[oc] A Shadow Across. Chapter four.

[sdlucly]

I'm not even going to apologize for how long it has taken me to get this one out, because, really, there is no excuse. Work and school continue to be a pain in the ass, though. *nods* I'm hoping to have the next chapter out before the end of the month but I can't promise anything, afraid I'll only break it. *nods*

Title: A Shadow Across
Chapter: Chapter four
Pairing: Ryan/Seth.
Category: Future fic. First time.
Spoilers: AU to the whole show. *g* I'm evil like that.
Author's note: Written and winner of NaNo2007.
Special thanks: To 60schic for the amazing beta. Thanks babe! However, I ended up re-writing parts of two scenes, so those mistakes are mine. *g*

one | two | three | four



A Shadow Across

IV.

This year, the 25th of August is a Tuesday, and the day breaks with autumn revealing itself in green leaves turning brown, with the wind picking, chilly throughout the day, making it pleasantly cool to work under a car, the garage door wide open.

He doesn't go back to Eve's again, nothing unusual, because he really had never been one for hanging out in bars. If he catches Eve's eye as he's shopping for the groceries that week, for a change, he doesn't let it bother him. She doesn't say a word, anyway.

Seth bitches about his classes, and Ryan finds it surprisingly amusing and refreshing, and the questions he had felt on the tip of his tongue weeks before, are long gone, forgotten put away in the corners of his mind he's learned to pretend aren't there.

"It wouldn't kill you to talk, you know?"

"I'm talking."

"Three word responses isn't talking."

"That was just two."

"Ha!"

In small town like Shadow's Willow, gossip is more fodder than not. And Seth loves good gossip. So Ryan tells him the things he hears, the things he sees and the things he has no idea if they are true or not.

A week before Halloween, Ryan tells Seth the newest bit. About how Leonard had cheated on Mary, only married a little over a year, with his ex.

"Oh my God!" Seth says on the other end of the line, and Ryan chuckles, tilts his head to the side. "Dude, that's so Gilmore Girls!"

"What?"

"Hmm. Nothing. Keep going."

September brings rain that plasters Ryan's hair to his forehead, and he really needs to head over to Susan's, the only hair dresser in town. There used to be a barber, but he died about five years ago, and his son didn't want to take over his father's business, and so the store has been closed for that long.

He rushes out of the garage to the grocery store to get cooking oil and milk and orange juice. When he steps outside, he looks up into the dark sky, at the thick and ominous clouds. It feels like a whisper and like forgiveness, the way the rain falls onto his cheeks and down his neck to the inside of his t-shirt. He wonders if the sky knows, if the very world knows, that he hated this natural event as much as he used to hate his life itself.

He lets the rain wash down on him until his teeth start clattering and then for a minute longer. When his fingers are going numb and his lips are starting to ache, he shudders and rushes back to the shop, to place the things he has bought on the passenger side of the tow truck and head home.

Every year, for Halloween, Eve throws a costume party in the bar. Every year, everyone in town goes. Ryan has found very good reasons to decline, three years in a row. On Friday the 30th, he's still trying to come up with one that won't sound pathetic and stupid. Seth thinks otherwise.

"Dude, I really think you should go."

Ryan sighs, tilts his head back against the wall. He has no idea why he told Seth about the party, or the fact that he's not going, and he has even less of an idea why he likes talking to Seth while sitting on the wooden floor. "I really don't--"

"I mean, knowing you, you'll probably go as yourself, or something as lame as that--"

Ryan snorts. "Not that you're lame at all."

Seth pauses at that, and Ryan closes his eyes shut and hits his head against the wall. That was uncalled for. He opens his mouth to apologize when Seth beats him to it, "Well, it does take one to know one."

He smiles, easy and with confidence, and sighs softly through barely parted lips. The silence that follows is comfortable between them.

"I still think you should go."

Ryan chuckles, even as Seth starts throwing around ideas for costumes, including when he says Ryan could pick up a tool belt and go as one of the Village People.

"Dude, really, I fear the kids. Not that my house ever got egged. I mean, Marissa and Summer were way too... whatever, to sink that low. But I remember one year when Luke actually wrapped toilet paper around the tree right across from our driveway. Not that anyone believed me when I said that it was Luke. Or that my dad minded, but still."

"I still think ten bags of candy are more than enough, Seth."

"Hmm. I don't."

Ryan pauses, tilts his head to the side. For all Seth talks about comics and movies and games, classes and homework and the few people he actually interacts with before and after class, he doesn't say much about his family. "Are you going home for Halloween?"

Seth falls silent. Halloween is tomorrow, a Saturday, and if Seth really wanted to, he could catch an early flight out to California, arrive in time for lunch, watch his sister put on her costume and even take her out trick or treating. He could. She barely turned two, a couple of months ago.

"Nah," Seth says after a while, with an air of nonchalance that sounds too forced. "It's too much work. I have this paper for next week."

Only the paper is for Contemporary Critical Theory, and it isn't due until Thursday.

Ryan wants to ask more, for once in his life. He wants to know. He wants to ask what happened to Seth when he was little that he hates his family so much, hates them with polite pleasantries and bimonthly phone calls. What happened to someone who obviously wants to reach out to someone, but won't reach out to his own family?

"You would have liked Eve's party."

The gratefulness in Seth's tone, that Ryan didn't press him here, is unmistakable. "You think?"

Ryan nods, eyes half closing. "Yeah, you would."

"I would have gone as something interesting. Really interesting. Aragorn, probably. And if you ask me who Aragorn is, I might have to actually come back to Oklahoma to hurt you."

"I'd like that," Ryan says with a chuckle, and he can hear Seth's smile on the other end of the line.

He found a construction site to work at in early February. The pay wasn't good but it was enough to get him by, even if he had to hunker down in a back alley a few days a week, just to see it to the end of the same. It was winter and the days would start out cold, sun breaking through the dark clouds by midmorning, and then chilling up again at night. He'd sit down in the corner of an alley, behind a dumpster, put on his thick gray sweatshirt, soft with age, his leather jacket and fold his arms around his chest. He'd gotten used to sleeping in cold temperatures, in the chillness of the night.

The foreman said he might have a bit more work for him, because they were going to start putting up drywall in a department building up by Duncan Park. Ryan told him that yeah, he could do that. He's done drywall before, he's even done the finishing more than a few times. Peter, the man's name was. Peter something.

