OC Fic : Fork In The Road (2/9)
Title : Fork In The Road
Author : Helen C.
Rating : R (M)
Summary : AU. Dawn never left in the Pilot, and Ryan came back to Chino for a while. Years later, he and Seth meet in Los Angeles.
Spoilers : Everything is fair game.
Disclaimer : The characters and the universe were created and are owned by Josh Schwartz. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
joey51 stayed up until some ungodly hour in the night to beta this, and that's one of the many reasons why she's the best beta ever. :) Thanks, Joey!
I'm very nervous about this one, so let me say it again; AU, future fic, slash Ryan/Seth and without giving too much away, they don't get married and live happily ever after.
Chapter 2
Christmas 2003
Ryan wakes up to moaning -- an annoying sound that keeps him from going back to sleep, when sleep is all he wants.
Then, he registers the cold, and that's yet another thing making him uncomfortable, keeping him conscious.
Wonderful.
He opens his eyes to see only darkness around.
Not helpful.
And there's still someone or something moaning nearby, making Ryan wonder where he is, because he's pretty sure that his room would be quieter than this.
He uses his hand to push himself up, which proves to be a mistake.
He collapses on the ground, gasping, then rolls over as the wave of pain causes him to throw up.
What the…
At least, the moaning sound has stopped.
It takes a few minutes to his groggy brain to take two and two and come up with four -- he was the one moaning, and given the fact that he just about passed out in pain when he tried to move, he must be injured.
Just great.
He stays put for a while, waiting for the pain to come down to a manageable level, waiting for the nausea to subside, and generally waiting for better days.
In the background, he hears cars slowing down, and speeding by.
Ok, so, he's outside. That explains why he's cold, and Ryan is proud that he made the connection between "cold" and "outdoor" faster than he realized he was the one making noise earlier.
That must mean he's getting better. Or, at least, more coherent.
Staying carefully still, Ryan tries to fill in the blanks, because he still doesn't know why it's dark, how he ended up outside, and why he feels like he was run over by a truck.
Searching his memories, all he can remember is Dawn, bitching about the dried Christmas tree she bought three days ago, and the ornaments she couldn't find anywhere in the house.
AJ was there, too, sitting in the background, drinking beer, occupying space -- the only things he's really good at.
Another festive holiday with the Atwood family.
Ryan can't remember anything past that point, though. Nothing that could explain why it's now night time, nothing that could explain the pain he's in.
That's a little freaky.
Steeling himself for the pain, he starts to sit up slowly, ready to stop and rest should the pain become intolerable again. He doesn't think it would be such a good idea to pass out again, not here -- wherever here is.
It takes an eternity, but he finally reaches a mostly sitting position. Looking down at himself, he sees that he's still fully clothed (which is good), that there are dark spots of… something on his jeans (which is less good) and that his T-shirt is torn in places. Running a hand through his hair, he feels a caked substance near his right temple. Blood, he thinks grimly. It would explain the few hours missing from his memory. And the unconsciousness. And the headache, and the nausea.
Some careful prodding of his face makes him hiss in pain -- great, he must look like hell, on top of feeling like it.
Nothing seems broken or irremediably damaged, though. He should be able to move -- slowly, carefully, uncomfortably, but he should be able to do it.
Good thing too, since he's alone in the dark, in an unknown place.
His brain still foggy, he thinks for a long while, wondering what he should do now.
Eventually, probably after a few hours, given the snail's pace his brain is operating at, he realizes that all his thoughts lead him to the same conclusions. He needs to place a few phone calls, and that means that he needs to get up, and walk for a while.
Which is when his heart misses a few beats.
He'll need money to call.
He searches his pockets frantically -- or as frantically as he can, given his battered state. He always, always keeps his wallet in his jeans back pocket -- just in case he needs to beat a hasty retreat and doesn't have time to grab his jacket.
Ryan feels his backside, fighting panic.
Eventually, he gives up.
