Small Steps 3
Title : Small Steps
Author : Helen C.
Rating : PG-13
Summary : Oliver is back, and makes a mess of things again. Set in season 2.
Spoilers : Everything that's been aired up to The Rainy Day Women 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.
Acknowledgements : Many thanks to my beta, Joey51.
Chapter 3 : The Return
Predictably, Kirsten was waiting for them in the kitchen when they entered.
Sandy dropped the keys on the table, took a bottle of water from the refrigerator, and turned back to look at his wife, who was studying Ryan. She had been frantic when Sandy had been called -- the worst kind of call for parents, one coming from the police.
No, scratch that. The worst kind of call would have come from a hospital. Good Thing, Sandy reminded himself. The worst hadn't happened tonight.
Sure, they had a traumatized teenager to deal with, and one who was dangerously good at keeping things to himself in the best circumstances, but trauma was fixable.
Like himself earlier, Kirsten looked torn between the need to comfort Ryan (and herself) by hugging him, and the wish to respect Ryan's boundaries. The need for comfort was stronger, and she walked to him, took him in her arms and held on for dear life.
Sandy watched as Ryan froze, and then relaxed a little. "'m fine," he mumbled.
"I know." She was smiling a little, not letting go. "Indulge an old woman for a minute, will you?"
He nodded slightly.
Sandy took a brief moment to thank the sky again for allowing it to happen now, when Ryan at least accepted their affection.
* * *
Ryan entered the poolhouse and looked around him, trying to focus. "Take a shower," Sandy had suggested. "It'll help."
Ryan privately wondered what difference it could possibly make. It wouldn't erase the night from his memory.
The sight of Oliver's eyes, growing impossibly large when the bullet had entered his body, kept dancing through Ryan’s mind, preventing him from absorbing anything else. He vaguely remembered the cops, first dubious, then more convinced that he hadn't deliberately ki-- done that, vaguely remembered Sandy arriving at the police station, the strong wave of relief that had washed through him, quickly followed by this numbness again.
He remembered the numbness from before-- every time things went really bad in Chino, every time AJ used him as punching back, every time his mother was so wasted she didn't even recognize him, he felt like that. Stunned. Anaesthetized. Numb. It was his way of coping when emotions threatened to overwhelm him. It gave him time, usually, to put himself back together, to begin thinking again, instead of just reacting.
His stomach rebelled again. Ryan rushed to the bathroom, barely making it in time to throw up for a few torturous minutes.
Once he was done, he flushed the toilet and sat on the floor.
Who was he kidding?
It had never been this bad-- not even with AJ, not even when his father had been arrested, not when *he* had been arrested, not even the first time Oliver had wreaked havoc in his life before being taken away.
He had never felt so sluggish, so unable to think five minutes ahead, let alone several hours, or days. Never felt so… pole-axed. As if the world would never be the same again, and *he* would never be the same again.
He sat on the floor, and waited. For the nausea to come back, or for the feelings to return.
Oliver had seemed surprised when he had heard the shot. Just before it registered that he had been the one to be hit.
The nausea came back first.
* * *
For the fifth time in as many minutes, Kirsten asked, "Do you think he's going to be all right?"
Sandy didn't answer. He was watching the poolhouse, waiting to see if Ryan would emerge from the bathroom soon.
"Sandy?"
He sighed. "I don't know."
"He seemed… I don't know."
"In shock," Sandy said absently.
"Yes."
"He is, I suppose."
"Sandy, what happened?"
He turned to face her. He'd need to call the cops to get he full, unabridged story, tomorrow. For now, he would have to make do with a summary.
When he was done, Kirsten was sitting on a stool, staring at her hands. "When was Oliver released from the hospital?"
"I'm sure it's something the police will check tomorrow."
She rubbed her eyes. "Yes." She shook her head. "I should call Julie; see if Marissa is fine."
"Good idea."
They fell silent.
"As if last time hadn't been enough," Kirsten muttered.