That job at Duncan fell through, and then they were laying people off when they got to the last three floors of the building Ryan had been working at.

He was out of a job and with only seventy nine dollars in his wallet by April of 2005.

He ends up going to the party, for reasons he doesn't want to dwell upon too deeply. He frowns while doing his best to knot the tie. He didn't used to ponder things too hard, too deeply, until of late. He finally gives up and decides to go without the tie, the first button of the long sleeve shirt open. He's always thought open collar is a good look.

He puts on his jacket and makes his way down the stairs.

Mrs. Landingham is sitting on the couch, remote in hand, watching AMC, this guy Rock Hudson in Pillow Talk, with an actress whose name Ryan can never remember, Doris something. He can hear her sighing, almost dreamily, and chuckles as he walks into the living room.

Turning around, a grin softens Mrs. Landingham's features, her blue eyes sparkling in the dim light of the TV and the lamp in the corner. "I see that you finally decided to enjoy yourself. You're barely twenty, Ryan. I've told you before, you should be out there, with people your own age. Maybe marry someone you really care for, settle down. Give me grandchildren."

Ryan blushes, ducking his head as something catches tight in his throat. It's not that... He's grateful to Mrs. Landingham, will always be. He wouldn't have a place to stay, almost call home, if it weren't for her. He'd thought it'd be for a day or two, and he'd pay her back by fixing the steps on the front porch, the missing planks in the fence, the cupboard that kept sticking. He'd never thought four years later he'd still be here, in the same room, with more things than he ever remembers owning.

He'd never thought she'd think of him as her son.

She makes a tsking sound with her tongue, and he looks up to see the way she's eyeing his costume. "I fear asking what you are."

He grins, big and happy and pleased with himself in a very childish way he doesn't wish to explain, not even to himself. "I'm a door to door salesman."

Mrs. Landingham laughs with irony in her tone, with a shake of her head. She stands up, and reaches for the collar of his shirt, pulls it straight, then brushes at his shoulders. "It's not that it isn't imaginative--"

Actually, Seth had already scolded him for having no imagination whatsoever, would it have killed him to try and go as Legolas? He called early today, barely at seven. The party starts at nine and Bobby closed up early anyway, because Laura had wanted him home early, so he could try his costume, in case she wanted to add a few more things. Ryan really fears what Laura might have ended up forcing Bobby to wear.

"--but maybe you could have chosen something a little bit more... juvenile?"

Seth had suggested movies, or comics, or even a protagonist from a book or three. Ryan had told him he could dress as Harry Potter. Seth had felt a little bit insulted; he's going as Spiderman, apparently, to a party one of his classmates is throwing, Jennifer. Ryan's heard of her before. They are taking Currents in Contemporary Literature together. He knows Seth has friends he can ask for notes, maybe study together once or twice. He's even talked with them in the coffee shop near campus.

It's just that Seth always talked about them as classmates, not friends. Never friends. Seth can interact with a handful of people, makes jokes and is always on the lookout for very amusing gossip, Ryan just doesn't think they know who Seth really is.

And you do?

He blinks, looks up at Mrs. Landingham. He smiles. "I think it's okay."

She looks as if she wants to say something else, then just pats his shoulder and nods. "Of course, sweetie." She glances down at his hands for a moment, and Ryan frowns, before she chuckles and says, "give me a second."

She makes her way down the hallway and Ryan has no idea what she's looking for. Ryan turns to around to see the movie for a moment. He's never been one for movies. He recognizes most of them, usually seen the trailers the few times he does watch TV, but he's not one to go out to the movies by himself. Seth loves it, going to the cinema with a huge bowl of popcorn and an equally huge coke. Ryan smiles at the thought for a moment.

"Here," Mrs. Landingham says and Ryan turns around to see what she's carrying.

He can't help but chuckle, take the suitcase Mrs. Landingham is offering. The leather is worn around the corners, but worn with care and affection, Ryan thinks, the handle soft under his touch. He swallows and looks up at Mrs. Landingham, who's smiling at him.

"It used to be Harold's," she says with a smile, with a shrug. "I'd like you to keep it. It's doing nothing but being home to moths in the closet. I'd rather--"

"I can't take it," he says, and he remembers years ago when that would be his answer to most of what Mrs. Landingham would say to him, offer him, give him.

She shakes her head. "Nonsense. That suitcase saw the light of sun for almost thirty years. It must have hated it in there. No, I think you should take it out for a drive." She gives him a big grin, one he knows he can't really refuse, before taking her seat back on the couch. "I hope you have a great time. I'm expecting you to be back so late, I'll be too sound asleep to even hear you."

Ryan opens his mouth to say something, then closes it, because he knows he can't deny her anything. Instead, he opens the suitcase to see that she has filled it with kitchen brushes. When he looks up, she's looking at him. She's grinning.

Ryan sighs, but nods, smiles at her, and just stands there for a second, suitcase in hand, watching the way she picks up the remote, places it on her lap once again. Mrs. Landingham is eighty six years old, and at times like this, he worries about her. He nods again, then before he can overthink it, he crosses the space between him and her, and places a gentle kiss on the top of her graying her. Her hand catches his where he has placed it, on the arm of the sofa, to keep his balance. She squeezes it tightly, then caresses lovingly. Ryan closes his eyes against the kiss.

He pulls away, straightens up. She looks up at him from her seat on the couch.

"Have fun."

Ryan nods, soft smile on his lips, and for a second he feels so much for this woman his chest tightens terribly. "I will."

Ryan doesn't think he'll be able to forget the Halloween party of '09 for a long time to come. And even if he could, even if he wanted to, there are pictures. He's actually considering asking Emily -- twelve and eager and with more energy in her pinky than Ryan has in his whole body -- for copies of the pictures she took with her brand new, birthday-present camera. He thinks Seth would really like a few of those.

Laura goes as either sleeping beauty or a fairy, Ryan's not quite sure which. He thinks Laura wanted to dress Bobby as a Prince Charming, but Bobby probably huffed and puffed so much (or maybe Ryan's just mixing up his bedtime stories) that Laura finally gave up and asked him to wear a suit, at the very least. They still look good, he thinks.

Around ten, after dancing with Barbara twice and with Laura a couple more times, Ryan lets himself fall back into one of the booths at Eve's, his feet hurting because he's wearing his good shoes, and he's only ever worn them for Mrs. Landingham's birthday gathering at the house and Christmas parties.