The wallet isn't there.
He lets his hand drop to the ground, defeated.
Mind blank, he allows life to stop for a moment, and wallows in his misery. Given the circumstances, he's certainly entitled to a five-minute breakdown.
When he emerges from his trance-like state, his stomach is tied up in knots and he's shivering.
Now what?
Grasping at straws, he decides to take a look around. However unlikely, it's still possible that someone stole his wallet, took the cash and dropped the wallet nearby. He can still steal money, but he had a fake ID in his wallet and he may need it soon.
Praying inwardly, he rises slowly to his feet and starts looking.
After a good ten minutes, he's ready to give up when his foot catches on something on the ground.
Leaning down is even worse than rising up, if for no other reason than it makes him more dizzy and more likely to fall.
However, Ryan manages it, and almost cries in relief when his fingers recognize the rough leather of his wallet. He pockets it without looking inside.
Ignorance is bliss, and he needs bliss right now.
Another half hour later, Ryan has made his way to the side of the road. He's careful to stay out of sight for now, hidden behind bushes, but he needs some light.
Naturally, as he expected, there's no cash left in the wallet.
But at least his fake ID is still here.
According to that ID, Ryan Atwood, sixteen, is actually Ryan Spender, eighteen.
That ID was a gift from Trey, and Ryan has never regretted having it.
Exhausted, Ryan sits down, shivering. He should figure out what to do next, but he's too tired to do that right now.
Fragments of memories are slowly coming back.
Dawn, yelling. "Well, that's the best I could find!"
AJ, shouting, "What the fuck are you looking at?"
Dawn, calling Ryan's name, her voice far away.
"You killed him!"
"He's just pretending."
"Ryan?"
"He'll be fine, damn it."
Typical, Ryan thinks.
Last time he called Seth, the other kid was excited by the upcoming fictional holiday he had created -- what was it named, already?
"It'll be great," Seth had said.
Ryan had tried again, then, to explain to Seth that Atwoods and holidays were an unhealthy mix, that holidays were traditionally awful and that a fictional holiday had the potential to be even worse, but Seth had been so happy that Ryan hadn't wanted to bring him down with his problems.
And now, here Ryan is, sitting next to a road sign, thinking that things have certainly hit an all-time low this year.
But, at least, certainly, there's nowhere to go but up, from here.
***
Three hours later, Ryan is in Corona, leaning against a phone booth, after yet another depressing discussion with his mother.
He had been wrong -- things can always, always get worse.
Sixteen years, and it all ends with a whiny, "Ry… I'm sorry, baby, really, but AJ said he didn't want to see you around here anymore. You're a man now, you're old enough."
And so, for the second time in less than six months, Ryan has been thrown out by his mother. This time, all he has are the clothes on his back, his fake ID and the wallet he has stolen from a distracted businessman, so he could call home.
Ryan has gone through every possible emotion during his talk with Dawn; frustration, anger, sadness, shame, bitterness.
Now, he just feels empty. His brain has switched into survival mode. Analyze problem -- find suitable solution. That's really all he has the energy to deal with.
He looks awful, he probably smells even more so, he feels like hell and the previously mentioned clothes on his back are ruined.
He has to avoid cops and social services, and he has nowhere to go.
Ryan grimaces as his stomach churns, either with hunger or fury. He refrains from taking his aggression on the phone. He has to act unsuspicious and he still needs to place some calls. He just hopes his quest for a shelter for the night will be more fruitful than last time.
Just as suddenly as it appeared, the anger is gone, replaced by a bone deep weariness.
Ryan looks at the phone, and pictures himself calling this friend, and that one, and Turo, and Eddie, and Trey's ex, the one who so desperately wants to get into Ryan's pants. Ryan briefly wonders if he could fake interest long enough to sleep at her place for a few days, then shrugs off the idea. She's insane, and he may be desperate, but he doesn't think he's that desperate yet.
