while he described the glories of the early surf; Kirsten shushing them both, but still smiling absently as she sipped coffee and studied building plans.

Lately, she had begun spreading blueprints out on the counter by Ryan so that he could review them with her. She would answer his quiet questions while in the background Seth babbled on, oblivious, and Sandy made wry jokes about workaholics.

Ryan swallowed, savoring the image. The orange juice, simultaneously tart and sweet and mixed with memories, made him feel like himself again. He drank the last drops slowly, trying to preserve that feeling.

“Thank you,” he breathed when he finished at last.

“You are most welcome. Enough?”

Ryan nodded. The nurse removed the empty container, returning immediately to that spot by his side, the one that gave them a measure of privacy. His head fell back on the pillow, but he raised his eyes to meet hers. She returned his gaze, her own clear and compassionate, lit with an encouraging smile.

Licking his lips-a drop of orange juice lingered in the right corner-Ryan took a deep breath. “Nurse--?”

“Vevine-Forde,” she said, seeing Ryan struggle to read her nametag. Her finger skimmed across the letters. “But that is too much to say, I think. Why don’t you call me Lucy?”

“Lucy,” he repeated. “Thanks--”

His eyes flickered and he broke off, suddenly distracted. From the raised bed, Ryan realized that he could see the entire room. Peering over Lucy’s shoulder, he surveyed the small space. Everything about it looked stark and forbidding. There were no other beds, no phone, no television, not even a clock or a radio-nothing at all Ryan noted, his heart clutching with despair, that could connect him with the world. All he saw were metal cabinets, a tangle of stainless steel medical equipment that he did not recognize, and the straight-back chair where Lucy was sitting. High on one wall, he did spot a single window, a grudging concession to natural light and air. Wire mesh crisscrossed the glass, though. It strained the sunshine and allowed Ryan only a mosaic-like glimpse of the sky outside.

Somehow that was almost worse than nothing. All it did was make him want more.

His face shuttered and he started to turn away just as a seagull swooped past, cawing. Ryan looked back, blinking hard, but the bird was already gone.

He only heard its harsh cry.

“So. You wished to talk, I think?”

The lift and fall of Lucy’s voice coaxed Ryan back from the darkness behind his lashes.

He swiped his forearm across his brow. “Your accent,” he murmured. “It’s nice.”

“Ah, thanks. I was born in Jamaica, mon. But I am a Trojan, really. I went to school at your USC.” Her smile tipping into silent apology, Lucy cranked the bed back down and smoothed the sheet around Ryan’s shoulders. She allowed his right hand to remain free, though. “Now, you know a few things about me. But if we are to talk, I must ask: What shall I call you?”

What shall I call you?

The question sounded casual. Ryan recognized its real significance, though. Beneath her innocent expression, he could see what Lucy hoped he would reply too. For an instant he considered it: if he “cooperated,” if he abandoned Ryan Atwood and went along with Caleb Nichol’s lie, would that help him win his freedom?

That was all that mattered, really, wasn’t it? Getting free. Getting out of this place and back to the Cohens.

“Whoever you want me to be.”

He had said those words once, when it didn’t matter. It might matter now.

Why not pretend to be somebody else if that could help him go home?

Taking a ragged breath, he tried to shape the word-Brandon-but its first hard consonant scraped his throat, finally snagged there and stopped. He could not force the name out.

“Ryan,” he said, “I’m Ryan Atwood.” The frayed thread of his voice unraveled at the end, but he continued anyway. “I know you don’t believe me, but I am.”

Lucy sighed. She covered his hand with hers, looking down, taking her time answering. At last she said carefully, “In your mind, yes, I am sure that is true. But--”

“No! You don’t understand!” Ryan shook his head, crumpling the pillow beneath him, throwing off the sheet around his shoulders. Under Lucy’s soothing fingers, he clenched his fist hopelessly. “I shouldn’t be here. I’m not crazy, I’m not. Mr. Nichol knows who I am. He lied to you. He hates me.”

