Fic: Looking at You, I'm Home (Jon/Ryan, NC-17, 31k)
Looking at You, I'm Home
Jon/Ryan, past Jon/OFC (Spencer/Haley, Brendon/Shane) | NC-17 | ~31k words
Warning: kidfic, au
Ryan Ross never really expected to be a father, much less enjoy it, until he became the guardian of his young cousin. He doesn't even realize how well and truly happy he is until the boy asks if he can find his real father--a man he never met. Ryan doesn't know how to say no. He isn't, though, expecting Jon Walker to show up in Vegas, wanting to get to know his son.
Jon Walker's life is boring, but he's happy. He's definitely not expecting to get an email from a little boy claiming to be his son, and, what's more, he's surprised to realize how much he wants to get to know the boy... and his guardian.
Harlequin Romance AU! Based on the summary for Once Upon a Christmas, written for bandomficathon. Thank you to themoononastick for the wonderful beta, and to summertea and stephanometra for not calling me ridiculous when I come to them with ideas.
Ryan Ross used to wonder what kind of children he would want, someday. Usually he imagined himself with a daughter and ribbons and bows that would never stay tied. He didn't imagine Yu-Gi-Oh cards and practice schedules.
He used to wonder about getting married or if he'd end up with joint custody, if Spencer would still be around and if the kid would call him "Uncle Spencer."
Christopher doesn't; Christopher doesn't even call Ryan "Uncle Ryan." He's just Ryan, the same as he's always been, only now Christopher huffs loudly and crosses his arms when Ryan doesn't respond, when he used to tug on Ryan's shirt or call for his mom.
Christopher can't call for his mom now, and he hasn't been able to for almost two years.
"Ryan," he says again, and he screws up his face, lips pursed. "I'm hungry."
It's after five, Ryan realizes with a start, and he puts his pen down. He'd been jotting down words that he thinks would work in a poem or maybe a story, doodling flowers on the sides of the pages, and Ryan likes the idea of the words waiting for him to wander back and pick up again, like he's just momentarily walked away from a game of skip-rope.
"Sorry," he says, rubbing his eyes even though there's ink across his palms. He opens the freezer, and there's nothing but the weird ice cream that Haley bought months ago, that neither of them would eat. He winces and opens the fridge, and it's similarly bare. "Oh."
"I was gonna make a cheese sandwich, but we just have ends left." Christopher frowns.
Ryan rubs his eyes again, because he's tired suddenly. He has to go grocery shopping, because Spencer will kill him if he sees the fridge is empty. "Okay. Get your stuff, and we can do drive through on the way to Brendon's."
"Awesome!" Christopher takes guitar lessons with Brendon on the nights that Ryan has classes to teach, lessons that seem to conveniently end in video games and movie watching, and Ryan's fairly positive that it's having a negative impact on Christopher's vocabulary. "Can we go to Wendy's? I wanna get a frosty, and can we get one for Brendon? With extra fries?"
Ryan nods because he won't have to clean up that mess. "Whatever you want, buddy."
That makes Christopher stop and make a face at Ryan. "I am not 'buddy.' That's a baby name, Ryan. I'm too old to be called that." His dark eyes are serious when he says it, arms folded over his chest.
He's pretty sure that when he imagined being a father he didn't really think about what would happen when the baby stopped being something cute that you could dress how you wanted or would stay when you put it down. He didn't think of a real kid, with opinions on how cool or embarrassing things could be, and he certainly didn't imagine that he'd have to get used to always being a step behind the kid as it grew up.
"Sorry, Christopher," he says, grinning. "I forgot."
"That's because you're old," Christopher says gleefully, when he's managed to wrangle his book bag and guitar case. Ryan takes the guitar case, and Christopher turns off the lights. "You forget everything."
"Right, I forgot." He grins when Christopher groans, before they're headed down the condo stairs and out into the parking lot.
***
Ryan runs late getting back and forth to his class, spilling coffee on himself just before he comes into the door. His class giggles at him, and he doesn't take it too personally.
His job isn't glamorous. He teaches at UNLV three days a week, one class in the history of the short story and two freshman comp classes, and he's done that for roughly five years now, since he came back to Las Vegas after graduate school. It doesn't escape him that he used to bemoan being stuck in Vegas and never going anywhere. He teaches at the community college now, too, at night, but that was only to pick up the extra cash after Christopher.
Ryan still hangs out with Spencer and Brendon, even though their shitty little garage band never went anywhere. Spencer manages a night club now, and he's talking about going part-owner next year. He lives at Ryan's complex, three condos down, just like when they were kids.
It's not glamorous or exciting, but he can't say that he's bored. He still writes when he finds time, in between making extra runs to the grocery store for oranges that he forgot or Triaminic when Christopher gets a cold. He goes to parent-teacher conferences
He wouldn't change his life for anything. Ryan loves having Christopher, on most days. He would, however, change the night his cousin Margaret, Christopher's mother, died. Margaret was his only cousin on his father's side, his uncle's daughter. She was only a year or so older than Ryan, and she had been his best friend outside of Spencer when they were little.
Still, he wishes there was something that could have been done. She was tired, driving home from her job at the casino, and the state troopers said she fell asleep. His uncle died when they were kids, and Margaret's mother passed just before she found out she was pregnant with Christopher.
Ryan wishes that Margaret was still here, so she could see how Christopher is growing up, the way he can see her in Christopher when he rolls his eyes or huffs at Ryan. She doesn't get to see Christmas concerts or the soccer trophies.
He doesn't dwell on it, though, mostly. He likes coming over to Brendon's after classes and bitching about the idiots that can't even analyze Anne Sexton, when Christopher and Shane are trying to see who can get the best score on Guitar Hero. Christopher doesn't have his mom, and he's never had his dad, but he thinks that maybe the five of them--Ryan, Brendon, Shane, Spencer, and Haley--almost make up for that.
***
He should have figured, then, that when everything was starting to fall into place and feel right, for the first time since he told the state police that he was Christopher's only family, after he was given a piece of paper for full legal and physical custody of one Christopher Julian Ross, that everything starts to change.
He doesn't know why he's surprised when he finds Christopher crumpling up an assignment viciously, face red and stressed. His dark hair is sticking up at crazy angles, and he won't look at Ryan when he comes and sits down on the couch across from him.
Ryan's still not very good with red faces and sullen silences. He tries to remember what his father used to do, when he was like this. It seems too long ago, and he mostly remembers fighting and slamming doors when he was little.
It's possible that taking Christopher has made him appreciate his father a touch more, and Christopher is only eight. Ryan still has the teen years to come.
"Hey, so," he says, because he's seen Brendon say that to Christopher before, when he's upset. He rubs his hands on his trousers. Christopher doesn't look up. "You wanna tell me why you're, uh, ruining that paper?"
"No," Christopher says. He uncrumples the paper, looks at it, and his face goes red again. He's blinking a lot. "It's just dumb stuff." He juts his chin out and his eyelashes are wet.
Oh, Ryan thinks. He moves to sit next to Christopher, looking down as his shoes. "Can I read it, then?"
"It's just a stupid school project," Christopher says, and he throws the paper down. "I'm not gonna do it, 'cause it's stupid."
Ryan reaches down and carefully picks up the paper, smoothing it over his leg. He gets as far as seeing the cutesy graphic of a tree and apples and the dancing letters spelling out "Family Tree!" "Oh," he says, softly. He can't think of anything else to say.
"We have to show them to the class," Christopher whispers, and he rubs his nose with his sleeve.
Ryan's throat is tight. He remembers shitty assignments like this. His own mom ran off when he was little, too little to remember much about her besides how she only liked yellow soap and she used to sing "You are My Sunshine" to him, but his dad knew things about her family.
He listens to Christopher sniffle a little bit more, folding the paper up into fourths and setting it on Christopher's folder. "I could talk to your teacher," he murmurs.
Christopher leans against Ryan and doesn't say anything, doesn't even nod. His face is wet against Ryan's arm, but Ryan doesn't mention it, moving just enough that he can rub soothing circles into Christopher's back.
They go out for pizza that night, and Ryan lets Christopher fall asleep watching old episodes of Futurama.
***
Ryan calls into the school the next day from work, and he schedules an appointment with Miss O'Malley, Christopher's second grade teacher. He's late, of course, pulling into guest parking just as the buses are rumbling away.
He signs himself in at the front door and gets his visitor pass. It takes him another ten minutes to actually find the classroom. "Sorry," he says as he slips in.
Christopher is still there, head pillowed in his arms. There's a new scrape on his elbow, and he's kicking his feet against the ground petulantly. .
Miss O'Malley looks about Ryan's age, blonde and smiling with long earrings that chime when she moves her head. "Hi," she says with a wide grin. "You must be Christopher's father. I'm glad to meet you."
Ryan sees Christopher's shoulders freeze a little. "No, I'm his cousin, actually," Ryan says, and he moves next to Christopher, rubbing at his neck. "We're cousins," he repeats, and Christopher looks up at him with a ghost of a smile.
"Oh," Miss O'Malley says, and she folds her hands at her desk. "I'm sorry. I just assumed..." She trails off before tapping her pencil off of her desk. "You had concerns about the family tree assignment?" she says, but her voice is less sure now, like she's already starting to see the problem.
Ryan sighs and keeps rubbing Christopher's neck. He wishes that Christopher had gone home to the condo. He knows to go to Spencer and Haley's when Ryan's not home, and Haley could have given him cookies. (Ryan's also pretty sure that he shouldn't want to spoil the kid whenever he thinks about Christopher being sad and alone, but he can't really make himself care.)
"We were wondering... Family trees are sensitive subjects, since his mother passed," Ryan says slowly, trying to read how upset Christopher is without seeing his face. "He never got the chance to meet his father."
"Oh," Miss O'Malley says, and she blinks at Ryan, then at the tiny ball Christopher is trying to pull himself into at his desk. "I see."
"I don't mean any disrespect," Ryan says. "It's just--"
"No, no," she says, and she flashes him a tight smile. "Give me a weekend to think about how I can modify the assignment."