He recalls what his friend's answers were, the last time he needed a place to crash.
"I'd love to but…"
"It's too bad but I really can't…"
There's a reason why Ryan has spent the last months sleeping in cars and abandoned houses and buildings. His friends and their parents have long since understood that Ryan Atwood would need "a place to crash for the night" at least once a week until his eighteenth birthday.
Ryan really can't take any more punches, can't take any more rejection, and he knows that his friends are unlikely to help him. They have their own problems, their own parents to deal with, their own dramas to handle.
He's tired of asking for help and not receiving it.
He has even thought about calling the Cohens, but he already tried that once and it didn't help that much in the long run.
Ryan needs a place where he can spend the night, eat a little and patch himself up, before figuring out what to do, where to go. The Cohens would never let him go, not unless he lied to them, and he doesn't want to do that.
Sure, they'd help him. They'd try to mend things with his mom, or they'd hand him over to the social services.
Despite the fact that he has been taking care of himself for as long as he can remember, Ryan's only sixteen. In the eyes of the law, he needs adults to take care of him. No matter how maddeningly frustrating the notion is, Ryan has very few rights. The almighty social workers know what's good for him better than he does.
Screw that, Ryan thinks, walking away from the phone.
His side is aching, a dull pain pulsating with every step he takes, and his head is pounding, a sharp pain pulsating with each heartbeat.
He's terrified.
But he has only two choices now. He can make it on his own, or he can call social services for help, and go back into foster care until he comes of age.
Ryan has been into foster care once, and the memories of that time are locked away in a little corner of his mind where he never goes, and he has closed the door on them, and he has turned the key, and he'll never open that door again. He swore to himself, back then, that he'd never allow social workers to put him back into the system.
So, really, that only leaves choice one.
***
"You promised me you'd stay!"
Ryan feels scared and his eyes are burning, but he can't be weak, so he buries his fear and channels his anger, clenching his fists.
Michael is busy packing his clothes while Dawn snores on the couch.
Michael has just spent a year with the Atwoods; he has told Ryan that he is worthy of an adult's affection and has taught him not to believe everything his mom says.
Michael has promised Ryan that he was going to stay and take care of everything.
Michael is leaving.
"I'm sorry," Michael says.
Ryan screams in his head, incoherent words about meaningless apologies and promises, but doesn't say a word aloud. What would be the point? -- Michael will leave no matter what.
Dawn never even stirs as Michael gathers his stuff.
Later, as Michael is taking one last look around, he stops in front of Ryan and looks him in the eyes.
"I'm going to Austin," he says. "If you ever, ever need anything, my name will be in the phone book."
Ryan looks away. Michael is leaving; he has just joined the long, long line of untrustworthy people who have disappointed Ryan, and nothing really matters anymore.
***
Ryan wakes up at dawn. He has spent the night in a deserted park, and no one has tried to bother him. Small miracle, for which Ryan is grateful.
He's exhausted from his night on a hard bench, he's sore all over, and he doesn't think he'll be able to move around much today.
But at least he has a destination in mind now.
Many times already Ryan has tentatively dreamed about going to Texas, trying to find Michael. He doesn't know why he thinks the guy would help him. He left a little more than a year ago, and the words he said when he left were meaningless. He just felt bad for Ryan, certainly.
He could be dead.
He could have moved.
He could have changed his name.
He could have forgotten all about Ryan.
But Ryan needs something to help him to move forward.
He needs a goal.
He needs some hope, however tenuous, that things will get better.
He needs…
He needs.
So, he'll give Austin a chance.
And if Michael won't help him, well, Austin can't be worse than Chino.
So, Ryan thinks, all he has to do now is clean himself up a little, so he won't scare people away, steal another wallet -- or two, or three -- and buy new clothes and something to eat, then lay low for a few days, until he feels good enough to skip town.
There are about ten thousand things that could go wrong, but there's little point in worrying about that.