“Shh, shh, shh,” Lucy crooned. She drew slow, soothing circles on Ryan’s skin. “You must not think that way. Everything he has done-bringing you here, putting you in Dr. Keller’s care-it is only for your welfare. If not for Mr. Nichol I am afraid you would be--”

She stopped abruptly, but Ryan missed the spasm that crossed Lucy’s face. He had closed his eyes, shutting out the sight of her sympathy, surrendering any faint hope that he could make her believe him.

He couldn’t, not like this.

She was trying to be kind, he knew that. Even as he shrank into despair she continued to sit beside him, stroking his hand, brushing his hair back from his flushed forehead, murmuring wordless reassurance. None of those gestures reached Ryan, though. Lucy’s compassion wasn’t meant him, he told himself bitterly. It was intended for somebody else, for Brandon McConnell, the delusional mental patient whom she believed him to be.

Somehow Mr. Nichol had convinced her and that doctor-convinced everyone at this place:

Ryan Atwood did not exist.

Except . . . he still did.

“My name is Ryan,” he whispered, as much to himself as to Lucy. “I’m Ryan Atwood. I live with the Cohens in Newport Beach. Sandy and Kirsten and Seth. They took me in when my mom left me. They could tell you. Just call them. Let me talk to Sandy.”

“I cannot do that, Brandon.”

Dully, reluctantly, Ryan opened his eyes again.

“Don’t call me that,” he said. He turned his face away from Lucy’s. His voice, like his expression, grew stiff and shuttered. “That’s not my name.”

Biting her lip, Lucy studied him sadly. At last she nodded. “All right, Ryan,” she agreed. “If that is what you wish me to call you, I will.”

The sound of his name beckoned Ryan back. He knew it didn’t mean anything, really-Lucy was just humoring him, indulging what she considered his sick fantasy-but that didn’t matter. He felt a small piece of himself return anyway.

“Could you . . .” He swallowed. “Would you tell me where I am?”

Lucy smoothed his hair again, smiling. “Of course, Ryan. You are at the Santa Clara Clinic.”

“Santa Clara.” Ryan’s gaze flitted wistfully to the distant window. “Still California,” he murmured.

“What?” Lucy’s brow creased as her voice rose, concerned. “Oh no. No, Ryan, I did not mean to mislead to you. We are not in the American city of Santa Clara. This is the Santa Clara Clinic in Cozumel, Mexico.”

Mexico.

So . . . he wasn’t in California anymore.

He wasn’t even in his own country.

Something about that fact sent a fresh surge of panic crashing over Ryan. Suddenly, Newport, the pool house, Sandy, Kirsten and Seth, all sense of safety and freedom began to recede, growing smaller and smaller until at last they just . . . disappeared. He couldn’t even picture them anymore. Ryan’s breath hitched. He heard Caleb’s voice again, cold and confident.

Nothing in my world comes cheap, boy. You’ll learn the price you have to pay . . .

If he had done this, gone this far . . . a fist clenched around Ryan’s heart. All at once he realized with anguished certainty: Caleb intended to abandon him completely. He planned to bury Ryan Atwood in this foreign clinic and leave an insane Brandon McConnell in his place.

Without pausing to think, Ryan grasped Lucy’s wrist. “Please,” he begged, holding tight even as she gasped and tried to pull away. The words poured out, rushed and heedless. “This is all wrong! You have to just listen. Listen. Caleb Nichol set up this whole thing to, I don’t know, punish me. But he’s wrong! I never conned the Cohens. I don’t care about their money. And with Gabrielle-I wasn’t thinking. I-we-didn’t mean anything by it. We were both just lonely and--”

“Ryan, stop!”

“If you would just call Sandy for me, please. Just one phone call. Let him know that I’m here, that I’m--”

The door swung open with a furious clatter, drowning out the rest of his impassioned plea.

“Nurse! What’s going on in here?”

Startled, Ryan recoiled, relaxing his grip just enough for Lucy to slide her hand loose. “Nothing, doctor,” she claimed breathlessly. “Ry-that is, the patient woke up and I was about to--”

Dismissing Lucy completely, Dr. Keller stormed across the room, seized Ryan’s arm and forced it down on the bed.

“Don’t touch me!” Ryan snarled, thrashing in place, struggling desperately to pull free. “Get your hands off me!”

“I warned you about this nurse. Wait outside for me. I said, get out!” the doctor ordered, not even glancing at Lucy, just pressing a heavy forearm across Ryan’s chest. “Orderly! In here now!”