Some of the tension leaks out of Christopher's shoulders, and Ryan nods. "Thank you," he says. "We don't mean to be a nuisance, but--"
"I understand," she says, and she lets Ryan get Christopher together, shouldering his Transformers backpack so Christopher can stuff his hands into his jeans pockets. He doesn't look at Ryan on the ride home, going up into his room and slamming the door.
He doesn't come out for dinner, the left over pizza from the night before.
***
Miss O'Malley promises to have a new assignment on Monday, and Ryan figures it's done. He's kept Christopher from having to deal with the fact that his dad's some deadbeat. They have a weekend ahead of them. Ryan wonders if Christopher would want to hangout on the foldout couch all day and marathon Harry Potter.
He goes over the little bit of homework that Christopher has over breakfast, the math worksheet and the new week's spelling words. The math worksheet takes a little longer than it should; Ryan has to count and make sure 7x8 really equals 56. He was always bad at the 7 multiples.
Christopher hovers close, bouncing on his feet when Ryan puts the math sheet away and reaches for his homework tracker to mark it off. "Are you okay?" he asks, and he grins a little. "Did Brendon slip you coffee?"
"Ew, no," Christopher says, wrinkling his nose. He doesn't say it as emphatically as usual, though, smile sliding off his face too fast.
Ryan doesn't know why he's surprised by what comes next.
"Would you be sad if... Would it make you sad if I wanted to look for my dad?" Christopher asks, when Ryan's checking over his spelling homework. He can barely hear him, voice soft and low, and there's something horribly shy to the way Christopher's saying it, fearful, like Ryan would forbid him the chance to get to know his father.
He puts down the pencil and folds his hands. There's so much that Christopher doesn't know, about the months that Ryan didn't know if Christopher was still going to be there in the morning; if CPS had managed to track down Margaret's old boyfriend in fucking Illinois when Christopher had never been out of Nevada (until Brendon invited them both to Disneyland with his family, three months after Ryan got the call).
He has Christopher now; Christopher is under his care and protection and guardianship, but it still makes him a little sick to think that there is a guy out there that could challenge his right to custody.
Challenge and win, because Ryan's only Christopher's second cousin.
"Christopher, it's okay. We're getting you something else to do," he whispers, because he has to say something. He can't not. He tries not to look like he's been gut-punched.
"No, not just because of that, or not all because of that." Christopher looks miserable before he pulls his bangs in front of his face and chews on his lip. "Just, like, I wanted to, before, and I didn't want to make Mom really sad." Christopher's voice goes soft on "mom," still does after two years, and Ryan can only begin to imagine what that feels like. He still has a weird ache inside when he talks about his dad, and his dad's been gone ten years.
Ryan reaches over and smoothes Christopher's hair. They aren't big on hugs. "How do you want to look for him?"
"Just the computer, like for school. Only for my dad." Christopher looks up at Ryan, and his eyes are bright and hopeful, and Ryan hates that he can't say no to that look. He should be able to say no; he's not supposed to spoil the kid.
"Don't give out our address, and don't give anyone your last name or your school." Ryan picks up his pencil again and circles "oposite," where Christopher has forgotten a "P."
He shouldn't be worried. The "Jonathon Walker" on Christopher's birth certificate hasn't been listed anywhere. Margaret didn't leave a mention of him in any of her journals or emails; Ryan looked through them when he was packing up her things. Spencer sometimes theorizes that he doesn't actually exist.
It says a lot about what Margaret thought of the guy that Christopher's last name is "Ross," but he can't say any of that to Christopher and he just smiles back when Christopher grins at him.
***
"You're what?" Spencer says, loud over the thudding bass. "Ry, you can't let an eight-year-old google for his sperm donor. There are a ton of sick fucks out there that would say they're anything to-"
"I'm right here, Spence, and I'm watching what he clicks on." Christopher's got Ryan's old laptop in his lap, carefully pecking out letters on the keyboard to try and refine his search. His tongue is sticking out of the corner of his mouth.
"It's the internet, and you don't even know what this guy looks like. He could be in, like, Leavenworth for all you know." Spencer's office door is closed now, and the music is a little less overwhelming. "He could be in Italy or something crazy."
"I know, Spence." He sighs and rubs his eyes. "You didn't see how upset he was, though. If this makes him feel better--"
"Such a push over," Spencer grumbles on the other end of the line, and there's the faint rustle of papers and then Ryan can hear him flopping onto his office couch.
"I know." He watches Christopher scroll through another page, and he tries not to feel a little relieved that nothing seems to be turning up. He doesn't expect anything to, after all. If the CPS couldn't find anything, the chance of an eight year old getting a solid lead is rather slim.
Spencer sighs. "This is going to bite you in the ass, you know."
Ryan shrugs a little and toys with one of Christopher's curls. "It will not." He won't say that Christopher's looking for something hopeless when Christopher is so close.
He's doing his best to sabotage it anyway. He knows that Margaret never called Walker by his full name. In her letters, she always called him, "Jon," and when Ryan asked her if Walker was going to come and help her with Christopher, she looked at him, steely-eyed, and said any idiot who lets people call him "JWalk" has no business raising a baby.
Both of those nicknames could help Christopher, but Ryan doesn't say anything. Christopher clicks on a link about "Captain Jonathon Walker," who's been dead for roughly fifty years.
"I think we'll be okay, Spence," he says before he hangs up and lets Christopher tell him about the battalion that Captain Jonathon Walker served in.
***
Christopher's search is put on hold so he can work on his school project. It's a modified family tree, important people in his life. He's pasted his school picture in the middle with little rays shooting out from it. There's a picture of Spencer and Haley at a carnival, Haley shooting Spencer with a water gun and captioned, "Spencer and Haley always let me hav pie they hav 2 dogs."
He corrects Christopher's spelling on that line and then on the line beneath a picture of Brendon and Shane together. His own picture is one that Spencer obviously gave to him, from the years before Ryan had to care if a little kid would see him hung over, eyes red and face covered with three days' worth of stubble, maybe three. He rolls his eyes and wonders if Christopher would mind terribly if he switched it out with one where he looks a little less like a bum.
He probably would.
Ryan stops though, on the picture of Margaret. It's from college--he can tell by the way there's snow falling in the background and Margaret has a beret sitting on her dark hair--and Margaret is posing with two guys, one blond and the other dark-haired, all of them grinning at the camera. He sighs and looks away from the picture.
There is something familiar in the dark-haired guy's eyes and slightly crooked smile. Ryan's stomach lurches a little. It's Chicago, and Margaret looks young, happy the way she was before her mom died. The dark-haired guy's arm is around her shoulders, pulling her close. He looks at Christopher's dark, dark eyes and wonders if it's even occurred to him.
"Where did you find this picture?" he whispers to Christopher as he checks the line about "My mom and 2 of her friends from colege." Ryan almost forgets to add the second "l."
"Mom's picture boxes," Christopher says. He glues down a picture of his soccer coach. "I liked the snow."
Ryan nods. His hands are shaking. "It's a nice picture."
"I want it to snow like that here, so I can have a snow day," Christopher goes back to pasting a picture of Dylan, Brendon's dog, and Ryan tries to quell the awful feeling rushing up and down his skin.
***
He tells Brendon about it the next day, when he wanders across the quad with Thai food. Brendon's a third year PhD at UNLV, and it's not really his office as much as it is the office for him and five or six other PhD candidates. Ryan's never seen them in there, though, with Brendon. Brendon doesn't seem to mind having the office to himself.
"Are you sure that it's the Jon guy? I mean, brown eyes are common." Brendon bats his eyelashes to prove his point, before he lets his face fall into serious lines. "And if she liked him enough to keep his picture, she probably didn't think he was a total deadbeat."
Ryan runs a hand through his hair, pulling at it a little. "I don't know," he says. He feels like he's verging on something awful, the other shoe finally ready to drop.
"Dude, stop stressing over this." Brendon lays his hand over Ryan's, giving a small smile. "It's just a picture, and Christopher is just trying to find something a little normal. It would have to suck to not have your mom or your dad. I mean, he's a little young to get that family isn't just about that kind of stuff."
He nods and huffs out a sigh. "But he wanted to know his dad when she was alive."
"And I don't blame him." Brendon makes a face while Ryan freezes, everything suddenly on edge. "Wait, rewind, so I don't sound like an ass: I don't blame him for wanting to know what his dad is like, in as much as I can't imagine going through your whole life and not knowing, you know? He's just a name to him, and no one can give him anything else."
"Yeah." Ryan snags Brendon's half-eaten box of Thai from the desk, ignoring Brendon's squawk. "It's gonna suck more when he doesn't turn anything up."
"It is. But we're gonna be there for him and buy him lots of pizza and play way too many Bakugan games to make it up to him." Brendon reaches for his guitar, strumming it a little. "It'll all work out. You'll see. He's bound to lose interest soon."
***
Christopher does lose interest. After a week of frantic searching, he goes back to spending his computer time pissing around on Neopets trying to win a paintbrush or something for his little tiger pet. (Christopher explains it to him every few weeks, but Ryan still doesn't understand it.)
He doesn't seem sad, though, still whooping loudly when it's time for guitar lessons, or when it's Thursday and Ryan has another class to teach but Spencer's taking him out for minigolf and Chinese. His family tree comes back with an A+ written across the back in red ink, and Ryan thinks that they've managed to dodge a bullet.
Except when his phone rings a little after nine in the morning on a Sunday and Ryan barely has time to register the 773 area code before he answers it. "Hello?" he mumbles. He can hear the television on in the other room, sure sign that Christopher is awake already. Ryan should really be up, too.
"Hi," the man on the other end says, and he sounds nervous. "I'm looking for Ryan Ross?"
"Speaking." Ryan checks the clock on the side of his bed, and he rolls over again, pulling his blankets up to his head. "Who is this?"
"Uh, well," the guy says before he huffs out a little sigh, "this is Jon Walker."
Ryan hangs up the phone.
Jon's in the place now where he thinks things are great. He has a decent job, taking pictures for brochures, and it leaves him enough leisure time to fuck around with some bands and enough money to make sure that Tom eats when he and Danielle are on an off period. He's single, has been since Cassie found someone who could quit being a douchebag long enough to commit to her, but he goes home to two cats and a kickass puppy.