What will come, will come -- good or bad.
Chapter 3
Author : Helen C.
Rating : R (M)
Summary : AU. Dawn never left in the Pilot, and Ryan came back to Chino for a while. Years later, he and Seth meet in Los Angeles.
Spoilers : Everything is fair game.
Disclaimer : The characters and the universe were created and are owned by Josh Schwartz. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
joey51 stayed up until some ungodly hour in the night to beta this, and that's one of the many reasons why she's the best beta ever. :) Thanks, Joey!
I'm very nervous about this one, so let me say it again; AU, future fic, slash Ryan/Seth and without giving too much away, they don't get married and live happily ever after.
Chapter 2
Christmas 2003
Ryan wakes up to moaning -- an annoying sound that keeps him from going back to sleep, when sleep is all he wants.
Then, he registers the cold, and that's yet another thing making him uncomfortable, keeping him conscious.
Wonderful.
He opens his eyes to see only darkness around.
Not helpful.
And there's still someone or something moaning nearby, making Ryan wonder where he is, because he's pretty sure that his room would be quieter than this.
He uses his hand to push himself up, which proves to be a mistake.
He collapses on the ground, gasping, then rolls over as the wave of pain causes him to throw up.
What the…
At least, the moaning sound has stopped.
It takes a few minutes to his groggy brain to take two and two and come up with four -- he was the one moaning, and given the fact that he just about passed out in pain when he tried to move, he must be injured.
Just great.
He stays put for a while, waiting for the pain to come down to a manageable level, waiting for the nausea to subside, and generally waiting for better days.
In the background, he hears cars slowing down, and speeding by.
Ok, so, he's outside. That explains why he's cold, and Ryan is proud that he made the connection between "cold" and "outdoor" faster than he realized he was the one making noise earlier.
That must mean he's getting better. Or, at least, more coherent.
Staying carefully still, Ryan tries to fill in the blanks, because he still doesn't know why it's dark, how he ended up outside, and why he feels like he was run over by a truck.
Searching his memories, all he can remember is Dawn, bitching about the dried Christmas tree she bought three days ago, and the ornaments she couldn't find anywhere in the house.
AJ was there, too, sitting in the background, drinking beer, occupying space -- the only things he's really good at.
Another festive holiday with the Atwood family.
Ryan can't remember anything past that point, though. Nothing that could explain why it's now night time, nothing that could explain the pain he's in.
That's a little freaky.
Steeling himself for the pain, he starts to sit up slowly, ready to stop and rest should the pain become intolerable again. He doesn't think it would be such a good idea to pass out again, not here -- wherever here is.
It takes an eternity, but he finally reaches a mostly sitting position. Looking down at himself, he sees that he's still fully clothed (which is good), that there are dark spots of… something on his jeans (which is less good) and that his T-shirt is torn in places. Running a hand through his hair, he feels a caked substance near his right temple. Blood, he thinks grimly. It would explain the few hours missing from his memory. And the unconsciousness. And the headache, and the nausea.
Some careful prodding of his face makes him hiss in pain -- great, he must look like hell, on top of feeling like it.
Nothing seems broken or irremediably damaged, though. He should be able to move -- slowly, carefully, uncomfortably, but he should be able to do it.
Good thing too, since he's alone in the dark, in an unknown place.
His brain still foggy, he thinks for a long while, wondering what he should do now.
Eventually, probably after a few hours, given the snail's pace his brain is operating at, he realizes that all his thoughts lead him to the same conclusions. He needs to place a few phone calls, and that means that he needs to get up, and walk for a while.
Which is when his heart misses a few beats.
He'll need money to call.
He searches his pockets frantically -- or as frantically as he can, given his battered state. He always, always keeps his wallet in his jeans back pocket -- just in case he needs to beat a hasty retreat and doesn't have time to grab his jacket.
Ryan feels his backside, fighting panic.
Eventually, he gives up.
The wallet isn't there.
