fic: waking up - [part nine].
Title: Waking Up
Author: Lyrical12
Pairing: Luke and Reid
Rating: PG-13, may change
Disclaimer: Not Mine
Warnings: Angst, violence/injuries/medical descriptions
Summary: Canon complaint fix-it fic. A man wakes up in London with no memory. Who is he? How did he get there? He knows only one thing - He doesn't kill people. He saves them.
A/N: And thus they go to Boston! I'm sorry for the delay, and I hope you enjoy the update.
[nine.]
Luke arrived in Boston the day before his scheduled meeting with the Taylor family. His initial phone call to the parents of Gretchen’s fiancé had been met with rather brusque dismissal, but he wasn’t deterred. He’d called a second time, and though he’d been sent straight to voicemail, he’d turned on his full Luke Snyder charm to leave a message assuring them he wasn’t a journalist and that he only wished to speak to them about honoring their son’s memory.
It must have worked, because while they hadn’t called him back, they also hadn’t hung up when he called a third time, and had begrudgingly agreed to a meeting.
The whole thing had reminded Luke just a little bit of how he and Reid had come to know each other, how his badgering and persistence had eventually overcome the man’s initial resistance. He knew Reid would be making fun of him if he were here, but would secretly be proud. It was a pleasant thought to drift off to, and Luke slept soundly that night in his hotel in Boston, eager to meet with Joe and Linda Taylor in the morning.
*
It was too late to call Stillman by the time he landed in Boston - too late to do much of anything - but Jason checked into a hotel and promptly headed to the computer lounge. A search for “Lance Taylor” yielded several news articles.
“Promising Young Doctor Killed in Deadly Home Invasion,” proclaimed the Boston Globe. It had been published in April 2010. Jason selected it and began to read. There was only a brief mention of a fiancé, and not by name. She’d told police that she’d been home alone when a burglar entered their home. When Lance had returned, coming back from a late shift at the hospital, the robber had panicked and shot him, then fled. The rest of the article featured quotes from his parents, who apparently lived in Cambridge.
Another search secured him their phone number. He was eager to call in the morning. Lancelot - that is the key.
*
Luke arrived at the quaint Cambridge home precisely at the appointed time, bearing a tray of coffee from the café he’d passed on his way here. He balanced it carefully as he shook Joe and Linda’s hands, then offered them drinks as they sat down in the living room together.
Joe was a tall, thin man with very little hair and a gray mustache that hung over a pinched frown. Linda was tiny, brunette, and bore an even less welcoming expression than her husband. Luke glanced around the room, his gaze settling on a framed portrait of a young man. Though he could see the facial resemblance to both his parents, there was something warmer in the man’s eyes, a depth that, oddly enough, reminded him of Reid.
Or maybe he just wanted to see a connection to Reid, here in the city he was from. “Is this your son?” he asked, smiling gently, hoping to soften the Taylors’ countenances.
“Yes, that’s Lance,” Linda said tightly. “Mr. Snyder, you’ll have to explain to us why you’re here. You said your foundation is interested in honoring our son’s memory? What’s this about?”
Just then, the phone rang from the kitchen. Linda jumped up to get it, but Joe waved her to sit back down. “Let the machine get it,” he said, sounding irritated. “If it’s important, they’ll leave a message or call back.”
*
The phone rang and rang, but no one picked up at the other end. Jason tried to plan what he would say to the answering machine, but didn’t get the opportunity - apparently, the mailbox was full.
He’d have to call back later, then. In the meantime, he had lots to tell Stillman - might as well take this time to fill him in.
*
Luke spoke gently, detailing the work of his foundation and the new wing that he was funding in honor of another young surgeon whose life was cut tragically short. As he spoke of Reid - his brilliance, the patients he would have saved, his quirks - Mr. Taylor, at least, grew less rigid.
“Lance would have been brilliant too,” he murmured, glancing towards the photograph. “Top of his residency class. He wasn’t always easy to get along with - Linda and I always wished he’d had more friends, more of a life outside of his studies and his work - but he had more dedication in his little finger than most have in their whole bodies. Medicine was his calling.”
“Until he met that woman,” Linda hissed, and Luke could tell from her tone that ‘woman’ would preferably have been a slur.