"Your life is boring, Jonny," Tom teases, and Jon realizes that he's giving narration.
He stares at the bottle in his hand. "This should be my last one, dude." He's not sure how many he's had at this point. That's probably a bad sign, but he doesn't much mind. Jon's schedule for the week is totally blown open now. He was supposed to do a gig in Kansas City before he flew to Vegas for some new club opening--Jon has all the details written down somewhere, so he doesn't have to try to remember them when he's three sheets to the wind--and then up to Juneau for a cruise ship opening, but Kansas City fell through and he has a sneaking suspicion that Juneau will too.
"My life is awesome, asshole," he says to Tom after a minute. "I'm in magazines."
Tom laughs again, and Jon can hear some of the other guys crashing around. He could take off his sunglasses to see, but he likes to imagine what it looks like, when Nick crashes into Sean and there's breaking glass. It's just cooler to picture it like a real fight, everything rushed and blurred, than it is to picture the reality.
Besides, Jon doesn't want to think about the huge beer spot that's going to be in his carpet tomorrow. Or on his couch. He leans against Tom. "You're not as warm as Marley."
"Yeah, I think you should make that your last one," Tom says, and he's laughing like a prick before he eases the bottle out of Jon's hand, taking a long pull from the bottle before he sets it on the table.
Jon's way past the point of being pleasantly drunk now, floating somewhere between resting his eyes and full on passed out for a while. He's pretty sure that Luciani trips over him at some point and someone suggests drawing on his face.
His nose twitches at the first touch of marker, and he should get up to yell at Tom or Sean. Sean's almost thirty-one; he shouldn't be standing for this shit. He gets as far as slitting his eyes open and seeing Sean hiding a smile behind his hand, far back enough that it can't be him drawing on Jon's face.
Jon thinks, Okay, good, before he curls on his side and drifts back towards the "passed out" end of the spectrum.
***
It's after three when he rolls off the couch the next day, his phone ringing shrilly. He can smell coffee in the kitchen, because Tom is maybe the best friend ever. He always puts on a pot before he leaves Jon's place.
Of course, when Jon goes into the kitchen, the coffee's been brewing long enough that it's down to maybe two cups of barely palatable sludge because Tom usually leaves around ten. Sometimes Jon dumps out the sludge for a new pot, but his eyes feel stuck to the inside of his eyelids and sludge sounds about right at the moment.
His phone rings again in the living room, but he lets it go, trying to concentrate on waking up. Marley will need walked sometime soon--hopefully, unless he's messed the floor by the door like he did last time Jon was too drunk to remember to get up--and he really should check in with main office, to make sure that he's still got a job going in Vegas.
Jon finishes the sludge off, wincing a little. He feels about fifteen percent more human, though, so he starts another pot. He uses the real coffee this time, wincing while he grinds the beans. It'll be worth the pounding later, when he has real coffee again.
He slides on his flipflops and grabs a hoodie before he takes Marley out into the yard around the back of his duplex, and he pulls his hood up as far as he can to block out the light. His sunglasses are MIA at the moment, and he wishes that he knew where he stuck them. The afternoon sun is piercing, hot and bright and awful. He loves Marley more than ever when he's finished and ready to go back inside, even if he thinks this means that it's time to play fetch instead of bemoan Jon's hangover.
Jon snags a cup of coffee and walks over the beer spot on the carpet, wrinkling his nose at the cool feeling on his toes. Then his phone rings again, and it's Tom.
"Hey, Tommy," he says, voice gruff.
"Jon, did you check your email yet?" Tom says, and his voice is tense, strained in a way that he hasn't heard since Tom was calling to tell him that he was kicked out of Bill and Mike's band.
"Nah, just woke up." He stretches over the couch and feels around for his laptop. He remembers Max trying to show Al something in Garageband the night before. "What time did you leave?"
"Elevenish," Tom says, voice still weird. "You need to read it, dude. Like. You have to read it."
Jon rolls his eyes as he boots up his computer, before he catches a glance at his reflection and the smeared, barely legible writing there. "Dude, my face."
Tom should laugh. Jon would definitely laugh if Tom woke up with a dick drawn on his face, but now Tom's quiet. "It's not sharpie. It'll wash off," he says.
"Okay," Jon says slowly. He's trying not to be freaked out. It's possible that Tom's just pulling an asshole move, taking advantage of Jon's hangover to fuck with him.
And then Jon gets his email open and he reads the forward from Tom.
And he wants to tell Tom to fuck off, because there is no way that it's real.
He can't though. He keeps staring at the email, the short little message. did u no margaret ross because i have a picture of u and her and she died and i want to find my dad and do you know who jonathon walker is.
Jon isn't hungover enough for powerpuking, but the feeling that rushes down his spine makes him feel like he should be at that point. He can't say anything to Tom, because he has to think about breathing more than he can think about if Tom's waiting for an answer.
Tom knows him well enough to know that not answering is the same as saying, "Yes, I read my fucking email."
He swallows twice before he can finally manage, "Fuck, Maggie died."
Tom laughs humorlessly. "Yeah."
Jon rubs a hand over his mouth. He hasn't shaved or bothered to trim his beard for almost a month, and he's starting to go a little bit mountain-man. "Fuck," he says again.
He remembers Maggie. Maggie Ross was in his one of his photography classes, transfering in fall semester of his second sophomore year. She was from Vegas, and she wore long skirts every day. The first time they fucked, three weeks into the semester, they were high and at a party. She said, "Your lisp is cute," when she crawled into his lap and he helped her push the skirt out of the way before she eased his jeans open, like there wasn't another couple making out on the other end of the couch.
Maggie hung around with him and Tom, and she tried to make snowmen on the window sill of Tom's apartment. He remembers the day Maggie left, just after finals week of their spring semester, how pale and wan she looked when she said, "It's just family shit, Jonny. I'll be back soon."
She stopped replying to his texts a few weeks after that, and she didn't update her facebook. Her phone shut off in July.
Jon hasn't thought about Maggie Ross for almost six years, not since he saw a pretty busker by the L, playing guitar with her long hippie skirt and curly brown hair. He threw a five into her guitar case. He remembers thinking that it was too bad, that they'd lost touch. They were friends who fucked, nothing more or less. He was there, and she was pretty.
And now Maggie Ross is dead. She's dead and her son is looking for his dad.
"Jonny?" Tom says.
"This has to be a joke," Jon says, after the cold shock of Maggie being dead has shrugged off. "This can't be--It's just fucking retarded, okay?" He pulls up Google and types in "Margaret Ross Vegas obituary son" in.
His stomach drops a little. The third option gives "beloved mother, Margaret Heather Ross" as the headline, and he clicks on it before he can help himself.
"Fuck," he whispers again, scrolling through the little snippet, trying not to fixate where it says "Margaret is survived by her son, Christopher." No other family is listed. He glances at the date, and the article is nearly two years old.
"Maggie's been gone for two years," he says to Tom.
"Shit." Tom exhales, and Jon knows he's smoking on the other end of the line.
"I know." Marley brings over one of his toys, the newspaper that squeaks too loud and high-pitched. Jon gets off the couch and runs a hand over his head. "Tom, shit. This kid."
"I know, Jonny." Tom sucks in a breath, and Jon gets up to go and get his cigarettes because he needs one now, even if his lease stipulates that he not smoke. He's pretty sure whoever made that call didn't get emails from kids looking for their dads.
He sits down heavily on the couch again, staring at the email. "Should I reply?"
Tom sighs. "I don't know. What do you say to your kid when he emails you like that?"
Jon shifts. The reasonable part of him reminds him that this kid might not be his at all, that Maggie might have just arbitrarily decided that Jon was the father. But that's not fair, since Maggie said she wasn't sleeping around. It's not fair, but he has a sudden surge of anger because this kid is obviously old enough to know how to use the internet. He's old enough to email, and he doesn't even know how to spell Jon's name.
He's had a son for years, and he never knew. He didn't even rate a call when Maggie died.
"I don't know." Jon ashes his cigarette into one of the plastic cups on the table. He takes a deep breath before he clicks on the kid's email address. He pauses when he reads it, rossgr86@verizon.net, but he feels just a little bit better that his--this kid--is at least living with a relative, unless he's sharp enough to come up with an email address that makes him nearly thirty.
Hey, Chris, he writes, My name is Jon Walker, and I did know your mom. We were friends in college. He doesn't know how to tack on "Am I your dad?" to the end of the email, so he sends it off.
"Fuck," he says to Tom. He doesn't feel hungover anymore, wide awake with his cigarette trembling in his hand.
"I know, Jonny," Tom says on the other end. And he doesn't, not really, but it feels fucking fantastic to hear him say it, to at least know that he's not reading these crazy fucking emails alone.
***
It takes Chris a day to email him back, and his email is long and rambling. Jon's got friends who will send some pretty incoherent texts from time to time, but Chris' go on for lines and lines without caps or commas.
He finds out that Chris lives in Vegas (im not aloud to tell you where) with his cousin, Ryan, and he's a second-grader. He likes Yu-Gi-Oh a little and Bakugan a lot. He takes guitar lessons and plays soccer, and Jon tries not to feel disappointed or angry that he's talking to a kid that he should know. He doesn't even know what Chris looks like, and he feels sort of like a creep for wanting to ask.
Chris doesn't tell him his last name or where he goes to school, just that he really doesn't like his teacher and he thinks reading is boring (but u cant tell ryan cuz he realy likes books) but science is cool.
Jon tries to tell him interesting things back. He tells Chris about Dylan and Clover and Marley, about Tom. He doesn't know if he should tell him anything about his mom, how appropriate that would be. He tells Chris about his job, how much he travels and he mentions that he's "coming out your way, to Vegas for a shoot."
Chris responds with Ryan's cellphone number. Apparently he can't give out his address or school, but Ryan never bothered to mention phone numbers.
Jon doesn't get the number, though, until he's in Vegas. He goes to his job on Saturday and takes a few preliminary shots to check the lighting, see how everything comes out on film, and when he comes back to his hotel, Chris' email is in his box with Ryan's number.
He calls Tom, and Tom whistles low. "The kid probably wants to meet you. Shouldn't have told him you were in Vegas for a bit."