He lets his hand drop to the ground, defeated.
Mind blank, he allows life to stop for a moment, and wallows in his misery. Given the circumstances, he's certainly entitled to a five-minute breakdown.
When he emerges from his trance-like state, his stomach is tied up in knots and he's shivering.
Now what?
Grasping at straws, he decides to take a look around. However unlikely, it's still possible that someone stole his wallet, took the cash and dropped the wallet nearby. He can still steal money, but he had a fake ID in his wallet and he may need it soon.
Praying inwardly, he rises slowly to his feet and starts looking.
After a good ten minutes, he's ready to give up when his foot catches on something on the ground.
Leaning down is even worse than rising up, if for no other reason than it makes him more dizzy and more likely to fall.
However, Ryan manages it, and almost cries in relief when his fingers recognize the rough leather of his wallet. He pockets it without looking inside.
Ignorance is bliss, and he needs bliss right now.
Another half hour later, Ryan has made his way to the side of the road. He's careful to stay out of sight for now, hidden behind bushes, but he needs some light.
Naturally, as he expected, there's no cash left in the wallet.
But at least his fake ID is still here.
According to that ID, Ryan Atwood, sixteen, is actually Ryan Spender, eighteen.
That ID was a gift from Trey, and Ryan has never regretted having it.
Exhausted, Ryan sits down, shivering. He should figure out what to do next, but he's too tired to do that right now.
Fragments of memories are slowly coming back.
Dawn, yelling. "Well, that's the best I could find!"
AJ, shouting, "What the fuck are you looking at?"
Dawn, calling Ryan's name, her voice far away.
"You killed him!"
"He's just pretending."
"Ryan?"
"He'll be fine, damn it."
Typical, Ryan thinks.
Last time he called Seth, the other kid was excited by the upcoming fictional holiday he had created -- what was it named, already?
"It'll be great," Seth had said.
Ryan had tried again, then, to explain to Seth that Atwoods and holidays were an unhealthy mix, that holidays were traditionally awful and that a fictional holiday had the potential to be even worse, but Seth had been so happy that Ryan hadn't wanted to bring him down with his problems.
And now, here Ryan is, sitting next to a road sign, thinking that things have certainly hit an all-time low this year.
But, at least, certainly, there's nowhere to go but up, from here.
***
Three hours later, Ryan is in Corona, leaning against a phone booth, after yet another depressing discussion with his mother.
He had been wrong -- things can always, always get worse.
Sixteen years, and it all ends with a whiny, "Ry… I'm sorry, baby, really, but AJ said he didn't want to see you around here anymore. You're a man now, you're old enough."
And so, for the second time in less than six months, Ryan has been thrown out by his mother. This time, all he has are the clothes on his back, his fake ID and the wallet he has stolen from a distracted businessman, so he could call home.
Ryan has gone through every possible emotion during his talk with Dawn; frustration, anger, sadness, shame, bitterness.
Now, he just feels empty. His brain has switched into survival mode. Analyze problem -- find suitable solution. That's really all he has the energy to deal with.
He looks awful, he probably smells even more so, he feels like hell and the previously mentioned clothes on his back are ruined.
He has to avoid cops and social services, and he has nowhere to go.
Ryan grimaces as his stomach churns, either with hunger or fury. He refrains from taking his aggression on the phone. He has to act unsuspicious and he still needs to place some calls. He just hopes his quest for a shelter for the night will be more fruitful than last time.
Just as suddenly as it appeared, the anger is gone, replaced by a bone deep weariness.
Ryan looks at the phone, and pictures himself calling this friend, and that one, and Turo, and Eddie, and Trey's ex, the one who so desperately wants to get into Ryan's pants. Ryan briefly wonders if he could fake interest long enough to sleep at her place for a few days, then shrugs off the idea. She's insane, and he may be desperate, but he doesn't think he's that desperate yet.
He recalls what his friend's answers were, the last time he needed a place to crash.