“I’m sorry,” he said politely, deciding that playing dumb was his best course of action. “I hate to pry. But the articles I read about Lance did mention a fiancé. Was she a nurse at the hospital?”
Linda scoffed. Joe shifted uncomfortably at his wife’s ire, but answered. “She was a PhD student there, actually. Biochemistry.”
Luke stifled a small smile, remembering Reid’s frustration at Gretchen’s incompetence. If she hadn’t actually been a nurse, well, they were lucky her mistakes hadn’t been worse. “What’s her name, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Amanda Jensen,” Joe told him. Linda shook her head in anger at the mention of the name, but Luke pressed on.
“Would you be able to put me in touch with her?” He asked, keeping his tone as neutral as possible. “It would be helpful to talk to more of Lance’s loved ones as we work on funding a scholarship in his name.”
There was silence for a moment. Joe looked uncomfortable, but started to answer. “We don’t- we don’t have any contact information, I’m sorry.”
“Oh.” Luke said awkwardly. “Well, is she still in Boston? Can you point me in the right direction?”
Linda leapt off the couch and hissed, “Amanda is not in Boston anymore. Amanda fled town the moment the police finished questioning her. She didn’t even stay for the funeral. She hasn’t been in touch.”
She strode over to the front door and threw it open. “That bitch never loved my son. We’re done talking to you, Mr. Snyder. We don’t need your money to honor Lance’s memory. Get out.”
Luke hesitated for a moment, bewildered at the woman’s anger, but he knew a lost cause when he saw one. He picked up his coffee and headed for the door. “Thank you for your time, Mr. and Mrs. Taylor,” he said. “I won’t bother you again.”
The door slammed shut in his wake.
Twenty paces down the street, Luke paused to collect his thoughts. Okay, Gretchen. Amanda. Whoever. Clearly the woman had a lot of secrets, and had been leading at least a double life. But he hadn’t learned much to explain what she’d been doing posing as a nurse in Oakdale, or why she was estranged from her fiancé’s parents.
“Luke!” he heard a shout from the direction he’d come. He turned around. Joe Taylor was striding towards him.
“I’m sorry about Linda,” he said once he reached him. “She took Amanda’s departure very badly. I think she blames her for Lance’s death - it’s easier for her to blame someone, than to accept that he was lost to random violence.” Luke nodded. That made sense.
Joe continued, “To be honest, I’m worried about Amanda. I think Lance’s loss destroyed her. She didn’t have much of a support structure - she never talked about her family; Lance told us she was fully cut off from them. She abandoned her studies, her research… I don’t know where she went, but wherever she is, I do hope she’s okay.”
Luke hesitated, thinking of the sad, scared woman back at Oakdale Memorial. He heard Reid’s voice - “She leaks, the tears!” and made a decision.
“Joe, I think I might have met Amanda at the hospital in my hometown. She was going by the name Gretchen - Gretchen Taylor, I would assume in honor of you son. Do you know if she had any connections to Illinois?
Joe frowned at this, brow pinched. “Illinois? I don’t think so. Lance told me she grew up in Texas. Dallas, I think. But I really don’t know anything more about her past.”
“That’s quite alright. Thank you again for your time, and I’m very sorry to have brought up old wounds.”
Joe shook his hand. “If you do see this Gretchen back at home - please tell her we’d like to hear from her.”
“I will,” Luke told him, deciding it wasn’t worth it to explain. He waved in farewell as he headed back down the street.
Dallas. Another clue - and another connection, another reminder of Reid.
*
Jason tried the Taylors twice more before an annoyed female voice picked up. “Yes?”
“Hello, Ms. Taylor? My name is Jason. I was wondering if I could talk to you about your son and his fiancé, Amand-”
He was cut off. “You have some nerve, trying to call back like this. Do not call us again. Do not try to contact us. I don’t ever want to hear that name again.”
The phone slammed back down onto the receiver. Jason sat frozen, staring at the ended call on his screen. He let out a breath slowly. The woman’s cold anger had been crystal clear, even over the phone. There was no use in trying again. It was a dead end.
He slumped down in his chair, deflated. More internet research hadn’t yielded much information on Amanda Jensen - some accounts of her research with Dr. Garcia, and very little else. After a galvanizing 24 hours, he now felt aimless, with nothing left to go on.