Jon nods. He's sort of okay thinking that this might be his kid, but part of him, a huge part of him, is sure that he'll go and see this kid and it won't be his. He's just starting to come into the idea that he's a dad, and he likes thinking that Chris wants to get to know him. He likes the horribly spelled emails and finding out little things that they have in common. (They both hate carrots and like to eat celery with peanut butter and jelly. Chris thinks The Incredibles is the best Pixar movie ever, and he hates Monsters, Inc. Neither of them talk about Finding Nemo.)
"I don't think the cousin knows I'm in Vegas," Jon says, running a hand over his hair. "And, like, what would I say?"
"Just tell him it's for the kid."
"His name is Chris, Tom." It's not a bad name, for as flighty as Maggie was. He remembers her declaring her first born would named Horatio, girl or boy. He's really, really glad that his son isn't named after the only person who doesn't die in Hamlet.
"Right. So tell him it's for Chris." Tom sighs. "Jonny, you told him you would be here. You should go and see him. He's had some tough times, and I think letting him think his dad would disappoint him before he's even really met him would just make things shittier."
Jon hates when Tom's right, also most as much as he hates telling Tom he's right, so he says, "Okay. Thanks," into the phone before he hangs up and dials Ryan Ross' number with shaking fingers.
It rings almost four times before someone picks up the other end. "Hello?" He sounds sleep-muffled, and Jon winces when he sees the clock. He thought it was later; his timezones are still screwed up.
"Hi," he says. He looks across the room at the dresser mirror and has to turn away, so he can't see how nervous he looks. "I'm looking for Ryan Ross."
There's a moment and some rustling. "Speaking. Who is this?"
Jon winces and wishes that he had time to email Chris his number back, to know if Ryan was expecting this call. "Uh, well, this is Jon Walker."
He isn't expecting Ryan to hang up the phone, but his phone chimes that the call has ended.
Jon stares at his phone for a minute before he sucks in a breath and dials back. This time the phone is answered on the first ring. "Hi," Ryan says, voice very terse. "I didn't, um. How did you get this number?"
"Chris gave it to me. He's been emailing me?" Jon closes his eyes when Ryan sucks in a breath. "It's a Verizon email--"
"I see." Ryan doesn't say anything else, just breathing into the phone. "Where do you live?"
"Here and there. Like, I told Chris--"
"Christopher," Ryan says suddenly. "Margaret always called him by his full name."
Jon blinks and shrugs it off. Christopher is still not Horatio. "My job makes me travel a lot, and I mentioned to Chris that I was going to be in Vegas this week, so he gave me your number, to talk, I guess." Ryan doesn't respond, and something horrible slithers into Jon's brain. "Did he tell you that he was looking for me?"
"Yes," Ryan snaps. "He just didn't... I thought he gave up on looking." Ryan's voice gets a little quieter with every word, until he's barely whispering. "When are you coming to Vegas?"
"I'm here now," he says with a wince, even if Ryan can't see it. "I didn't get his email until after I flew in." He walks over to the hotel window. He can't really see the strip from it, just tops of some of the buildings.
"Oh," Ryan says softly. He has a nice voice, deep and gentle.
Jon rests his forehead against the glass and closes his eyes when he asks, "Could I see him?"
There's another long quiet moment, and Jon checks his phone to check the connection. He can't even hear Ryan breathe. "I guess we can work something out," he says, finally, and Jon bites down on a nervous smile because no one else can see it.
***
Jon's fifteen minutes late when the cab pulls into the little diner, in the middle of a small Vegas suburb. He could call it sleepy, relaxed, but that seems wrong, little houses nestled together in housing developments. Everything looks sort of the same, all beige-white faux-stucco and darker trim. He's never been to this part of Vegas, where real people live.
He thinks he would hate it. He misses Chicago and the houses that don't look exactly the same, that have real grass in their yards and sometimes red-brick streets that never plow right in the winter.
He overtips the cabbie, too distracted with the fact that he's late, that Chris is inside and he can see him to pay attention to little things like money. He's had thoughts about what Chris could look like, if he has a lisp like Jon or maybe Mike's ears that stick out under a mop of dark, dark hair. He could have Maggie's warm-honey eyes.
Jon takes a steadying breath before he goes into the diner. Most of the booths are empty; they arranged to meet between the lunch and dinner rushes, and he can see older couples, four teenagers, and a few single people pouring over thick books. He doesn't see a guy with a kid, and his stomach sinks.
He pulls his cellphone out to call Ryan as he steps to the greeter's podium. Ryan doesn't pick up, clicking over to Ryan's bored-sounding voice. You're reached Ryan Ross. I'm currently unavailable. Leave your message after the tone.
"Hey, it's me. Sorry I was late. Hope I didn't miss you," he says, and he sounds vaguely breathless when he talks.
Jon takes a menu with a smile and orders coffee, watching the door. He wants to call Ryan again, to demand what the fuck he's thinking, if he can tell Jon to meet him here and then not show or call. Jon wishes he'd been on time.
But then the door opens, and a younger guy comes in, maybe Jon's age. He's dressed oddly, like he'd meant to go to Sunday mass and fell into a bad country western instead, blazer open over a paisley silver-back shirt and a pink tie knotted around his throat.
The guy has a kid with him, and Jon doesn't think anything of it until the guy turns to look at him, and he has the same dark-honey eyes that Maggie had. They're larger, set wider, but it's the same color and it makes him shiver a little.
And he has a kid with him.
Jon feels like maybe the coffee was a bad idea as the guy--Ryan, the guy has to be Ryan--walks over to Jon's booth, clothing at the kid's hand, and Jon barely registers that Ryan is wearing blue jeans before he's starting at Chris.
Chris' hair is lighter than Jon's, and it curls differently, loose and wavy while Jon's would curl tighter and look almost coarse at that length. He has Maggie's nose, but his eyes are dark brown, smile a little crooked. He's not as fair as Maggie had been, once she was out of the Vegas sun. He's tall like Maggie, broad in the shoulders.
Jon looks at his nervous smile, though, his jawline, and he has to bite at his lips from saying Fuck, fuck, fuck over and over again because he can see himself in Chris so much, from his dark hair to his bashful little smile as he crawls into the other side of the booth, across from Jon.
Ryan sinks down heavily next to Chris, and Jon tries not to grin too much that he knew who Jon was just from looking at him across the diner.
Chris doesn't wait for Ryan to get settled before he says, "You're Jon Walker."
Jon hesitates and glances at Ryan. Ryan looks pale, but he nods, like he's telling Jon that it's okay, that he can tell Chris the truth and Ryan won't get upset.
"Yeah, that's me. Jonathan Jacob."
Chris laughs into his hands, hiding it like he doesn't know if he's allowed to laugh. "Jingleheimer Schmidt."
Jon shakes his head, snorting softly. He remembers being Christopher's age and hating that song more than anything else in the world, to the point where he wanted to change his name to something awesome like Michelangelo. "His name is my name too," he says gravely, smiling when Chris laughs again, louder this time.
The table lapses into silence then, Ryan studying the menu like he's never had diner food before, and Chris just flat out staring at Jon. Jon keeps trying to decide where Chris got each feature, like the color is the same rich brown that Jon's mom has, but the curls are definitely Maggie's. Ryan has the same hair, his a little darker than hers had been.
Jon might stare at Ryan a few times, too, when Ryan sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and looks like he is just about to say something before he shakes his head.
Chris breaks the silence again. "How long are you here?"
"Four days, then it's off to Alaska and Connecticut." Jon takes another sip of his coffee. It's gone cold. "Then I'll go back home to the cats."
"Dylan and Clover," Chris says seriously. He unrolls his silverware and begins to set his place. He hasn't opened his menu.
"Yeah," Jon says, and he can't help but to smile that his kid remembers those small details. "And Marley."
"My guitar teacher and his boyfriend have a dog named Dylan," Chris says then, tapping his knife on the table. "She's really skinny."
Ryan's eyes snap up from the menu, and he gives Jon a slightly stricken look, like he can't believe that Chris would just say that without any warning about that.
He shrugs it off. "So, what do you recommend?" he asks, more for Ryan than for Chris.
"Ryan usually gets the palace sundae," Chris says, and he pushes up on his knees to open Jon's menu for him, flipping back to the deserts. "It's like thirteen different kinds of ice cream, and someday I am gonna order it, too, and eat it faster than Ryan." He jostles the table, and Jon's coffee sloshes up onto Ryan's open menu.
Jon looks at the mess, and Ryan's tight, drawn expression as he dutifully reaches for the napkins. Jon moves just a little faster, grabbing a handful and setting them in the center of the table before he begins to wipe Ryan's menu quickly.
He gives Ryan's skinny body an assessing look, like he's trying to tell were Ryan could possible fit thirteen scoops of ice cream in it. "Thirteen scoops, huh?" he says, voice a little teasing.
"Thirteen different flavors," Ryan says, and he's smiling a little as he closes the menu while Jon is trying to wipe it off. "Two scoops each."
"Holy shit," Jon says before he can help it, and Chris' eyes go a little wide.
"We don't have a swear jar or anything," Ryan says, and he's still smiling. "Brendon--"
"My guitar teacher" Chris pipes up. "He's, like, really, really cool. He's beaten every Mario game ever and he can like play most of the Guitar Hero games on Extreme and get perfects."
Ryan rolls his eyes, shaking his head, and there's something almost fond and exasperated in his face, like he's used to Chris extolling Brendon's apparent coolness to everyone he meets. "Brendon can also kill a yak from two hundred miles away," he says, voice dry.
Jon can't help grinning at Ryan then. "That's telekinesis, Kyle," he says.
And then Ryan smiles, really smiles, with his eyes warm, and there are tiny, tiny poodles embroidered onto his tie and the paisley pattern of his shirt is green and pink and it shouldn't look good on anyone.
But he's fucking gorgeous, and Jon feels the smile shoot right into him, make him feel warm and cold at the same time, and he almost misses that his son, some kid that he didn't know existed two weeks ago, is humming "Wonderboy" under his breath while he kicks Jon's side of the booth. He should be annoyed by it, he thinks the people sitting behind him already are, but he can't do anything but grin back at Ryan.