Emily giggles and rushes to his side, Coke in hand. "Ryan!" She screams, almost throwing herself to his arms, stopping only because he raises one eyebrow at her. She pouts, but sits down calmly next to him, or at least as calmly as a twelve year old can manage.

"Your costume is boring," she announces, for the third time tonight.

He smiles at her, eyes the bar longingly; he really should have bought a beer before sitting down. She gives him a big grin, blond hair falling to her shoulders in waves, framing her face, blue eyes dancing with amusement. Even past the physical differences, she reminds him of Seth, and for a fleeting moment he misses him, hard and deep, but then the moment is gone and he thinks Seth would really like her.

"Rumor has it you're still talking with that California boy."

Ryan ducks his head, feeling his cheeks heating up. He opens his mouth to answer but doesn't know what to say. When he looks back at her, she's biting her lower lip, as if biting back laughter. She very well might be. "Yeah," he says after a moment, his voice lower than it should be. "I am."

She nods, bouncing on her seat. "That's good. I thought you two looked good together."

He frowns, and thinks about questioning her but then she's standing up and pulling him to his feet, practically dragging him to the dance floor that only sees any action in the weekends.

"I love this song!"

Ryan laughs, a joyful sound that blends into the chords of the music, a song he doesn't recognize, his hands taking Emily's and twirling her around.

It got to the point were it seemed like every single construction site in the whole metropolitan area of Austin required ID and address and phone number so he could do something as simple as apply mortar to a wall or help with the framework. It wasn't fucking difficult, a fucking monkey could have done it, and yet they wanted a previous address and a working phone number, and half those places wouldn't give Ryan the time of the day because he looked too young.

He'd turned seventeen not a month before, and though he had considered getting himself a fake ID, those things cost money, and that's exactly what he didn't have.

May was spent eating expired buns from the market on the corner of 31st and Benelva, because there were a couple of quiet streets not three blocks from there, where he could sit down and hug his backpack and get a couple of hours of sleep a night. The University of Texas was ten blocks from there too.

The rain was the worst thing, because he'd get chilled to the bone, even with the two sweatshirts he owned, and catching a cold or pneumonia was really the last thing he needed at the moment. Some of the apartment buildings in the area had a gated backdoor leading to a dead end alley, and those back doors usually had a step leading to it. It wasn't much, but it got him off the wet ground and provided enough cover so as not to get soaked.

He'd tried shelters twice, neither of which was something he wanted to experience again. He almost got robbed twice in one night in Phoenix, and got propositioned about five times, and groped once. He left the moment the place opened its doors the morning after and swore he wouldn't go there again. He didn't, not in Phoenix.

He tried it again in El Paso, and the experience wasn't any better but at least it wasn't worse. He figured he was better off in the streets, in a park somewhere, or in an alley behind an apartment building or something. He was safer there.

By the beginning of May, not even working the pool tables was paying off because he had been eating too poorly and not finding places to shower, let alone a way to wash his clothes. The people at the bars where he was more than welcome, weren't people he wanted to play with.

By the second week, he'd gone past worried down to desperate. He considered asking for spare change on a corner but he kept telling himself it hadn't come down to that, not yet, not for a while. He was seventeen, if there was work for him to do, he'd do it, no questions asked, no reticence about it. He'd pick up garbage if they'd hire him.

May 17th was a Tuesday, and Ryan had a dollar and seventy three cents he'd been saving for when he really needed it. He'd been going to the soup kitchens for the past two weeks.

The food was weird looking and weird smelling, but it was food, and he could sit down on one of those long ass tables and put his backpack on his lap and pick up his spoon and eat without being too worried, without having to look over his shoulder every other second.

It was Tuesday and the place was a little packed, and then some of the men there would be moving to the shelters, but Ryan didn't want to go there again.

He finished his plate and thanked one of the women helping there. She couldn't be more than twenty four, twenty five. She nodded at him, told him they opened up at seven tomorrow morning, that he could find a warm cup of milk and some bread, if he arrived early. She gave him a pitying look. He could almost hear what she was thinking in the way her eyes looked at him.

He looked down and away, thanked her again and left with his backpack in his hands.

He went down to the bar on 32nd, but it was only ten o'clock and men were just starting to nurse their beers, not thinking about playing a game of pool and maybe losing a few bucks. And Ryan didn't have the luxury of even buying himself a beer and killing time until someone came along that would be willing to go a table with him. He'd been pretty sure he'd been smelling for the past two days, because washing up with the small bits of soap left behind in the gas station's bathroom would never be enough.

He was walking down University Avenue, turning right on 30th, across from Adams-Hemphill Park, backpack slung over one shoulder, trying to think of nothing at all and specially not about how hungry he was and how tired he was and how he was only seventeen years old. He paused, took a step back, hit his back against a wall. There were posters glued to it, telling of bands that were performing in this or that bar, of new products coming out soon. He closed his eyes, tilted his head back and took in a deep breath.

He didn't hear the honk of the car at first, that's how deep in thought or self pity he was. There was a second honk that he didn't pay attention to, either, and then a third, that made him open his eyes and blink against the not quite glare of the streetlight from the corner, leaving the place he was standing against almost deep in shadows.

There was a car not six feet from him, not quite double parked. He could see the outline of someone leaning from the driver's side toward the passenger window.

"You gonna stand up there all night?"

He blinked, took a step forward, hand over his eyes to keep the not so light drizzle out of his face. "Huh?"

It was a man, sitting on the driver's side. His voice was rough, impatient. He kept glancing over his shoulder, toward the park across the street, as if he was waiting for someone. "I don't have all night."

Ryan blinked, and then it all clicked and fell into place. His throat was tight and his arms folded on his chest, both hands sliding under his armpits. The strap of his backpack slid down from his shoulder to the inside of his elbow.

The man snorted. "Goddamn it. You don't wanna work tonight, fine."

Ryan's left hand moved to his pants pocket, to the one lousy bill and few coins there, and he swallowed. His right hand pulled the strap of his backpack up to his shoulder, held on tight.

"No," Ryan said, his voice breaking on that short word. He cleared his throat. "No, hmm." He didn't know what to say. He took another step forward, further away from the wall and into the dim light of the street lamp. "How do we--?"

Ryan took another step, and then another, and then he was close enough to the car to open the door. He leaned forward, left hand going to the edge of the rolled down window.