"I'd love to but…"
"It's too bad but I really can't…"
There's a reason why Ryan has spent the last months sleeping in cars and abandoned houses and buildings. His friends and their parents have long since understood that Ryan Atwood would need "a place to crash for the night" at least once a week until his eighteenth birthday.
Ryan really can't take any more punches, can't take any more rejection, and he knows that his friends are unlikely to help him. They have their own problems, their own parents to deal with, their own dramas to handle.
He's tired of asking for help and not receiving it.
He has even thought about calling the Cohens, but he already tried that once and it didn't help that much in the long run.
Ryan needs a place where he can spend the night, eat a little and patch himself up, before figuring out what to do, where to go. The Cohens would never let him go, not unless he lied to them, and he doesn't want to do that.
Sure, they'd help him. They'd try to mend things with his mom, or they'd hand him over to the social services.
Despite the fact that he has been taking care of himself for as long as he can remember, Ryan's only sixteen. In the eyes of the law, he needs adults to take care of him. No matter how maddeningly frustrating the notion is, Ryan has very few rights. The almighty social workers know what's good for him better than he does.
Screw that, Ryan thinks, walking away from the phone.
His side is aching, a dull pain pulsating with every step he takes, and his head is pounding, a sharp pain pulsating with each heartbeat.
He's terrified.
But he has only two choices now. He can make it on his own, or he can call social services for help, and go back into foster care until he comes of age.
Ryan has been into foster care once, and the memories of that time are locked away in a little corner of his mind where he never goes, and he has closed the door on them, and he has turned the key, and he'll never open that door again. He swore to himself, back then, that he'd never allow social workers to put him back into the system.
So, really, that only leaves choice one.
***
"You promised me you'd stay!"
Ryan feels scared and his eyes are burning, but he can't be weak, so he buries his fear and channels his anger, clenching his fists.
Michael is busy packing his clothes while Dawn snores on the couch.
Michael has just spent a year with the Atwoods; he has told Ryan that he is worthy of an adult's affection and has taught him not to believe everything his mom says.
Michael has promised Ryan that he was going to stay and take care of everything.
Michael is leaving.
"I'm sorry," Michael says.
Ryan screams in his head, incoherent words about meaningless apologies and promises, but doesn't say a word aloud. What would be the point? -- Michael will leave no matter what.
Dawn never even stirs as Michael gathers his stuff.
Later, as Michael is taking one last look around, he stops in front of Ryan and looks him in the eyes.
"I'm going to Austin," he says. "If you ever, ever need anything, my name will be in the phone book."
Ryan looks away. Michael is leaving; he has just joined the long, long line of untrustworthy people who have disappointed Ryan, and nothing really matters anymore.
***
Ryan wakes up at dawn. He has spent the night in a deserted park, and no one has tried to bother him. Small miracle, for which Ryan is grateful.
He's exhausted from his night on a hard bench, he's sore all over, and he doesn't think he'll be able to move around much today.
But at least he has a destination in mind now.
Many times already Ryan has tentatively dreamed about going to Texas, trying to find Michael. He doesn't know why he thinks the guy would help him. He left a little more than a year ago, and the words he said when he left were meaningless. He just felt bad for Ryan, certainly.
He could be dead.
He could have moved.
He could have changed his name.
He could have forgotten all about Ryan.
But Ryan needs something to help him to move forward.
He needs a goal.
He needs some hope, however tenuous, that things will get better.
He needs…
He needs.
So, he'll give Austin a chance.
And if Michael won't help him, well, Austin can't be worse than Chino.
So, Ryan thinks, all he has to do now is clean himself up a little, so he won't scare people away, steal another wallet -- or two, or three -- and buy new clothes and something to eat, then lay low for a few days, until he feels good enough to skip town.
There are about ten thousand things that could go wrong, but there's little point in worrying about that.
What will come, will come -- good or bad.
Chapter 3