Sandy agreed. "I don't know what to tell him," he said.
"Do you think he would hear anything tonight? From what I saw, I doubt it."
"I know," Sandy said. "But, well, even tomorrow, what are we going to tell him? That he shouldn't feel too bad? It's Ryan we're talking about. He does guilt like a true Cohen."
She snorted-- an unusual sound for her.
Sandy went on. "That I'm glad it's not him who's in the morgue right now? I doubt that would help."
"No. Probably not."
"Even though I feel that way," he admitted, "I don't like it. In fact, it's horrible, but I'm glad it's someone else's son who's dead. No parent should ever have to live that."
Kirsten went to him and hugged him, resting her head on his shoulder. "Me too." He squeezed her, feeling her heartbeat against his chest. "We're parents," she added.
"So help us, Jesus and Moses," Sandy said.
She sighed.
* * *
The nausea finally receded. Not that he had anything left to throw up.
Ryan rose to his feet and slowly took off his clothes, wondering whether burning them would be too cliché, too dramatic. He ran the shower and stepped under the spray, tensing when the cold water hit his body, then relaxing as it warmed up. He stood still under the spray, eyes closed, feeling the water run down on his body.
He remembered reading stories in which a shower helped a character to rid himself of something bad, as if the water took his problems away when it ran down the drain.
He wished it could be that simple.
He wished a shower could make him forget this night, could make him feel normal again.
Barring that, he wished it could help him to snap out of it, could help him to wake up.
It didn't.
* * *
Sandy entered the poolhouse to find Ryan standing near the bed, in sweatpants and a t-shirt, looking at the bed as if he had never seen it before and was wondering how to use it.
"Ryan?"
"Yeah?" he asked absently.
Sandy carefully put a hand on his shoulder, relieved when Ryan didn't tense, and made him turn around. "You should sleep," Sandy said.
"I know."
Ryan still looked dazed, even more so than earlier tonight.
On impulse, Sandy put his arms on Ryan's shoulders, dragged him close and hugged him. For a while, they stayed there in silence. Ryan finally said, still in this eerie, detached tone, "I'm kinda…stuck."
"Stuck?" Sandy asked.
"I keep… I can't…" He breathed in deeply, but Sandy didn't let go. If nothing else, he squeezed harder, and stroked Ryan's damp hair a little. "I keep seeing his face. I can't…think, or focus. I'm…" he trailed off.
Sandy nodded and let him go. "Stuck?" he repeated.
Ryan nodded.
"It'll get better." He could have slapped himself for not having thought of anything better to say, but Ryan didn't seem to mind.
"Hum," he said, sitting down on the bed heavily, watching Sandy. Ryan's face was as inscrutable as it had ever been. He tilted his head, considering Sandy. "I'm also slightly--" He stopped, unsure. Sandy waited patiently. "Stunned," Ryan finished after a while. "Numb."
Sandy nodded. "Adrenaline wearing off," he guessed. "And shock." Intense fear, especially prolonged, could be really draining. He had heard about the phenomenon often enough in his job.
Ryan shrugged.
"Sleeping would probably help," Sandy offered.
He stayed there while Ryan pulled away the covers and lowered himself on the bed, curling up, his slow movements alarming Sandy. He was sure it was nothing more than the consequence of spending about three hours constantly terrified, but it was still unnerving to see Ryan so listless.
When Ryan closed his eyes, Sandy sat on the bed next to him. Ryan didn't comment, didn't move anymore, and it was only ten minutes later, when his breathing became slower, that Sandy realized the kid had fallen asleep.
Sandy rose to his feet, careful not to disturb Ryan, and sat in a chair at the foot of the bed, as silently as possible. A movement near the door attracted his attention, and Kirsten smiled at him, crossed over to hand him a cup of coffee, kissed him and went back to the main house.
Sandy turned off the lights and sat in the dark, sipping his coffee, settling in for the long haul.