The man smirked from inside, tongue darting out to lick his upper lip. "Alley around the corner, if that's good enough for you. I ain't paying for a fucking motel."

Ryan nodded, right hand gripping the strap of his backpack. "Yeah. Sure."

He didn't move, the man snorted. "Asshole. Get in the fucking car."

Ryan nodded, got in the car. He sat stiffly on the passenger side as the man pulled out into the street and then to the right, down Cedar, past 31st until he parked behind a brick building, so dim Ryan could barely look around. He could see a woman pressed against the corner, man holding her hands down above her head, his other hand roaming the inside of her dress. He looked away.

"How much?"

Ryan blinked, turned around to look at the man. He was about to say, how much what, but then he saw the man reaching for his fly, the way his mouth was half opened. Ryan swallowed again.

"Twenty," Ryan said, the number coming from somewhere inside him. "For a blowjob."

The light was enough to see the man smirk, and then Ryan heard the distinctive sound of the fly being pulled down and a groan from the man's mouth even though Ryan hadn't moved.

Ryan swallowed, let the backpack fall down to his feet, and then turned around in his seat. He could hear the rain hitting the pavement outside, the tracks they made on the windshield, illuminated by the dim light. He closed his eyes for a second, a fleeting breath, and then leaned over.

November 4th is a Wednesday, and Bobby asks Ryan to go out to the Wilson's ranch so he can take a look their tractor that's started its annual bitching. This isn't the first time he's had to work on it, on Betty. He's familiar with her, with the way Henry pats the back of her engine and tells her everything it's going to be okay, you probably just need some loving, baby, don't worry. It makes Ryan smile, the way Henry always talks to his Betty, as if it were a cow and not a mowing truck.

Betty is an old Row Crop tractor, and usually he wouldn't need a jack to slide under her, but one of her tires has puncture. He's gonna have to take the huge ass tire back to the shop, to patch it up, but that's the least of his problems. The transmission seems to be busted as well. He can feel the oil dripping from his hands down his forearm, touching his elbow and then going through the thick long sleeve shirt, falling onto his chest. The morning is only starting and the temperature has already dropped to the forty and change and he can feel his teeth chattering even as sweat makes its way down his forehead into his neck. He grunts as the lug nut just won't give and he thinks it makes this screeching sound, and he's frowning, and the next thing he knows he's biting his lower lip and the scream that dies in his throat.

He thinks he hears old Henry say something, call his name, and his right hand is holding onto Betty's underbelly and it's stupid of him to try to push up but he does. His eyes are squeezed shut and fuck if that doesn't hurt, if everything doesn't hurt, and somewhere in the back of his brain he can feel his left arm on fire, hot and blazing.

"Ryan!"

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath and starts counting in his mind so he doesn't scream his fucking head off, and fuck.

About four hours later, a run through with the x-ray machine and the push of a syringe that surprised Ryan so much with the lack of pain it's almost a pleasure, a thirty-something doctor smiles at him and lets him know that he has clear ulna fracture. He's in Oklahoma County's ER, and the doctor can't seem to stop smiling or telling him how he's damn lucky the whole damn tractor didn't fall on his chest. It could have crushed it beyond repair. Heck, it could have crushed you to death.

He's lucky, yeah. And Henry feels like shit, is going to pay for everything, don't worry Ryan, my God, I'm just glad you're okay.

It's after a while that Ryan realizes that the doctor is still talking. He blinks, forces himself to listen. It's only after he hears, "no risk of loss of motion on the wrist and elbow" that Ryan blinks and asks the doctor to repeat.

"It's okay," the doctor says, and Ryan can't remember his name for the live of him. "The motion at the wrist and elbow is always regained, and the average loss of forearm rotation is about five degrees."

Loss of forearm rotation? The forearm has rotation?

"Non-unions are very rare, don't worry." Ryan nods at the doctor's words, like he understands what the man is talking about.

Later, Ryan lies on his hospital bed, his head turned to the side, left arm in a splint and held close to his chest. The sun is falling dark outside his window and he can feel his pulse in his temples, the way his head is pounding against each and every beat of his heart. He doesn't look at his hand, at the big plaster cast going from mid palm to his elbow. He doesn't think about the bill this hospital stay is going to cost him, even though he's leaving tonight. He doesn't think about all the work he won't be able to do. How he'll manage to drive a stick with just one hand for the next five months, he has no idea. Fucking tractor and stupid jack that after years finally gave up, just as Ryan was underneath, the edge of his left wrist getting caught in between the humid grass and the edge of the tire.

He closes his eyes shut, bites the inside of his cheek and breathes.

He can feel a hand caressing the side of his face, fingers touching his forehead. He's still in that state between sleep and awake, the pain medication too strong and Ryan too weak. He leans into the touch, smiles against the feel of someone caring for him, worrying about him.

"It's okay, sweetheart. Just sleep. I'm right here. I'm right here."

He thinks he nods at that, but he isn't sure. He sighs, cringes when he tries to turn to his side and his arm complains. The hand caresses his jaw, and then there's a kiss placed against his hairline.

Ryan sighs, relaxes, and keeps on sleeping.

It's Henry who finally gets him out. Five months with the cast, best case scenario, it's a clean break and there doesn't seem to be any reason to believe the bone won't heal right. That had really scared Henry. Henry so guilt ridden he had just signed for the costs of the whole thing, and Ryan doesn't care if the man is really well off, which he is, it's just not fucking right.

Bobby drives him back, with Ryan sitting in the passenger seat and looking out the window, to the dark sky, Barbara and Mrs. Landingham going on ahead of them, in Barbara's car.

He makes his way up the stairs slowly, quietly, because every shift in position makes his arm ache and pound, and he can feel the pain all the way back to his throat.

When he has been left alone, finally, and Ryan can hear them make their way down the stairs, Mrs. Landingham knocks on the door softly before opening it slightly. She peers through the gap and smiles at him. "Do you need help with your clothes, sweetie? I'm sure--"

Ryan can feel himself blushing from his collarbone to the tip of his ears. He shakes his head. "No, no. I'm fine. I'm sure I can manage."

She doesn't seem convinced. "I had two boys, Ryan, or do you forget? There's nothing you have that I haven't seen before."

Ryan chokes on a breath, starts coughing, hand going to his mouth. After a second, he shakes his head again, watches the play of a smile on Mrs. Landingham's lips.