Continues here
Jon/Ryan, past Jon/OFC (Spencer/Haley, Brendon/Shane) | NC-17 | ~31k words
Warning: kidfic, au
Ryan Ross never really expected to be a father, much less enjoy it, until he became the guardian of his young cousin. He doesn't even realize how well and truly happy he is until the boy asks if he can find his real father--a man he never met. Ryan doesn't know how to say no. He isn't, though, expecting Jon Walker to show up in Vegas, wanting to get to know his son.
Jon Walker's life is boring, but he's happy. He's definitely not expecting to get an email from a little boy claiming to be his son, and, what's more, he's surprised to realize how much he wants to get to know the boy... and his guardian.
Harlequin Romance AU! Based on the summary for Once Upon a Christmas, written for bandomficathon. Thank you to themoononastick for the wonderful beta, and to summertea and stephanometra for not calling me ridiculous when I come to them with ideas.
Ryan Ross used to wonder what kind of children he would want, someday. Usually he imagined himself with a daughter and ribbons and bows that would never stay tied. He didn't imagine Yu-Gi-Oh cards and practice schedules.
He used to wonder about getting married or if he'd end up with joint custody, if Spencer would still be around and if the kid would call him "Uncle Spencer."
Christopher doesn't; Christopher doesn't even call Ryan "Uncle Ryan." He's just Ryan, the same as he's always been, only now Christopher huffs loudly and crosses his arms when Ryan doesn't respond, when he used to tug on Ryan's shirt or call for his mom.
Christopher can't call for his mom now, and he hasn't been able to for almost two years.
"Ryan," he says again, and he screws up his face, lips pursed. "I'm hungry."
It's after five, Ryan realizes with a start, and he puts his pen down. He'd been jotting down words that he thinks would work in a poem or maybe a story, doodling flowers on the sides of the pages, and Ryan likes the idea of the words waiting for him to wander back and pick up again, like he's just momentarily walked away from a game of skip-rope.
"Sorry," he says, rubbing his eyes even though there's ink across his palms. He opens the freezer, and there's nothing but the weird ice cream that Haley bought months ago, that neither of them would eat. He winces and opens the fridge, and it's similarly bare. "Oh."
"I was gonna make a cheese sandwich, but we just have ends left." Christopher frowns.
Ryan rubs his eyes again, because he's tired suddenly. He has to go grocery shopping, because Spencer will kill him if he sees the fridge is empty. "Okay. Get your stuff, and we can do drive through on the way to Brendon's."
"Awesome!" Christopher takes guitar lessons with Brendon on the nights that Ryan has classes to teach, lessons that seem to conveniently end in video games and movie watching, and Ryan's fairly positive that it's having a negative impact on Christopher's vocabulary. "Can we go to Wendy's? I wanna get a frosty, and can we get one for Brendon? With extra fries?"
Ryan nods because he won't have to clean up that mess. "Whatever you want, buddy."
That makes Christopher stop and make a face at Ryan. "I am not 'buddy.' That's a baby name, Ryan. I'm too old to be called that." His dark eyes are serious when he says it, arms folded over his chest.
He's pretty sure that when he imagined being a father he didn't really think about what would happen when the baby stopped being something cute that you could dress how you wanted or would stay when you put it down. He didn't think of a real kid, with opinions on how cool or embarrassing things could be, and he certainly didn't imagine that he'd have to get used to always being a step behind the kid as it grew up.
"Sorry, Christopher," he says, grinning. "I forgot."
"That's because you're old," Christopher says gleefully, when he's managed to wrangle his book bag and guitar case. Ryan takes the guitar case, and Christopher turns off the lights. "You forget everything."
"Right, I forgot." He grins when Christopher groans, before they're headed down the condo stairs and out into the parking lot.
***
Ryan runs late getting back and forth to his class, spilling coffee on himself just before he comes into the door. His class giggles at him, and he doesn't take it too personally.
His job isn't glamorous. He teaches at UNLV three days a week, one class in the history of the short story and two freshman comp classes, and he's done that for roughly five years now, since he came back to Las Vegas after graduate school. It doesn't escape him that he used to bemoan being stuck in Vegas and never going anywhere. He teaches at the community college now, too, at night, but that was only to pick up the extra cash after Christopher.
Ryan still hangs out with Spencer and Brendon, even though their shitty little garage band never went anywhere. Spencer manages a night club now, and he's talking about going part-owner next year. He lives at Ryan's complex, three condos down, just like when they were kids.
It's not glamorous or exciting, but he can't say that he's bored. He still writes when he finds time, in between making extra runs to the grocery store for oranges that he forgot or Triaminic when Christopher gets a cold. He goes to parent-teacher conferences
He wouldn't change his life for anything. Ryan loves having Christopher, on most days. He would, however, change the night his cousin Margaret, Christopher's mother, died. Margaret was his only cousin on his father's side, his uncle's daughter. She was only a year or so older than Ryan, and she had been his best friend outside of Spencer when they were little.
Still, he wishes there was something that could have been done. She was tired, driving home from her job at the casino, and the state troopers said she fell asleep. His uncle died when they were kids, and Margaret's mother passed just before she found out she was pregnant with Christopher.
Ryan wishes that Margaret was still here, so she could see how Christopher is growing up, the way he can see her in Christopher when he rolls his eyes or huffs at Ryan. She doesn't get to see Christmas concerts or the soccer trophies.
He doesn't dwell on it, though, mostly. He likes coming over to Brendon's after classes and bitching about the idiots that can't even analyze Anne Sexton, when Christopher and Shane are trying to see who can get the best score on Guitar Hero. Christopher doesn't have his mom, and he's never had his dad, but he thinks that maybe the five of them--Ryan, Brendon, Shane, Spencer, and Haley--almost make up for that.
***
He should have figured, then, that when everything was starting to fall into place and feel right, for the first time since he told the state police that he was Christopher's only family, after he was given a piece of paper for full legal and physical custody of one Christopher Julian Ross, that everything starts to change.
He doesn't know why he's surprised when he finds Christopher crumpling up an assignment viciously, face red and stressed. His dark hair is sticking up at crazy angles, and he won't look at Ryan when he comes and sits down on the couch across from him.
Ryan's still not very good with red faces and sullen silences. He tries to remember what his father used to do, when he was like this. It seems too long ago, and he mostly remembers fighting and slamming doors when he was little.
It's possible that taking Christopher has made him appreciate his father a touch more, and Christopher is only eight. Ryan still has the teen years to come.
"Hey, so," he says, because he's seen Brendon say that to Christopher before, when he's upset. He rubs his hands on his trousers. Christopher doesn't look up. "You wanna tell me why you're, uh, ruining that paper?"
"No," Christopher says. He uncrumples the paper, looks at it, and his face goes red again. He's blinking a lot. "It's just dumb stuff." He juts his chin out and his eyelashes are wet.
Oh, Ryan thinks. He moves to sit next to Christopher, looking down as his shoes. "Can I read it, then?"
"It's just a stupid school project," Christopher says, and he throws the paper down. "I'm not gonna do it, 'cause it's stupid."
Ryan reaches down and carefully picks up the paper, smoothing it over his leg. He gets as far as seeing the cutesy graphic of a tree and apples and the dancing letters spelling out "Family Tree!" "Oh," he says, softly. He can't think of anything else to say.
"We have to show them to the class," Christopher whispers, and he rubs his nose with his sleeve.
Ryan's throat is tight. He remembers shitty assignments like this. His own mom ran off when he was little, too little to remember much about her besides how she only liked yellow soap and she used to sing "You are My Sunshine" to him, but his dad knew things about her family.
He listens to Christopher sniffle a little bit more, folding the paper up into fourths and setting it on Christopher's folder. "I could talk to your teacher," he murmurs.
Christopher leans against Ryan and doesn't say anything, doesn't even nod. His face is wet against Ryan's arm, but Ryan doesn't mention it, moving just enough that he can rub soothing circles into Christopher's back.
They go out for pizza that night, and Ryan lets Christopher fall asleep watching old episodes of Futurama.
***
Ryan calls into the school the next day from work, and he schedules an appointment with Miss O'Malley, Christopher's second grade teacher. He's late, of course, pulling into guest parking just as the buses are rumbling away.
He signs himself in at the front door and gets his visitor pass. It takes him another ten minutes to actually find the classroom. "Sorry," he says as he slips in.
Christopher is still there, head pillowed in his arms. There's a new scrape on his elbow, and he's kicking his feet against the ground petulantly. .
Miss O'Malley looks about Ryan's age, blonde and smiling with long earrings that chime when she moves her head. "Hi," she says with a wide grin. "You must be Christopher's father. I'm glad to meet you."
Ryan sees Christopher's shoulders freeze a little. "No, I'm his cousin, actually," Ryan says, and he moves next to Christopher, rubbing at his neck. "We're cousins," he repeats, and Christopher looks up at him with a ghost of a smile.
"Oh," Miss O'Malley says, and she folds her hands at her desk. "I'm sorry. I just assumed..." She trails off before tapping her pencil off of her desk. "You had concerns about the family tree assignment?" she says, but her voice is less sure now, like she's already starting to see the problem.
Ryan sighs and keeps rubbing Christopher's neck. He wishes that Christopher had gone home to the condo. He knows to go to Spencer and Haley's when Ryan's not home, and Haley could have given him cookies. (Ryan's also pretty sure that he shouldn't want to spoil the kid whenever he thinks about Christopher being sad and alone, but he can't really make himself care.)
"We were wondering... Family trees are sensitive subjects, since his mother passed," Ryan says slowly, trying to read how upset Christopher is without seeing his face. "He never got the chance to meet his father."
"Oh," Miss O'Malley says, and she blinks at Ryan, then at the tiny ball Christopher is trying to pull himself into at his desk. "I see."
"I don't mean any disrespect," Ryan says. "It's just--"
"No, no," she says, and she flashes him a tight smile. "Give me a weekend to think about how I can modify the assignment."