Chapter 4
Author : Helen C.
Rating : PG-13
Summary : Oliver is back, and makes a mess of things again. Set in season 2.
Spoilers : Everything that's been aired up to The Rainy Day Women 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.
Acknowledgements : Many thanks to my beta, Joey51.
Chapter 3 : The Return
Predictably, Kirsten was waiting for them in the kitchen when they entered.
Sandy dropped the keys on the table, took a bottle of water from the refrigerator, and turned back to look at his wife, who was studying Ryan. She had been frantic when Sandy had been called -- the worst kind of call for parents, one coming from the police.
No, scratch that. The worst kind of call would have come from a hospital. Good Thing, Sandy reminded himself. The worst hadn't happened tonight.
Sure, they had a traumatized teenager to deal with, and one who was dangerously good at keeping things to himself in the best circumstances, but trauma was fixable.
Like himself earlier, Kirsten looked torn between the need to comfort Ryan (and herself) by hugging him, and the wish to respect Ryan's boundaries. The need for comfort was stronger, and she walked to him, took him in her arms and held on for dear life.
Sandy watched as Ryan froze, and then relaxed a little. "'m fine," he mumbled.
"I know." She was smiling a little, not letting go. "Indulge an old woman for a minute, will you?"
He nodded slightly.
Sandy took a brief moment to thank the sky again for allowing it to happen now, when Ryan at least accepted their affection.
* * *
Ryan entered the poolhouse and looked around him, trying to focus. "Take a shower," Sandy had suggested. "It'll help."
Ryan privately wondered what difference it could possibly make. It wouldn't erase the night from his memory.
The sight of Oliver's eyes, growing impossibly large when the bullet had entered his body, kept dancing through Ryan’s mind, preventing him from absorbing anything else. He vaguely remembered the cops, first dubious, then more convinced that he hadn't deliberately ki-- done that, vaguely remembered Sandy arriving at the police station, the strong wave of relief that had washed through him, quickly followed by this numbness again.
He remembered the numbness from before-- every time things went really bad in Chino, every time AJ used him as punching back, every time his mother was so wasted she didn't even recognize him, he felt like that. Stunned. Anaesthetized. Numb. It was his way of coping when emotions threatened to overwhelm him. It gave him time, usually, to put himself back together, to begin thinking again, instead of just reacting.
His stomach rebelled again. Ryan rushed to the bathroom, barely making it in time to throw up for a few torturous minutes.
Once he was done, he flushed the toilet and sat on the floor.
Who was he kidding?
It had never been this bad-- not even with AJ, not even when his father had been arrested, not when *he* had been arrested, not even the first time Oliver had wreaked havoc in his life before being taken away.
He had never felt so sluggish, so unable to think five minutes ahead, let alone several hours, or days. Never felt so… pole-axed. As if the world would never be the same again, and *he* would never be the same again.
He sat on the floor, and waited. For the nausea to come back, or for the feelings to return.
Oliver had seemed surprised when he had heard the shot. Just before it registered that he had been the one to be hit.
The nausea came back first.
* * *
For the fifth time in as many minutes, Kirsten asked, "Do you think he's going to be all right?"
Sandy didn't answer. He was watching the poolhouse, waiting to see if Ryan would emerge from the bathroom soon.
"Sandy?"
He sighed. "I don't know."
"He seemed… I don't know."
"In shock," Sandy said absently.
"Yes."
"He is, I suppose."
"Sandy, what happened?"
He turned to face her. He'd need to call the cops to get he full, unabridged story, tomorrow. For now, he would have to make do with a summary.
When he was done, Kirsten was sitting on a stool, staring at her hands. "When was Oliver released from the hospital?"
"I'm sure it's something the police will check tomorrow."
She rubbed her eyes. "Yes." She shook her head. "I should call Julie; see if Marissa is fine."
"Good idea."
They fell silent.
"As if last time hadn't been enough," Kirsten muttered.