"I'm fine, Mrs. Landingham, I swear." And he is, really. Kinda. Mostly. He can feel a dull kind of pain from the tip of his fingers up to his shoulder, to his neck, to his cheek. He thinks it's the ghost pain from the painkillers starting to wear off, and his head hurts and the palms of his hands itch for reasons he can't understand, but he's here, and he has his arm, and Bobby has assured him that he still has his job, that if it weren't for Ryan, it would have been him, and he's far too old to deal with injuries like that. Ryan thinks Bobby could have broken more than just his forearm.

She smiles at him again, nods. "Okay, sweetie. Just yell if you need anything. I'm gonna whip you up something light. Toasts and egg, d'you think?"

"I'm really not--"

"Hush. Those pills the doctor prescribed can't be taken with an empty stomach and that thing they gave you back in that hospital isn't dinner, I tell you."

He sighs, but nods, and can feel his stomach waking up at the idea of toasts and eggs. "Thanks."

She nods, and just as she's pulling the door closed, she pushes it open once again. "Oh, I almost forgot to tell you. That friend of yours called, Seth."

Ryan sits up straighter on the bed. "He did?"

"Yeah. He said he'd been calling for a while. I heard the phone ring the moment I walked in. He said he'd been calling for the past hour. I told him Bobby was helping you out of the car, and that you'd call him when you could. I hope I did right."

Ryan swallows thickly, licking his lower lip with the tip of his tongue. He nods. "Yeah, yeah." He doesn't want to think what Seth thought, what he's thinking, or how freaked out he could be at the moment. "I should wait for him to call--"

"Nonsense. A call to California won't kills us, and I'm sure he's worried out of his pretty little mind." She chuckles, a girly sound he doesn't think he's heard Mrs. Landingham make before. "Call him. Tell him I say hi, and sorry for scaring him."

The door clicks as she pulls it closed, and Ryan sighs and reaches for the phone. The mere shift of his shoulders makes something pull inside him, down his arm, and he can feel the tightening of muscle and bone. His jaw tightens along with his whole body, and he bites his upper lip so hard, he thinks he draws blood.

He takes in shallow breaths though his mouth, head tilted back until it hits the headboard, and he can feel nerve endings hurting from his very toes to the tips of his hair. His right hand curls into a fist, and he counts his breaths -- one, two, three, four, five -- trying to focus his mind on something, anything, that's not the fucking pain that seems to almost vibrate along with his blood.

He slams his head back against the headboard, again, and again, and his eyes are closed so tightly shut his forehead starts to pound in rhythm with his pulse, and he wonders if it's from the pain or the head against wood. He doesn't know how long it aches, hurts with the heat of a thousand suns, but by the time he can take one breath that doesn't reverberate on his chest, there are red half moon on the palms of his hands and his jaw is sore and aching.

He reaches for the phone before he thinks twice about it, dials a number that, though this is the first time he'll be calling, he knows by heart.

Seth picks up on the first ring. "Ryan? Dude? Are you okay?"

The urgency in the voice, in the tone, the very palpable fear there, makes something inside Ryan warm up, and uncoil. He lets out a soft breath though his parted lips, leans back on the pillows of the bed, not in anxiety but in easiness, his eyes half closed. "Hey."

Ryan can hear Seth breathing out on the other end of the line. "God, Ryan. I can't... I thought..." Seth coughs, then Ryan hears movement and another sigh, a dry chuckle, a painful sound. "God, dude. Really. That's not funny. Not fucking funny at all."

Ryan smiles, softly and with care. "I know."

Seth chuckles again; Ryan doesn't like the sound of it. "Mrs. Landingham picked up, you know? God, you should have heard her! She said Bobby was helping you out of the car. She said... And I asked her, I mean, I asked her, what do you mean, he's helping Ryan out of the car, but she wouldn't even let me finish the sentence before she was saying that you'd call me when you could and then she was hanging up on me!"

"Seth--"

"I wanted to call again. Dude, Ryan, you have no idea how much I wanted to call again. But she said... and I thought maybe something had happened and I didn't want to interrupt, get in the way, you know, so I was waiting here and it's been almost half an hour and holy shit dude, did something happen?"

Ryan chuckles this time, a hollow sound, and the mere movement makes something inside him pull again. Fuck. "I... yeah."

"I knew it! Are you okay? What happened?"

Ryan sighs, places his good forearm over his eyes, breathing out through his mouth, and tells Seth the whole story, from Henry's tractor, Betty, to what the doctor said.

"A cast?"

"Yeah."

"Just a cast?"

Ryan's teeth grind against one another. "It's a cast, Seth."

"I know, I know. I mean. What I mean is, it could have been worse, right? You were under a stupid third world country tractor from the Stone Age, you could have fucking died so yeah, a cast is very mild compared to all the awful things I was imagining."

Seth is breathing hard when he finishes his tirade, and Ryan's headache has fallen back to a dull ache between his temples. He feels so tired he could sleep for a year and change.

"I mean--"

"I know what you mean, Seth." He sighs, lowers himself as much as he can with as little movement as possible, tilts his head against the corner of the pillow and lets his eyes fall all the way shut. "I know."

They fall into silence for a breath, two, ten. Seth's breathing is a gentle sound on the other end of the line, and Ryan can feel the soft wind from the half closed window. The night is quiet around him, familiar and comfortable, comforting.

His head feels stuffed, and his brain tired and his closed eyes make everything dull around the edges. The silence is almost lulling.

"Ryan?"

Ryan sighs, shifts on the pillows. He can feel his forehead pulsing along with his heartbeat and the pain from shoulder to fingertips has receded to the background. The night and Seth's breathing are lulling him to sleep. "Hmm?" Nothing but a slur, a breath, not quite a word.

Seth doesn't answer for the longest time, and for a moment Ryan wonders if he will, and then wonders if maybe he should hang up before he actually falls asleep with Seth on the phone.

"I was worried."

Sleep is nice and comfortable, a smile under the light of the night. "I know."

The man dropped Ryan off at the same corner where he picked him up, and Ryan got out of the car, both hands tight around the straps of his backpack. He took a step forward and then another, and then another, until his hands were pressed against the same wall he had been leaning back on not five minutes ago.

He heard more than he saw the car drive off, and then he was stumbling to the corner and throwing up, one hand holding him up from brick and mortar. His throat felt raw and his eyes burned with anger and frustration. He could barely swallow, and his jaw ached like he had been punched and left behind.