Stillman had been shocked, intrigued, and enthusiastic about all that Jason had learned so far on his trip, but had also been realistic about the likelihood of him tracking down information on a dead woman who’d been living some kind of double life. He’d also been sobered by the revelation that Jason’s amnesia was likely drug-induced. Given that mechanism and Garcia’s information, it was unlikely that staying in Boston longer would be helpful. Jason could very well wander around the neighborhood he’d grown up in, and still not be able to break through the block that prevented him from accessing his personal memories.
He headed back down to the hotel’s computer lounge, and booked himself a return flight to London for the following evening. As he considered what he could do with the intervening time, something occurred to him - not a recollection, exactly, but a casual certainty: were he to go to Harvard Square, he would find people playing chess there.
It wouldn’t be a bad way to spend the afternoon. He grabbed his jacket, and headed to the nearest T station.
*
Luke strolled slowly from the Taylor’s residential street back to the bustle of Cambridge. His path took him along the Charles - it was late morning on a Saturday, and the college rowing teams were out in force, their eight-oared shells gliding powerfully over the water. He sat down on a bench to watch the activity on the river.
A women’s crew rowed by. From the shore, the boat looked almost peaceful, but if he looked more closely he could see the sweat on the athletes’ skin and the effort in their faces.
He wondered about Amanda Jensen. Estranged from her family, studying for her doctorate in biochemistry. Engaged, only to suddenly and horribly lose her fiancé. Somehow ending up in Oakdale with a fake name and a fake story, only to disappear again after a suspicious hit-and-run. There was certainly evidence to indicate that she was a criminal - but he couldn’t help but think that maybe this woman had been trying to make a new life for herself, fleeing the demons from her past.
He called his Grimaldi contact again, and filled him in on scant new information he’d learned. His contact seemed confident he could dig up more, particularly with the Dallas tip. Luke thanked him and hung up, gazing out at the river once again. But his mind was far from the single scullers now passing by. It was drifting back to an April now long gone, to a kiss that had left him confused and conflicted and exhilarated all at once, and to a man that had left him with so much still to learn.
Dallas, Boston - both of Reid’s cities, before the universe had conspired to bring him into Luke’s life in Oakdale.
Luke left his bench and started walking again, heading along the river back towards the T station in Harvard Square. He smiled as he remembered Reid telling him of how he’d learned to play chess there, from seventy-year-old Ukrainian men after school.
Sure enough, the plaza was dotted with stone tables, each with a built-in chessboard atop its surface. Many of the tables were occupied by players, with plenty of observers crowded around to watch. Luke lingered for a little while, imagining a young Reid honing his skills here in the afternoons. He wondered if any of the men here had been around long enough to remember the undoubtedly precocious young redhead.
Eventually, a glance at his watch told him it was time to move on - he had another meeting on Foundation business that afternoon, before his flight back to Oakdale. He joined the crush of people descending the stairs back onto the subway platform, and was halfway down when a glimpse of a face on riding up the escalator to his left made him halt in his tracks.
A man slammed into his back, swearing at him, but he hardly noticed. Reid? Bewildered, he tried to stare after the figure, but all he could see were the backs of heads. Whoever he’d seen was long gone, carried up towards exit.
Shaken, he continued down the stairs. What the hell? He could have sworn he’d seen a man with Reid’s face, but only for a split second. As he waited on the train platform, he ached at the trick his imagination had played on him. He’d been thinking of Reid nonstop since he’d been here; it wasn’t terribly surprising that his subconscious would have projected his lover’s face onto someone who bore him a vague resemblance. But it was a cruel illusion, and he didn’t want to spend all his time dwelling on ghosts.
He thumbed to one of the few photos he had of Reid on his phone - the headshot they’d used on the brochures for the neuro wing. He took solace for a moment in the real thing, then slipped his phone back into his pocket, turning his thoughts back towards his upcoming meeting.
*
Jason hated riding public transportation as much as he’d disliked the plane, and was eager to emerge into the fresh air as he rode the escalator up out of the Harvard T station. Hands in his pockets, he gazed absently at the people hurrying down the staircase to his left, until one suddenly caught his attention.