Sandy agreed. "I don't know what to tell him," he said.
"Do you think he would hear anything tonight? From what I saw, I doubt it."
"I know," Sandy said. "But, well, even tomorrow, what are we going to tell him? That he shouldn't feel too bad? It's Ryan we're talking about. He does guilt like a true Cohen."
She snorted-- an unusual sound for her.
Sandy went on. "That I'm glad it's not him who's in the morgue right now? I doubt that would help."
"No. Probably not."
"Even though I feel that way," he admitted, "I don't like it. In fact, it's horrible, but I'm glad it's someone else's son who's dead. No parent should ever have to live that."
Kirsten went to him and hugged him, resting her head on his shoulder. "Me too." He squeezed her, feeling her heartbeat against his chest. "We're parents," she added.
"So help us, Jesus and Moses," Sandy said.
She sighed.
* * *
The nausea finally receded. Not that he had anything left to throw up.
Ryan rose to his feet and slowly took off his clothes, wondering whether burning them would be too cliché, too dramatic. He ran the shower and stepped under the spray, tensing when the cold water hit his body, then relaxing as it warmed up. He stood still under the spray, eyes closed, feeling the water run down on his body.
He remembered reading stories in which a shower helped a character to rid himself of something bad, as if the water took his problems away when it ran down the drain.
He wished it could be that simple.
He wished a shower could make him forget this night, could make him feel normal again.
Barring that, he wished it could help him to snap out of it, could help him to wake up.
It didn't.
* * *
Sandy entered the poolhouse to find Ryan standing near the bed, in sweatpants and a t-shirt, looking at the bed as if he had never seen it before and was wondering how to use it.
"Ryan?"
"Yeah?" he asked absently.
Sandy carefully put a hand on his shoulder, relieved when Ryan didn't tense, and made him turn around. "You should sleep," Sandy said.
"I know."
Ryan still looked dazed, even more so than earlier tonight.
On impulse, Sandy put his arms on Ryan's shoulders, dragged him close and hugged him. For a while, they stayed there in silence. Ryan finally said, still in this eerie, detached tone, "I'm kinda…stuck."
"Stuck?" Sandy asked.
"I keep… I can't…" He breathed in deeply, but Sandy didn't let go. If nothing else, he squeezed harder, and stroked Ryan's damp hair a little. "I keep seeing his face. I can't…think, or focus. I'm…" he trailed off.
Sandy nodded and let him go. "Stuck?" he repeated.
Ryan nodded.
"It'll get better." He could have slapped himself for not having thought of anything better to say, but Ryan didn't seem to mind.
"Hum," he said, sitting down on the bed heavily, watching Sandy. Ryan's face was as inscrutable as it had ever been. He tilted his head, considering Sandy. "I'm also slightly--" He stopped, unsure. Sandy waited patiently. "Stunned," Ryan finished after a while. "Numb."
Sandy nodded. "Adrenaline wearing off," he guessed. "And shock." Intense fear, especially prolonged, could be really draining. He had heard about the phenomenon often enough in his job.
Ryan shrugged.
"Sleeping would probably help," Sandy offered.
He stayed there while Ryan pulled away the covers and lowered himself on the bed, curling up, his slow movements alarming Sandy. He was sure it was nothing more than the consequence of spending about three hours constantly terrified, but it was still unnerving to see Ryan so listless.
When Ryan closed his eyes, Sandy sat on the bed next to him. Ryan didn't comment, didn't move anymore, and it was only ten minutes later, when his breathing became slower, that Sandy realized the kid had fallen asleep.
Sandy rose to his feet, careful not to disturb Ryan, and sat in a chair at the foot of the bed, as silently as possible. A movement near the door attracted his attention, and Kirsten smiled at him, crossed over to hand him a cup of coffee, kissed him and went back to the main house.
Sandy turned off the lights and sat in the dark, sipping his coffee, settling in for the long haul.
Chapter 4