It took him a moment to calm down, for his stomach to settle enough so he could breathe and not gag at the same time. He leaned back against the wall, let himself slide down to the ground and his jaw clamped down. He hugged his backpack tight to his chest. He breathed in through his nose; he could still smell the man on his own breath.

He bit down on both his lips, and then took in a shaky breath through his nose. His eyes kept burning.

Except now he had a twenty where only a pathetic dollar had been minutes ago, and he could have something to eat that wasn't bread with an expired date. He could maybe even get a coke out of it, a night somewhere warm, even though he'd settle for dry. He could spring for a room, not care about tomorrow's meal. He could.

He bit down on his upper lip hard enough to draw blood and felt his chest tight, compressed, crushed.

He leaned back, hit his head against the brick wall, then once more for good measure. He took in a deep breath and then stood up with a jump, hand around the side of his backpack. He was hungry all of a sudden. Pizza, he thought, a slice of greasy pizza with a small coke and then find somewhere quiet in the park. But first, he needed to go to the gas station and brush his teeth.

He still has his work, Bobby said, and he's grateful for that, more than anyone could know. It takes him a while to get used to driving with one arm, and it's not easy, and he's not going one mile over twenty, but he's managing.

The cast, at work, is more than just a bitch. It's fucking uncomfortable and painful and more times than he can count he's wanted nothing more than to get the saw and cut right through it, to fucking hell with his arm. The only thing that stops him from doing that is that he's read the literature the doctor handed Mrs. Landingham; he knows what could happen to him if he doesn't take it easy, if he doesn't do the PT afterwards. The worse case scenarios are enough to scare him into shaping up. Losing a good percentage of mobility is not happening, period.

He spends the following days moving slowly, almost afraid, because the two times he's so much as touched his cast with anything that's not his body it has jarred like a son of a bitch, making his teeth clench and his head pound. He can still get down on the dolly and check the underbelly of the trucks or small cars. He can't change a tire worth shit, and he tried changing oil once and somehow hit his elbow, and he could feel the pain in his throat for hours after that.

And every night, by the time he arrives back at the house, the pain around him is almost a living force.

"You could take something, you know."

Seth's gone over it (same spiel, different verse) almost daily for the past four days. Each and every night. Like clockwork. For Ryan, it's long past annoying.

Ryan takes in a shaky breath as the very air seems to rattle his arm. Today is not a good day. He grits his teeth and manages, "I'm fine."

Seth snorts on the other end. "Right. Because you sound like you're in constant pain just for the hell of it."

"Goddamn it, Seth. If you could just--"

"What, shut up? My voice rattling your arm? Pain going all the way down to your toes? That's not good! How much longer--"

"I swear to God--"

"--are you going to go like this, huh? It's just a fucking pill."

Ryan glances to this side, to the small pill bottle on top of his nightstand. The seal hasn't been broken. He swallows thickly, past the sweat accumulating on the back of his neck, on the palm of his hands.

He closes his eyes tightly and leans his head back against the top of the headboard. The sound it makes colliding with the wood is comforting in a sick and weird way, the quick shock of pain is refreshing.

When a minute passes and Ryan doesn't break the silence, Seth lets out an exasperated sigh. "Fine."

Seth starts bitching about his professor after that. The never ending words fired at Ryan are almost soothing.

He told himself he wouldn't do it again. He told himself it wasn't worth it. He told himself.

In the end, it didn't matter.

He made the twenty stretch for two days, but by Friday night he still hadn't found a job and he was down to three dollars and fifty cents. He wouldn't have enough for tomorrow, and if he was gonna do something, then he had to do it now, at night, or wait until tomorrow.

He told himself he had no choice. He told himself a lot of things before standing across from Adams Hemphill Park, back against the brick wall, arms folded across his chest and trying not to shiver under the hard drizzle.

"You're new."

He blinked, looked around. A woman was looking at him, her head tilted to the side. She was only wearing a thin thigh length coat, low cut top and short skirt, high heels on stocking clad feet. She couldn't be more than twenty five. She gave him a small smile. He had no idea how she wasn't freezing in this weather.

He swallowed, looked around him, considered leaving for a moment, to hell with food or room.

"It's okay, I'm not gonna make trouble for you." She chuckled, gazed down the street. "There's enough work for us both here. Besides, if they want you, they usually won't look at me twice."

He thought he was trying to give her a small smile, but felt like his face hadn't moved at all. She chuckled again, long dark hair moving along her shoulders in waves.

"It's okay, kid. I'm not gonna bite. I play nice." Her tone was flirtatious and cocky. He felt like he was gonna be sick. "How old are you, anyway?"

"Eighteen," he said, more out of habit than a desire to lie.

She smirked. "I don't think so. Try again. I'm not the cops, you know, it's not like I'm gonna bust you."

That had never even occurred to him. He knew he could get pulled over for soliciting or whatever it is they called it. He could get arrested. Then again, he'd spend the night someplace dry and maybe warm, have a meal at night and another one the following morning. He looked down and away.

"You look pretty young. Hmm. Sixteen? Seventeen?"

He didn't know why it matter. He didn't know why she'd want to know, or he'd want to tell her. He was seventeen but he didn't feel his age. He nodded, looked up to see the way she was nodding her head at him.

"Yeah, thought so. There's market for young and pretty, and with those lips, you'll get regulars soon enough."

He wanted anything but to have regulars -- need regulars.

He felt her hand on his shoulder, and he looked up at her. She looked almost concerned, under all that make up.

"You really are new at this, aren't you?" Her tone was soft, and her hand moved from his shoulder to his jaw. He took a step back. She lifted both her hands in a placating manner. He noticed her purse hanging from the inside of her elbow. "I'm just saying, sugar. Nothing wrong with asking. No need to answer."

Good, because he wasn't. He didn't need to, she'd seen right through him without him saying a word.

They fell into silence, about ten feet from one another. A car slowed down, and she went to it. Ryan saw the way she leaned forward through the window, moved her hips from side to side, tantalizing, heard her teasing tone but not her words. He got an eyeful of the way the purple fabric of her skirt pulled tight around her ass. He could almost see the end of her panties between her legs, from this angle. She stood up straight and gave the driver the finger as he pulled away.