Some of the tension leaks out of Christopher's shoulders, and Ryan nods. "Thank you," he says. "We don't mean to be a nuisance, but--"
"I understand," she says, and she lets Ryan get Christopher together, shouldering his Transformers backpack so Christopher can stuff his hands into his jeans pockets. He doesn't look at Ryan on the ride home, going up into his room and slamming the door.
He doesn't come out for dinner, the left over pizza from the night before.
***
Miss O'Malley promises to have a new assignment on Monday, and Ryan figures it's done. He's kept Christopher from having to deal with the fact that his dad's some deadbeat. They have a weekend ahead of them. Ryan wonders if Christopher would want to hangout on the foldout couch all day and marathon Harry Potter.
He goes over the little bit of homework that Christopher has over breakfast, the math worksheet and the new week's spelling words. The math worksheet takes a little longer than it should; Ryan has to count and make sure 7x8 really equals 56. He was always bad at the 7 multiples.
Christopher hovers close, bouncing on his feet when Ryan puts the math sheet away and reaches for his homework tracker to mark it off. "Are you okay?" he asks, and he grins a little. "Did Brendon slip you coffee?"
"Ew, no," Christopher says, wrinkling his nose. He doesn't say it as emphatically as usual, though, smile sliding off his face too fast.
Ryan doesn't know why he's surprised by what comes next.
"Would you be sad if... Would it make you sad if I wanted to look for my dad?" Christopher asks, when Ryan's checking over his spelling homework. He can barely hear him, voice soft and low, and there's something horribly shy to the way Christopher's saying it, fearful, like Ryan would forbid him the chance to get to know his father.
He puts down the pencil and folds his hands. There's so much that Christopher doesn't know, about the months that Ryan didn't know if Christopher was still going to be there in the morning; if CPS had managed to track down Margaret's old boyfriend in fucking Illinois when Christopher had never been out of Nevada (until Brendon invited them both to Disneyland with his family, three months after Ryan got the call).
He has Christopher now; Christopher is under his care and protection and guardianship, but it still makes him a little sick to think that there is a guy out there that could challenge his right to custody.
Challenge and win, because Ryan's only Christopher's second cousin.
"Christopher, it's okay. We're getting you something else to do," he whispers, because he has to say something. He can't not. He tries not to look like he's been gut-punched.
"No, not just because of that, or not all because of that." Christopher looks miserable before he pulls his bangs in front of his face and chews on his lip. "Just, like, I wanted to, before, and I didn't want to make Mom really sad." Christopher's voice goes soft on "mom," still does after two years, and Ryan can only begin to imagine what that feels like. He still has a weird ache inside when he talks about his dad, and his dad's been gone ten years.
Ryan reaches over and smoothes Christopher's hair. They aren't big on hugs. "How do you want to look for him?"
"Just the computer, like for school. Only for my dad." Christopher looks up at Ryan, and his eyes are bright and hopeful, and Ryan hates that he can't say no to that look. He should be able to say no; he's not supposed to spoil the kid.
"Don't give out our address, and don't give anyone your last name or your school." Ryan picks up his pencil again and circles "oposite," where Christopher has forgotten a "P."
He shouldn't be worried. The "Jonathon Walker" on Christopher's birth certificate hasn't been listed anywhere. Margaret didn't leave a mention of him in any of her journals or emails; Ryan looked through them when he was packing up her things. Spencer sometimes theorizes that he doesn't actually exist.
It says a lot about what Margaret thought of the guy that Christopher's last name is "Ross," but he can't say any of that to Christopher and he just smiles back when Christopher grins at him.
***
"You're what?" Spencer says, loud over the thudding bass. "Ry, you can't let an eight-year-old google for his sperm donor. There are a ton of sick fucks out there that would say they're anything to-"
"I'm right here, Spence, and I'm watching what he clicks on." Christopher's got Ryan's old laptop in his lap, carefully pecking out letters on the keyboard to try and refine his search. His tongue is sticking out of the corner of his mouth.
"It's the internet, and you don't even know what this guy looks like. He could be in, like, Leavenworth for all you know." Spencer's office door is closed now, and the music is a little less overwhelming. "He could be in Italy or something crazy."
"I know, Spence." He sighs and rubs his eyes. "You didn't see how upset he was, though. If this makes him feel better--"
"Such a push over," Spencer grumbles on the other end of the line, and there's the faint rustle of papers and then Ryan can hear him flopping onto his office couch.
"I know." He watches Christopher scroll through another page, and he tries not to feel a little relieved that nothing seems to be turning up. He doesn't expect anything to, after all. If the CPS couldn't find anything, the chance of an eight year old getting a solid lead is rather slim.
Spencer sighs. "This is going to bite you in the ass, you know."
Ryan shrugs a little and toys with one of Christopher's curls. "It will not." He won't say that Christopher's looking for something hopeless when Christopher is so close.
He's doing his best to sabotage it anyway. He knows that Margaret never called Walker by his full name. In her letters, she always called him, "Jon," and when Ryan asked her if Walker was going to come and help her with Christopher, she looked at him, steely-eyed, and said any idiot who lets people call him "JWalk" has no business raising a baby.
Both of those nicknames could help Christopher, but Ryan doesn't say anything. Christopher clicks on a link about "Captain Jonathon Walker," who's been dead for roughly fifty years.
"I think we'll be okay, Spence," he says before he hangs up and lets Christopher tell him about the battalion that Captain Jonathon Walker served in.
***
Christopher's search is put on hold so he can work on his school project. It's a modified family tree, important people in his life. He's pasted his school picture in the middle with little rays shooting out from it. There's a picture of Spencer and Haley at a carnival, Haley shooting Spencer with a water gun and captioned, "Spencer and Haley always let me hav pie they hav 2 dogs."
He corrects Christopher's spelling on that line and then on the line beneath a picture of Brendon and Shane together. His own picture is one that Spencer obviously gave to him, from the years before Ryan had to care if a little kid would see him hung over, eyes red and face covered with three days' worth of stubble, maybe three. He rolls his eyes and wonders if Christopher would mind terribly if he switched it out with one where he looks a little less like a bum.
He probably would.
Ryan stops though, on the picture of Margaret. It's from college--he can tell by the way there's snow falling in the background and Margaret has a beret sitting on her dark hair--and Margaret is posing with two guys, one blond and the other dark-haired, all of them grinning at the camera. He sighs and looks away from the picture.
There is something familiar in the dark-haired guy's eyes and slightly crooked smile. Ryan's stomach lurches a little. It's Chicago, and Margaret looks young, happy the way she was before her mom died. The dark-haired guy's arm is around her shoulders, pulling her close. He looks at Christopher's dark, dark eyes and wonders if it's even occurred to him.
"Where did you find this picture?" he whispers to Christopher as he checks the line about "My mom and 2 of her friends from colege." Ryan almost forgets to add the second "l."
"Mom's picture boxes," Christopher says. He glues down a picture of his soccer coach. "I liked the snow."
Ryan nods. His hands are shaking. "It's a nice picture."
"I want it to snow like that here, so I can have a snow day," Christopher goes back to pasting a picture of Dylan, Brendon's dog, and Ryan tries to quell the awful feeling rushing up and down his skin.
***
He tells Brendon about it the next day, when he wanders across the quad with Thai food. Brendon's a third year PhD at UNLV, and it's not really his office as much as it is the office for him and five or six other PhD candidates. Ryan's never seen them in there, though, with Brendon. Brendon doesn't seem to mind having the office to himself.
"Are you sure that it's the Jon guy? I mean, brown eyes are common." Brendon bats his eyelashes to prove his point, before he lets his face fall into serious lines. "And if she liked him enough to keep his picture, she probably didn't think he was a total deadbeat."
Ryan runs a hand through his hair, pulling at it a little. "I don't know," he says. He feels like he's verging on something awful, the other shoe finally ready to drop.
"Dude, stop stressing over this." Brendon lays his hand over Ryan's, giving a small smile. "It's just a picture, and Christopher is just trying to find something a little normal. It would have to suck to not have your mom or your dad. I mean, he's a little young to get that family isn't just about that kind of stuff."
He nods and huffs out a sigh. "But he wanted to know his dad when she was alive."
"And I don't blame him." Brendon makes a face while Ryan freezes, everything suddenly on edge. "Wait, rewind, so I don't sound like an ass: I don't blame him for wanting to know what his dad is like, in as much as I can't imagine going through your whole life and not knowing, you know? He's just a name to him, and no one can give him anything else."
"Yeah." Ryan snags Brendon's half-eaten box of Thai from the desk, ignoring Brendon's squawk. "It's gonna suck more when he doesn't turn anything up."
"It is. But we're gonna be there for him and buy him lots of pizza and play way too many Bakugan games to make it up to him." Brendon reaches for his guitar, strumming it a little. "It'll all work out. You'll see. He's bound to lose interest soon."
***
Christopher does lose interest. After a week of frantic searching, he goes back to spending his computer time pissing around on Neopets trying to win a paintbrush or something for his little tiger pet. (Christopher explains it to him every few weeks, but Ryan still doesn't understand it.)
He doesn't seem sad, though, still whooping loudly when it's time for guitar lessons, or when it's Thursday and Ryan has another class to teach but Spencer's taking him out for minigolf and Chinese. His family tree comes back with an A+ written across the back in red ink, and Ryan thinks that they've managed to dodge a bullet.
Except when his phone rings a little after nine in the morning on a Sunday and Ryan barely has time to register the 773 area code before he answers it. "Hello?" he mumbles. He can hear the television on in the other room, sure sign that Christopher is awake already. Ryan should really be up, too.
"Hi," the man on the other end says, and he sounds nervous. "I'm looking for Ryan Ross?"
"Speaking." Ryan checks the clock on the side of his bed, and he rolls over again, pulling his blankets up to his head. "Who is this?"
"Uh, well," the guy says before he huffs out a little sigh, "this is Jon Walker."
Ryan hangs up the phone.
Jon's in the place now where he thinks things are great. He has a decent job, taking pictures for brochures, and it leaves him enough leisure time to fuck around with some bands and enough money to make sure that Tom eats when he and Danielle are on an off period. He's single, has been since Cassie found someone who could quit being a douchebag long enough to commit to her, but he goes home to two cats and a kickass puppy.
"Your life is boring, Jonny," Tom teases, and Jon realizes that he's giving narration.