Ryan could barely breathe. Still he fought, harder than he ever fought A.J. or any of the other abusive boyfriends Dawn had brought home-harder even than he had fought in Juvie or when he was battling Luke and his friends in the blazing model home.

This time he was fighting for his life.

But it was no use. With only one arm free, Ryan couldn't fend off both Dr. Keller and the burly orderly. Almost immediately they pinned his arm down, pulled it close to the railing and fastened the final restraint around his wrist again.

Dr. Keller even tightened the others for good measure.

Then he stared grimly at Ryan, shook his head and walked out. He took the orderly with him.

The door locked behind them, leaving Ryan trapped. Defeated.

And utterly alone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Seth, your grandfather's P.I. just called. He’s on his way over to talk to us.” Sandy scanned the kitchen. “Where’s your mother?”

Ignoring his father’s question, Seth spun around on his stool, almost knocking over his mug of coffee. “Really? What did he say? Did he figure out that weird un-Ryan-like note yet? How did he sound-like ‘Good news, guys, I have a lead’ or ‘Nothing yet, people’ or--” The light flashed and then dimmed in Seth’s eyes and his voice skidded down sharply. “Or more like ‘You’d better sit down brace yourselves’?”

“Son, you met the man. Grady doesn’t give anything away.”

Seth drooped back onto his seat. “Oh yeah,” he mumbled, recalling Caleb’s stoic security chief. “He’s like all Men in Black. Only not with the funny and wearing gray. So--?”

“So, all he said was that he hasn’t found Ryan. Yet.”

Sandy added the last word for his son’s benefit. Despite his own probing cross-examination, Grady hadn’t even been that forthcoming on the phone, and he hadn’t sounded optimistic at all, but Sandy knew how much Seth needed some encouraging sign. They all did. He glanced around the empty room, noting the opened, untouched yogurt left on the counter.

“Where’s your mother?” he repeated. “I thought she came in here to get something to eat.”

“Oh, yeah, she did, I guess. But then she just kinda stopped and wandered outside. I think maybe she’s sitting by the pool.”

“Oh.”

Frowning slightly, Sandy stepped through the French doors onto the patio.

“Kirsten?” he called softly. “You out here, honey? Your dad’s investigator is on his way over.”

There was no answer, but he didn’t really expect one. Sandy already suspected where his wife had gone. He had been there himself not even an hour ago. The place held no answers, though, and its empty, impenetrable silence had depressed him. He had to brace himself to return.

As if mocking his dark mood, sunshine glinted off the flagstones and a warm afternoon breeze ruffled Sandy’s hair as he trudged toward the pool house. Its glass panels reflected shafts of light, briefly blinding him. He paused and blinked, his breath catching as his vision cleared.

The door stood ajar.

Sandy knew he had closed it. Despite himself he felt a flutter of irrational hope and his steps quickened. Was it possible that Ryan . . .?

But no. Of course, he hadn’t returned.

From the threshold Sandy saw Kirsten inside. He stood watching, unnoticed, while she made a desultory circuit of the pool house, sliding her palm over the back of the chair, folding and refolding a t-shirt left on the ottoman. She lingered by Ryan’s still-unmade bed, gazing vacantly at the wrinkled sheets, her fingertips slowly trailing across his bare nightstand.

Sandy’s own sense of loss deepened as he witnessed his wife’s desolation.

“Kirsten? Honey?” he prompted gently. “What are you doing in here?”

Kirsten glanced up, her brow puckered, her face waxen in the relentless sunlight.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. Unconsciously, she clutched her elbows, hugging nothing, as she shook her head. “Sandy, I just . . . Ryan’s only been with us a few weeks. I didn’t even want him here. So why does it hurt so much that he’s gone?”

“Aw, sweetheart.” Sandy didn’t answer her question. He didn’t have to. He simply walked over and drew her into his arms. “We’ll find him,” he promised. “We’ll bring him home.”

Her eyes glistening, Kirsten collapsed against him. “We have to, Sandy,” she whispered. “I’m scared. I know he probably just left the way he did before, but I can't help it. I keep thinking that something has happened to him.”

TBC