"Fucking cheap." She snorted, walking back to the middle of the sidewalk, to Ryan's side. He swallowed again. "Forty for a fuck. Like hell, no matter how quick that asshole could be."

He looked down at his feet, at the jeans he was wearing, the t-shirt and zipped up sweatshirt, the knockoff leather jacket on top of that. He'd been thinking about buying a scarf, a wool hat from Good Will. He'd kept saying, when he had the money to spare. That's the trick, right there. He might never have money to spare again. He hasn't taken a shower in over a week now. He has to be stinking.

"Here."

Ryan looked up, and the woman had something in her hands, offering it up to him. He squinted to figure out what it was. A bottle of perfume. The woman was smirking at him.

"Sorry," she said, not at all apologetic, "but you kinda smell a little." She shrugged, offered it again and Ryan took it with a nod, something that might be called a smile on his lips.

He pressed on the nozzle once, under each armpit, and then once again from the front. He gave it back to her, and smelled himself, and he smelled like a woman.

"It's lilacs, but at least it's better."

"Yeah, it is." He swallowed, and his throat felt itchy. "Thanks."

She opened her mouth in mock surprise. "Oh, he speaks!" She chuckled, putting the bottle back in her purse. "No problem. It's a very cheap brand."

He assumed so, yeah. She took out a cigarette from her purse, lit one. She offered the pack to him as she took a long drag.

He looked at the pack, at the four cigarettes left inside. It had been months since the last time he'd smoked, back in March. He just couldn't afford it, not and eat at the same time. He'd itched for one for weeks after that day.

She moved her hand closer to him. He took one and she stepped closer to light it. Ryan took a long drag, feeling the nicotine make its way down to his lungs, tasting it, a light pressure between his eyes from so long since his last smoke. He could almost moan at the feeling.

"Yeah, I know what it feels like."

He opened his eyes, only then noticing they had fallen closed. He looked at her, at the way her voice had sounded sad, almost bitter.

They fell silent after that. She just stood there, fingers around her cigarette, putting it in between her lips flirtatiously, blowing off the smoke like a caress.

When a car pulled up next, the man said, "You, kid."

Ryan swallowed, froze up in a second. She made her way to Ryan, stood up close to him, close, intimate.

"Go on," she whispered against his ear, her breath warm in the chilly night. "Blow him, make it fast and think about nothing at all."

She pulled away, gave him a smirk that he only blinked at. She shoved something in his hand, and he closed his fingers around it. It took him a moment to realize what it was, to recognize the texture and the shape. He hadn't thought about condoms.

Her smile softened for a minute, or maybe it was a trick of the light. "Be careful," she said.

He nodded, pocketing the condom.

"Ask for thirty," she said finally, taking one last drag of her smoke and letting it fall from her fingers, stepping on it with the tip of her high heeled shoe.

He turned around, took a step forward, backpack over one shoulder, and then another. He leaned forward on the window, tilted his head to the side. His jaw clenched even as he tried to loosen it up. "You looking for something?"

On the 22th, a Sunday, Ryan shifts too fast, hits a step of the stair all wrong. He tries to compensate for it. He hits his elbow on the banister, holding on for dear life as not to fall on his ass, or worse, his side.

The pain leaves him breathless, sweating, and vibrating with residue twinges for hours to come.

"Vicodin is not your enemy, you know?"

Ryan swallows, grits his teeth. "I'm fine."

"Yeah, well. I can hear you're in pain and I'm a million miles away. So, yeah. There."

"Seth--"

"What? I might not have seen how bad that thing with the tractor was but I have an imagination, you know? And a pretty one at that. And dude, I'm certain it wasn't pretty. Add to that you tripping--"

"I didn't!--"

"--then no wonder you sound like you ran a marathon and are about to commit double murder."

Ryan has no idea what that even means.

"Look, I can recognize you're in pain, through the phone line, I really don't think--"

"I'm fine."

Seth falls silent, and when a minute ticks by, and then another, and then Seth starts muttering about stupid Chino guys who don't know what's best for them, but then talks about his Critical Theory class without breaking his stride, Ryan knows he's dropped it. It's almost a miracle, really, even though he knows there are a thousand and one questions that Seth now has. He just doesn't know how to begin to answer them.

He wouldn't know where to start.

He glances at the bottle of pills. Mrs. Landingham has asked about it as well, not as head on as Seth himself, but close. Close enough. Ryan refused time and time again, and then Mrs. Landingham let it go as well.

After the day they brought him back from the hospital, Ryan hasn't taken a painkiller. He tried Tylenol, but the fracture had laughed in the face of that white pill. He doesn't want to try anything stronger. Vicodin is definitely out of the question.

He sighs, takes in a deep breath and then lets it out through his mouth. The pain had lessen to only a dull reminder about a week after, and now, almost two weeks later, it had only jarred him because of the misstep. It will go away again, tomorrow morning, so he sees no point in tempting fate.

Seth's still babbling. He likes that, Seth's babble. It's soothing in more ways than one.

Then again, for a second that lasts a lifetime, Ryan wants to take it. His fingers itch for that small orange bottle and to pop it open, he'd take it dry. It'd probably kill the constant headache he's had since that November 4th in ten seconds flat. But he can't. He won't risk it. At the end, he's only Dawn and Frank's son.

When Seth pauses to take in a breath, Ryan tells him the latest gossip around town, how Amelia, apparently, is pregnant. She's only sixteen. People say she's dropping out of school. Seth gasps in all the right places as Ryan tells him the story as he's heard it.

The guy drove for three blocks before turning his car around the corner, down a similar alley, dark and humid. The light drizzle that had started a few hours ago had picked up, and the rain hit the windshield with a loud splattering sound. Ryan didn't like it. Long time ago, Ryan used to love the rain. Lately, he'd started to hate it.

It took less than ten minutes, more like five. The man drove him back to where he picked Ryan up, and Ryan took his money in a crumble of bills and shoved them into his pocket. He stepped out of the car and walked straight to the wall, leaning forward. This time he didn't throw up, but his throat felt just as raw.

After a moment, he looked around the place, down the street. She wasn't there anymore. He swallowed, turned away. He had thirty now. He could leave, try to get the best out of that money. Tomorrow could be his lucky day, the day he actually found a place that would hire him. It could be. It could happen.

He refused to stay there for another one, because he wasn't doing this to save or to pay bills or to support himself. He was doing it because he had no other choice. He was doing it to pay for tomorrow's breakfast and lunch and dinner. He was doing it with the hope that maybe he could scrounge up enough to get a room so he could sleep anywhere but on the ground.