He stares at the bottle in his hand. "This should be my last one, dude." He's not sure how many he's had at this point. That's probably a bad sign, but he doesn't much mind. Jon's schedule for the week is totally blown open now. He was supposed to do a gig in Kansas City before he flew to Vegas for some new club opening--Jon has all the details written down somewhere, so he doesn't have to try to remember them when he's three sheets to the wind--and then up to Juneau for a cruise ship opening, but Kansas City fell through and he has a sneaking suspicion that Juneau will too.
"My life is awesome, asshole," he says to Tom after a minute. "I'm in magazines."
Tom laughs again, and Jon can hear some of the other guys crashing around. He could take off his sunglasses to see, but he likes to imagine what it looks like, when Nick crashes into Sean and there's breaking glass. It's just cooler to picture it like a real fight, everything rushed and blurred, than it is to picture the reality.
Besides, Jon doesn't want to think about the huge beer spot that's going to be in his carpet tomorrow. Or on his couch. He leans against Tom. "You're not as warm as Marley."
"Yeah, I think you should make that your last one," Tom says, and he's laughing like a prick before he eases the bottle out of Jon's hand, taking a long pull from the bottle before he sets it on the table.
Jon's way past the point of being pleasantly drunk now, floating somewhere between resting his eyes and full on passed out for a while. He's pretty sure that Luciani trips over him at some point and someone suggests drawing on his face.
His nose twitches at the first touch of marker, and he should get up to yell at Tom or Sean. Sean's almost thirty-one; he shouldn't be standing for this shit. He gets as far as slitting his eyes open and seeing Sean hiding a smile behind his hand, far back enough that it can't be him drawing on Jon's face.
Jon thinks, Okay, good, before he curls on his side and drifts back towards the "passed out" end of the spectrum.
***
It's after three when he rolls off the couch the next day, his phone ringing shrilly. He can smell coffee in the kitchen, because Tom is maybe the best friend ever. He always puts on a pot before he leaves Jon's place.
Of course, when Jon goes into the kitchen, the coffee's been brewing long enough that it's down to maybe two cups of barely palatable sludge because Tom usually leaves around ten. Sometimes Jon dumps out the sludge for a new pot, but his eyes feel stuck to the inside of his eyelids and sludge sounds about right at the moment.
His phone rings again in the living room, but he lets it go, trying to concentrate on waking up. Marley will need walked sometime soon--hopefully, unless he's messed the floor by the door like he did last time Jon was too drunk to remember to get up--and he really should check in with main office, to make sure that he's still got a job going in Vegas.
Jon finishes the sludge off, wincing a little. He feels about fifteen percent more human, though, so he starts another pot. He uses the real coffee this time, wincing while he grinds the beans. It'll be worth the pounding later, when he has real coffee again.
He slides on his flipflops and grabs a hoodie before he takes Marley out into the yard around the back of his duplex, and he pulls his hood up as far as he can to block out the light. His sunglasses are MIA at the moment, and he wishes that he knew where he stuck them. The afternoon sun is piercing, hot and bright and awful. He loves Marley more than ever when he's finished and ready to go back inside, even if he thinks this means that it's time to play fetch instead of bemoan Jon's hangover.
Jon snags a cup of coffee and walks over the beer spot on the carpet, wrinkling his nose at the cool feeling on his toes. Then his phone rings again, and it's Tom.
"Hey, Tommy," he says, voice gruff.
"Jon, did you check your email yet?" Tom says, and his voice is tense, strained in a way that he hasn't heard since Tom was calling to tell him that he was kicked out of Bill and Mike's band.
"Nah, just woke up." He stretches over the couch and feels around for his laptop. He remembers Max trying to show Al something in Garageband the night before. "What time did you leave?"
"Elevenish," Tom says, voice still weird. "You need to read it, dude. Like. You have to read it."
Jon rolls his eyes as he boots up his computer, before he catches a glance at his reflection and the smeared, barely legible writing there. "Dude, my face."
Tom should laugh. Jon would definitely laugh if Tom woke up with a dick drawn on his face, but now Tom's quiet. "It's not sharpie. It'll wash off," he says.
"Okay," Jon says slowly. He's trying not to be freaked out. It's possible that Tom's just pulling an asshole move, taking advantage of Jon's hangover to fuck with him.
And then Jon gets his email open and he reads the forward from Tom.
And he wants to tell Tom to fuck off, because there is no way that it's real.
He can't though. He keeps staring at the email, the short little message. did u no margaret ross because i have a picture of u and her and she died and i want to find my dad and do you know who jonathon walker is.
Jon isn't hungover enough for powerpuking, but the feeling that rushes down his spine makes him feel like he should be at that point. He can't say anything to Tom, because he has to think about breathing more than he can think about if Tom's waiting for an answer.
Tom knows him well enough to know that not answering is the same as saying, "Yes, I read my fucking email."
He swallows twice before he can finally manage, "Fuck, Maggie died."
Tom laughs humorlessly. "Yeah."
Jon rubs a hand over his mouth. He hasn't shaved or bothered to trim his beard for almost a month, and he's starting to go a little bit mountain-man. "Fuck," he says again.
He remembers Maggie. Maggie Ross was in his one of his photography classes, transfering in fall semester of his second sophomore year. She was from Vegas, and she wore long skirts every day. The first time they fucked, three weeks into the semester, they were high and at a party. She said, "Your lisp is cute," when she crawled into his lap and he helped her push the skirt out of the way before she eased his jeans open, like there wasn't another couple making out on the other end of the couch.
Maggie hung around with him and Tom, and she tried to make snowmen on the window sill of Tom's apartment. He remembers the day Maggie left, just after finals week of their spring semester, how pale and wan she looked when she said, "It's just family shit, Jonny. I'll be back soon."
She stopped replying to his texts a few weeks after that, and she didn't update her facebook. Her phone shut off in July.
Jon hasn't thought about Maggie Ross for almost six years, not since he saw a pretty busker by the L, playing guitar with her long hippie skirt and curly brown hair. He threw a five into her guitar case. He remembers thinking that it was too bad, that they'd lost touch. They were friends who fucked, nothing more or less. He was there, and she was pretty.
And now Maggie Ross is dead. She's dead and her son is looking for his dad.
"Jonny?" Tom says.
"This has to be a joke," Jon says, after the cold shock of Maggie being dead has shrugged off. "This can't be--It's just fucking retarded, okay?" He pulls up Google and types in "Margaret Ross Vegas obituary son" in.
His stomach drops a little. The third option gives "beloved mother, Margaret Heather Ross" as the headline, and he clicks on it before he can help himself.
"Fuck," he whispers again, scrolling through the little snippet, trying not to fixate where it says "Margaret is survived by her son, Christopher." No other family is listed. He glances at the date, and the article is nearly two years old.
"Maggie's been gone for two years," he says to Tom.
"Shit." Tom exhales, and Jon knows he's smoking on the other end of the line.
"I know." Marley brings over one of his toys, the newspaper that squeaks too loud and high-pitched. Jon gets off the couch and runs a hand over his head. "Tom, shit. This kid."
"I know, Jonny." Tom sucks in a breath, and Jon gets up to go and get his cigarettes because he needs one now, even if his lease stipulates that he not smoke. He's pretty sure whoever made that call didn't get emails from kids looking for their dads.
He sits down heavily on the couch again, staring at the email. "Should I reply?"
Tom sighs. "I don't know. What do you say to your kid when he emails you like that?"
Jon shifts. The reasonable part of him reminds him that this kid might not be his at all, that Maggie might have just arbitrarily decided that Jon was the father. But that's not fair, since Maggie said she wasn't sleeping around. It's not fair, but he has a sudden surge of anger because this kid is obviously old enough to know how to use the internet. He's old enough to email, and he doesn't even know how to spell Jon's name.
He's had a son for years, and he never knew. He didn't even rate a call when Maggie died.
"I don't know." Jon ashes his cigarette into one of the plastic cups on the table. He takes a deep breath before he clicks on the kid's email address. He pauses when he reads it, rossgr86@verizon.net, but he feels just a little bit better that his--this kid--is at least living with a relative, unless he's sharp enough to come up with an email address that makes him nearly thirty.
Hey, Chris, he writes, My name is Jon Walker, and I did know your mom. We were friends in college. He doesn't know how to tack on "Am I your dad?" to the end of the email, so he sends it off.
"Fuck," he says to Tom. He doesn't feel hungover anymore, wide awake with his cigarette trembling in his hand.
"I know, Jonny," Tom says on the other end. And he doesn't, not really, but it feels fucking fantastic to hear him say it, to at least know that he's not reading these crazy fucking emails alone.
***
It takes Chris a day to email him back, and his email is long and rambling. Jon's got friends who will send some pretty incoherent texts from time to time, but Chris' go on for lines and lines without caps or commas.
He finds out that Chris lives in Vegas (im not aloud to tell you where) with his cousin, Ryan, and he's a second-grader. He likes Yu-Gi-Oh a little and Bakugan a lot. He takes guitar lessons and plays soccer, and Jon tries not to feel disappointed or angry that he's talking to a kid that he should know. He doesn't even know what Chris looks like, and he feels sort of like a creep for wanting to ask.
Chris doesn't tell him his last name or where he goes to school, just that he really doesn't like his teacher and he thinks reading is boring (but u cant tell ryan cuz he realy likes books) but science is cool.
Jon tries to tell him interesting things back. He tells Chris about Dylan and Clover and Marley, about Tom. He doesn't know if he should tell him anything about his mom, how appropriate that would be. He tells Chris about his job, how much he travels and he mentions that he's "coming out your way, to Vegas for a shoot."
Chris responds with Ryan's cellphone number. Apparently he can't give out his address or school, but Ryan never bothered to mention phone numbers.
Jon doesn't get the number, though, until he's in Vegas. He goes to his job on Saturday and takes a few preliminary shots to check the lighting, see how everything comes out on film, and when he comes back to his hotel, Chris' email is in his box with Ryan's number.
He calls Tom, and Tom whistles low. "The kid probably wants to meet you. Shouldn't have told him you were in Vegas for a bit."