Golden hair atop an angelic face - why did the man seem so familiar? He craned his neck to look back down the stairs, but the escalator had nearly reached the top, and it was too difficult to see. He held the glimpse he’d gotten in his mind: there was faint recognition, like a barely remembered dream- Oh. His dream. The man had resembled the blond man he’d dreamt about the night before he’d left London.
He half-wanted to go after the man, to see if he could find him on the platform, but he shook his head at the foolishness of it. What would he say? “Hi, I think I’ve seen you in my dreams. Any chance you know who I am?” It would sound like a pickup line from a crazy person. He continued on towards the plaza instead.
Harvard Square was familiar the same way Piccadilly had been - instantly recognizable, but with no personal memory attached to the recognition. He couldn’t be certain that he’d ever been there, but it seemed likely - especially when the chess tables were precisely where he’d expected them to be.
He only had to wait for a few minutes for a spot to open up. The older man sitting at the table had quickly defeated his opponent, and smiled beckoningly when he saw Jason watching.
They exchanged few words - just enough to establish how much time to allow on the clock, and that they wouldn’t be playing for money - then began.
Jason settled easily into the familiar rhythm, mapping out possibilities as he observed the board and the moves his partner was making. He was a jovial player, with an impressive walrus mustache that tickled his upper lip when he laughed at particularly daring moves from Jason. Both players were having fun with the game, and they soon drew a small spectator crowd. Murmurs from the watchers told Jason that his opponent rarely took this long to defeat an unknown.
At last, they were both down to a few remaining pieces, and Jason saw an opening. He positioned his knight, then, “Checkmate.”
The crowd gasped and clapped, and Jason’s partner extended a hand with a roar of delighted laughter. “I am Vlad,” he said as they shook.
“Jason.”
“Jason, you are a very good player. I have not played someone with your style in many years. It reminds me of a little boy who used to play here when I was a younger man.” He eyed Jason appraisingly. “You look a little like him too. It is your hair, perhaps.”
Jason gulped. “Do you remember his name?”
Vlad’s mustache quivered as he frowned in thought. “It was not Jason. Hey, Peter,” he called to the man at the next table over. “Do you remember the name of the red-haired boy who used to play here with us? Ivan’s protégé?”
Peter shrugged. “Ryan, maybe? No, that’s not it.”
Vlad turned back to him apologetically. “Ivan would remember, but he died a few years back. It was a pleasure to play with you, Jason. Do come again - next time I will be ready.”
Jason promised to return the following morning, then left to wander around the Cambridge streets. Could he have been the boy the chess players remembered? Had he spent his childhood here? It seemed possible, but it was frustratingly difficult to put the pieces together.
He found directions for the Cambridge Public Library, and strolled through Harvard’s campus to reach it. Now that there was a hint that he may in fact have grown up in this area, perhaps he might have some luck searching through local newspapers.
The library staff were happy to help him access the online archive, and he quickly searched for the terms “chess” plus “Harvard Square.” Hundreds of results turned up. He narrowed the search to an appropriate range of years, then filtered for photo captions.
The desktop was slow, but he methodically clicked through the photos. Most were of no interest, and by the time his hour of computer use was almost up, he was ready to write off the whole diversion as a waste of time. He glanced through the last few, then a caption caught his attention - “Training the next generation: whiz kid impresses the chess masters of Harvard Square.”
The photo showed an unsmiling kid seated at a chess table opposite a man identified as Ivan Pavlenko. It wasn’t easy to make out facial details in the scan, but there was enough of a resemblance that Jason thought it possible that he was looking at a photo of his younger self. Heart racing, he opened the associated article.
It was mostly about Ivan, profiling his longstanding reign as the best chess player in the Square. There was only a paragraph towards the end detailing his mentorship of young players, and no name was given for the boy in the photograph.
Frustration flooded Jason for what felt like the hundredth time. He printed the photo, then spent the last few minutes of his allotted time searching the internet for youth chess competition results from that era. There were lots of names, none of them familiar. He gave up.
As he made his way back to his hotel, he halfheartedly considered making posters of his face to put up around the city. Do you know this man? But it seemed as futile an idea as this whole trip had been. He’d pieced together seven months of his previous life - nearly double what his conscious memory contained - but that was all. He would return to London tomorrow, knowing barely more about himself than when he had left.