He looked down the street, a block and a half, two, where he could see the silhouette of four or more working women. He would find even more the further south.

He slung his backpack over his shoulder, turned around and started walking the other way.

He thought about her for a second, the woman he had just met, hoped she was okay, that she was safe. He told himself he wouldn't see her anymore.

He saw her for a whole month.

The first week of December, the sky darkens with clouds, one of the first real signs of winter finally arriving. It's a late Thursday afternoon and the coldness is starting to pick up when Mrs. Wright walks into the shop. Ryan's almost horizontal on the passenger seat of a dark green sedan, going over the ignition. It seems to have gone on the fritz, actually, because Bobby went over the engine and everything should be working properly, except for the single fact that the car won't start.

"Ryan, hi."

Ryan turns around, connections in hand, gives her a quick glance before nodding in the general direction of her. "Mrs. Wright, good afternoon."

She's in her late forties, black hair pulled back in a low ponytail, silver rimmed glasses perched on her nose. She has a pretty smile, laugh lines around her mouth that suit her, make her look established instead of old. She's wearing a thick turtle neck sweater over nice fitting jeans, sneakers instead of high heels.

"I was hoping I could have a minute of your time."

He frowns, but nods, pushes himself into a sitting position. The pain in his arm, as he predicted, went away by mid afternoon of the following day. He can still feel the ache all the way to his teeth when he hits his elbow, like against that car door not even a week ago, but it's getting better. It has to.

"It's okay," she rushes to say when Ryan tries to stand up. She gives him a big smile, takes a step closer to the wide open door of the passenger seat. "You don't need to stand up, Ryan. It can't be easy."

Ryan shrugs, half embarrassed. "I do okay."

She nods again. "Of course. What I wanted to ask you was, hmm. Well, it's mostly about Lainie."

Ryan frowns. Lainie, Mrs. Wright's daughter, can't be more than ten. Actually, he's pretty sure she's ten. He thinks he heard about the party they threw for her last June. Every kid in town was invited, and most of her class from school. "Something wrong?"

She shakes her head, smile still on her lips. "No, no, nothing wrong. Well, hmm." She chuckles, a girlish sound. "Anyhow, she's been having problems with geometry. I think she hates math, which might be my fault, because I did too, back at school." She shrugs. "My mom, she used to say how math was important, how I had to learn it, how I'd need it when I grew up. I never got that, never really believed her. I don't think Lainie believes me either."

He smiles and nods in all the right places, but has no idea what this means, why this woman is telling him this.

"I was thinking maybe you could tutor her?"

He's looking up at her because he's sitting down and his right hand is still around the rag he was using to clean his fingers and all he can do is blink at her. "Excuse me?"

She takes a step forward, closer to the car, around the opened car door and leans forward, one hand on the top of the opened window, the other on the roof of the car. Ryan swallows, a memory going swiftly through his mind, crushing it before he can really remember it.

"It wouldn't have to be a lot," she says in a rush, eagerness on her tone. "I mean, I know my kid, and she's smart, she just doesn't like to apply herself. She'd be glued to that computer of hers if I let her. I have no idea why John bought it, but never mind that now. I mean, two hours a day, two or three days a week, tops. Just enough so she actually gets what she's doing."

Ryan keeps on blinking. It's almost as if she's talking another language, as if she's asking something horrible of him, as if she's asking for his secrets. She's not. They don't know he never got around to finishing high school, was in Anaheim around the time his sophomore year would have started. He swallows.

"I... I don't know if I'm the right person," he says after a moment, the words not quite loud in the otherwise silent garage.

"No, but Ryan, you're perfect." She crouches before him, so they are at eye level. Ryan can feel himself swallow thickly, his hands tightening around the rag. "I really don't like the older kids from her school. I mean, the ones from town are fine, but..." She shrugs. "They all tend to want to do their homework and leave it at that. And I don't want Lainie hanging out with someone older than her who will only teach her horrible things. But you, you, you're polite and nice and such a gentleman. You'd never go out with a girl on a couple of dates and then leave her high and dry and pregnant."

Ryan looks down and away. Everyone seems to be talking about Amelia, even if it's only in a passing mention. He saw her, Amelia, around town a couple of days ago. He had gone to the store to buy milk because they had run out and he had told Mrs. Landingham that he could very well still do the shopping, thank you very much. Amelia had her head ducked, a thick and loose sweatshirt on, and picked up what she needed and left in a rush. He feels for her, he really does.

"It'd only be a couple of hours a day," she says with a tilt of her head, when he's fallen quiet.

"I work until six," he says as an answer, shrugs as he does so.

She smirks at him. He really doesn't like it when women smirk at him. It makes him feel like they know something he doesn't, he couldn't possibly be smart enough to know.

"Lainie has geometry on Tuesdays and Fridays, and you are getting home before seven, so I could have her there at seven on Mondays and Fridays. Two hours, she'll be back right in time for bed. And then maybe Saturdays or Sundays for a couple more hours." She nods, enthusiastic about it. "I'm sure we could work it out." She sighs, leans forward with a request in her eyes. "I just want what's best for her, and I think you're it."

He sighs, rubs his eyes with the back of his hand. He really didn't see that one coming, not by a long shot. He only got as far as 9th grade, back in Chino Hills, so it's not like he has the best background.

"I didn't... I mean, I never..." He doesn't know how to say this, how to say it without feeling like he's lacking, stupid. He shrugs. "I got a 98 percentile on my SAT scores."

That's as much as he will say, and she seems to understand. She nods, the smile on her lips more motherly and understanding than he deserves. "You took geometry, I take it?"

She's not asking how far along he got before he left, and he's not exactly telling. He nods. "Yeah. Geometry and Calculus, and Chemistry."

She gives him a quick grin. "Everything Lainie doesn't like and everything she might not like in the near future, I'm sure you'll figure it out with her books. Perfect, I tell you."

He smiles back at her, and takes a deep breath that doesn't compress his chest. His left hand itches, feels rough and oily and dirty, and for a moment he thinks he can do this, he can actually do this.

I really like this chapter. Why, you might ask? Well, not only do we get to learn more about Ryan that we already did, but dude, I get to torture him a little bit more. I'm evil like that.

That said, let me know what YOU think. *bounces*