Jon nods. He's sort of okay thinking that this might be his kid, but part of him, a huge part of him, is sure that he'll go and see this kid and it won't be his. He's just starting to come into the idea that he's a dad, and he likes thinking that Chris wants to get to know him. He likes the horribly spelled emails and finding out little things that they have in common. (They both hate carrots and like to eat celery with peanut butter and jelly. Chris thinks The Incredibles is the best Pixar movie ever, and he hates Monsters, Inc. Neither of them talk about Finding Nemo.)
"I don't think the cousin knows I'm in Vegas," Jon says, running a hand over his hair. "And, like, what would I say?"
"Just tell him it's for the kid."
"His name is Chris, Tom." It's not a bad name, for as flighty as Maggie was. He remembers her declaring her first born would named Horatio, girl or boy. He's really, really glad that his son isn't named after the only person who doesn't die in Hamlet.
"Right. So tell him it's for Chris." Tom sighs. "Jonny, you told him you would be here. You should go and see him. He's had some tough times, and I think letting him think his dad would disappoint him before he's even really met him would just make things shittier."
Jon hates when Tom's right, also most as much as he hates telling Tom he's right, so he says, "Okay. Thanks," into the phone before he hangs up and dials Ryan Ross' number with shaking fingers.
It rings almost four times before someone picks up the other end. "Hello?" He sounds sleep-muffled, and Jon winces when he sees the clock. He thought it was later; his timezones are still screwed up.
"Hi," he says. He looks across the room at the dresser mirror and has to turn away, so he can't see how nervous he looks. "I'm looking for Ryan Ross."
There's a moment and some rustling. "Speaking. Who is this?"
Jon winces and wishes that he had time to email Chris his number back, to know if Ryan was expecting this call. "Uh, well, this is Jon Walker."
He isn't expecting Ryan to hang up the phone, but his phone chimes that the call has ended.
Jon stares at his phone for a minute before he sucks in a breath and dials back. This time the phone is answered on the first ring. "Hi," Ryan says, voice very terse. "I didn't, um. How did you get this number?"
"Chris gave it to me. He's been emailing me?" Jon closes his eyes when Ryan sucks in a breath. "It's a Verizon email--"
"I see." Ryan doesn't say anything else, just breathing into the phone. "Where do you live?"
"Here and there. Like, I told Chris--"
"Christopher," Ryan says suddenly. "Margaret always called him by his full name."
Jon blinks and shrugs it off. Christopher is still not Horatio. "My job makes me travel a lot, and I mentioned to Chris that I was going to be in Vegas this week, so he gave me your number, to talk, I guess." Ryan doesn't respond, and something horrible slithers into Jon's brain. "Did he tell you that he was looking for me?"
"Yes," Ryan snaps. "He just didn't... I thought he gave up on looking." Ryan's voice gets a little quieter with every word, until he's barely whispering. "When are you coming to Vegas?"
"I'm here now," he says with a wince, even if Ryan can't see it. "I didn't get his email until after I flew in." He walks over to the hotel window. He can't really see the strip from it, just tops of some of the buildings.
"Oh," Ryan says softly. He has a nice voice, deep and gentle.
Jon rests his forehead against the glass and closes his eyes when he asks, "Could I see him?"
There's another long quiet moment, and Jon checks his phone to check the connection. He can't even hear Ryan breathe. "I guess we can work something out," he says, finally, and Jon bites down on a nervous smile because no one else can see it.
***
Jon's fifteen minutes late when the cab pulls into the little diner, in the middle of a small Vegas suburb. He could call it sleepy, relaxed, but that seems wrong, little houses nestled together in housing developments. Everything looks sort of the same, all beige-white faux-stucco and darker trim. He's never been to this part of Vegas, where real people live.
He thinks he would hate it. He misses Chicago and the houses that don't look exactly the same, that have real grass in their yards and sometimes red-brick streets that never plow right in the winter.
He overtips the cabbie, too distracted with the fact that he's late, that Chris is inside and he can see him to pay attention to little things like money. He's had thoughts about what Chris could look like, if he has a lisp like Jon or maybe Mike's ears that stick out under a mop of dark, dark hair. He could have Maggie's warm-honey eyes.
Jon takes a steadying breath before he goes into the diner. Most of the booths are empty; they arranged to meet between the lunch and dinner rushes, and he can see older couples, four teenagers, and a few single people pouring over thick books. He doesn't see a guy with a kid, and his stomach sinks.
He pulls his cellphone out to call Ryan as he steps to the greeter's podium. Ryan doesn't pick up, clicking over to Ryan's bored-sounding voice. You're reached Ryan Ross. I'm currently unavailable. Leave your message after the tone.
"Hey, it's me. Sorry I was late. Hope I didn't miss you," he says, and he sounds vaguely breathless when he talks.
Jon takes a menu with a smile and orders coffee, watching the door. He wants to call Ryan again, to demand what the fuck he's thinking, if he can tell Jon to meet him here and then not show or call. Jon wishes he'd been on time.
But then the door opens, and a younger guy comes in, maybe Jon's age. He's dressed oddly, like he'd meant to go to Sunday mass and fell into a bad country western instead, blazer open over a paisley silver-back shirt and a pink tie knotted around his throat.
The guy has a kid with him, and Jon doesn't think anything of it until the guy turns to look at him, and he has the same dark-honey eyes that Maggie had. They're larger, set wider, but it's the same color and it makes him shiver a little.
And he has a kid with him.
Jon feels like maybe the coffee was a bad idea as the guy--Ryan, the guy has to be Ryan--walks over to Jon's booth, clothing at the kid's hand, and Jon barely registers that Ryan is wearing blue jeans before he's starting at Chris.
Chris' hair is lighter than Jon's, and it curls differently, loose and wavy while Jon's would curl tighter and look almost coarse at that length. He has Maggie's nose, but his eyes are dark brown, smile a little crooked. He's not as fair as Maggie had been, once she was out of the Vegas sun. He's tall like Maggie, broad in the shoulders.
Jon looks at his nervous smile, though, his jawline, and he has to bite at his lips from saying Fuck, fuck, fuck over and over again because he can see himself in Chris so much, from his dark hair to his bashful little smile as he crawls into the other side of the booth, across from Jon.
Ryan sinks down heavily next to Chris, and Jon tries not to grin too much that he knew who Jon was just from looking at him across the diner.
Chris doesn't wait for Ryan to get settled before he says, "You're Jon Walker."
Jon hesitates and glances at Ryan. Ryan looks pale, but he nods, like he's telling Jon that it's okay, that he can tell Chris the truth and Ryan won't get upset.
"Yeah, that's me. Jonathan Jacob."
Chris laughs into his hands, hiding it like he doesn't know if he's allowed to laugh. "Jingleheimer Schmidt."
Jon shakes his head, snorting softly. He remembers being Christopher's age and hating that song more than anything else in the world, to the point where he wanted to change his name to something awesome like Michelangelo. "His name is my name too," he says gravely, smiling when Chris laughs again, louder this time.
The table lapses into silence then, Ryan studying the menu like he's never had diner food before, and Chris just flat out staring at Jon. Jon keeps trying to decide where Chris got each feature, like the color is the same rich brown that Jon's mom has, but the curls are definitely Maggie's. Ryan has the same hair, his a little darker than hers had been.
Jon might stare at Ryan a few times, too, when Ryan sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and looks like he is just about to say something before he shakes his head.
Chris breaks the silence again. "How long are you here?"
"Four days, then it's off to Alaska and Connecticut." Jon takes another sip of his coffee. It's gone cold. "Then I'll go back home to the cats."
"Dylan and Clover," Chris says seriously. He unrolls his silverware and begins to set his place. He hasn't opened his menu.
"Yeah," Jon says, and he can't help but to smile that his kid remembers those small details. "And Marley."
"My guitar teacher and his boyfriend have a dog named Dylan," Chris says then, tapping his knife on the table. "She's really skinny."
Ryan's eyes snap up from the menu, and he gives Jon a slightly stricken look, like he can't believe that Chris would just say that without any warning about that.
He shrugs it off. "So, what do you recommend?" he asks, more for Ryan than for Chris.
"Ryan usually gets the palace sundae," Chris says, and he pushes up on his knees to open Jon's menu for him, flipping back to the deserts. "It's like thirteen different kinds of ice cream, and someday I am gonna order it, too, and eat it faster than Ryan." He jostles the table, and Jon's coffee sloshes up onto Ryan's open menu.
Jon looks at the mess, and Ryan's tight, drawn expression as he dutifully reaches for the napkins. Jon moves just a little faster, grabbing a handful and setting them in the center of the table before he begins to wipe Ryan's menu quickly.
He gives Ryan's skinny body an assessing look, like he's trying to tell were Ryan could possible fit thirteen scoops of ice cream in it. "Thirteen scoops, huh?" he says, voice a little teasing.
"Thirteen different flavors," Ryan says, and he's smiling a little as he closes the menu while Jon is trying to wipe it off. "Two scoops each."
"Holy shit," Jon says before he can help it, and Chris' eyes go a little wide.
"We don't have a swear jar or anything," Ryan says, and he's still smiling. "Brendon--"
"My guitar teacher" Chris pipes up. "He's, like, really, really cool. He's beaten every Mario game ever and he can like play most of the Guitar Hero games on Extreme and get perfects."
Ryan rolls his eyes, shaking his head, and there's something almost fond and exasperated in his face, like he's used to Chris extolling Brendon's apparent coolness to everyone he meets. "Brendon can also kill a yak from two hundred miles away," he says, voice dry.
Jon can't help grinning at Ryan then. "That's telekinesis, Kyle," he says.
And then Ryan smiles, really smiles, with his eyes warm, and there are tiny, tiny poodles embroidered onto his tie and the paisley pattern of his shirt is green and pink and it shouldn't look good on anyone.
But he's fucking gorgeous, and Jon feels the smile shoot right into him, make him feel warm and cold at the same time, and he almost misses that his son, some kid that he didn't know existed two weeks ago, is humming "Wonderboy" under his breath while he kicks Jon's side of the booth. He should be annoyed by it, he thinks the people sitting behind him already are, but he can't do anything but grin back at Ryan.
Continues here