just this once, be my savior; Ryan/Brendon; NC-17 (1/3)

[insunshine]

|Just This Once, Be My Savior|Ryan/Brendon (Jon/Spencer, Pete, Patrick)|NC-17|32,000|

In which Ryan has a daughter, Brendon has a nephew and somehow, they manage to fall in love. Betaed by the utterly, utterly fantastic pepino21786, who is just the sweetest person alive.



one.

It’s not that Ryan is the kind of guy who needs to keep tabs on where his girlfriend is every minute of every single day - he isn’t, honestly. Callie has weird boundary issues that he’ll never really understand, but that’s cool. He has things he doesn’t talk about either. Still, they've been together a couple of years now, since the spring when Callie was a freshman, and sometimes Ryan can't actually believe that means three years.

She wants to be an actress, "Or something," she says, always making sure to tack those extra words on. "I don't know if I'm good enough for the real thing." This is usually accompanied by a ducked head and the swoop of her auburn bangs falling in her face, shielding her cheeks.

Her eyes always light up when she's on stage, though, and her skin glows when there's extra applause just for her. She's been in three plays in the past year alone, and Ryan's gone to every night of each, standing and clapping and cheering the loudest. Callie always knows where to find him in a crowd and her smile is always the brightest for him.

She’s supposed to recite her Helena monologue in fifteen minutes, and she’s been practicing for weeks - Ryan’s had to hear her practice for weeks, so he knows how important this is, it's why her absence makes no sense, he'd talked to her the night before and she hadn't said anything about skipping.

He tries her cell again - the fifth time in as many minutes and twists around in his seat to look at the double doors at the head of the auditorium. Mrs. Miller is going to be here any second, and Ryan’s a second semester senior heading off to a good school on a full ride scholarship in the fall, it’s not like he’ll be penalized for being a few minutes late. Callie’s just a junior though, and they don’t have it anywhere near as easy.

“Hey Sheryl,” he whispers, leaning back against the wooden seat, making eyes at the girl sitting behind him. “Callie’s late.” She rolls her eyes at him, snapping her gum out of her mouth with a loud pop and raising her pierced brows.

“You think?” Her eyes are tiny blue slits with horrendously applied eye shadow, and Ryan tries to keep from grimacing but fails kind of miserably. “It’s your fucking fault anyway, asshole.” Her eyes widen a little, like she's almost shocked that she spit the words out, but she’s gotten herself under control after a second, her face a comical mask of horror as she realizes she's said something she shouldn't have.

Ryan's not paying attention to that though, doesn't really care about Sheryl Hersey or the different ways she can contort her face. She has the fixings to be a good character actress if she sticks with it, but that's none of Ryan's business or his problem. “It’s my fault that she’s late? How the hell is it my fault?”

“Because you’re the one who got her pregnant in the first place. God. No wonder she skipped to go get it taken care of.” For as long as he lives, Ryan will remember this moment, the way his skin aches with a crackling awareness that seems to settle over his body, the tightness in his shoulders and how even his fingers feel cramped and useless.

“What?” he asks, and she stays silent, almost sneering in the row above his. "What clinic, Sheryl?" He's hissing out the words, body on auto pilot as he angles himself towards her, and he doesn't know what it is that makes her eyes go wide, but they do, and she tells him, the words falling clumsily past her lips.

He's up and out of his seat in less than a minute and no one spares him a glance as he pushes out of the auditorium. He’s a senior, but it’s not only that, he’s Ryan fucking Ross. He’s responsible, he knows what he’s doing and if he’s cutting class, he sure as fuck must have a reason to.

--

It doesn’t take him long to find, not really. Still, Ryan’s shaking, thinking about all of the seconds, minutes, hours it’s been since Callie went in there, if she’s still waiting, if they’ve done it and it’s over, and something that belonged as much to him as it did to her is just gone from the world.

He parks in a handicapped space in front of an innocuous looking brick building off of Center St. and has to blink because it looks more like a dentist’s office than an abortion clinic.

It’s easier to get in than he’d anticipated, although to be honest, he’d been terrified of some sort of resistance at the door, as if someone would have been there, waiting to stop him, as if someone would try and hold him back. There’s barely anyone in the waiting room, which is the first thing he sees when he comes in through the glass doors. Callie’s sitting in the chair closest to the reception desk, dressed in sweats and an old hoodie of Ryan’s from his hockey days.

He’s pretty sure she sees him before he sees her. He’s pretty sure she’s expecting it when he falls to his knees, tugging her hands into his, but her face is closed off, and the swoop of her bangs falls across her eyes, shielding them when she looks down. He’s got to give her credit; she doesn’t ask him what he’s doing there. She’s crying though, big fat tears that stream down her cheeks and cling to her lashes; tears that make her nose red and push hiccups past her throat.

“Cal,” he says, because he doesn’t know what else to, doesn’t, except for how there’s only one solution, really. “Cal, I’ll take care of you, I promise.” She drags in a breath, pushing her bangs away from her face and forces her eyes open. They’re rimmed and red, but she’s nodding at least, and that’s something.

“Will you -- ” Her voice is tiny, so small that he can barely hear it, and by then, the words are already out of his mouth, hanging in the air around them, waiting to shatter the silence. “Marry me.” She blinks, eyes going wetter still, but she stands when he does, and when he smiles at her, the way she twists her lips is enough to help him to believe.

--

It’s quiet. It’s completely quiet, a tiny little ceremony; just him and Callie, his dad and her two sisters, packed into a tiny little church that seems mammoth around them. Ryan’s not religious, not even a little, but he feels it in his gut when the pastor tells him to love, honor and support Callie for the rest of forever.

From the front and from the back she’s not showing, not at all, but sometimes when he catches glances at her from the side, just out of the corner of his eye, he can see a tiny little bump where nothing but flat used to be, and he feels something in his stomach, heavy, but not leaden, proud, if not excited.

Callie cries, tiny pinpricks of tears sliding down her cheeks, but her lips quirk up for him, eyes shining as he slips the simple gold band his dad helped pay for onto her finger. Her hands shake where his had been steady, but that’s to be expected, he thinks. She’s the one having the baby; he’s the one who get them in this mess in the first place.

Afterwards, she calls her mom from the pay phone outside of their room, body angled inwards, so that even if he’d wanted to, Ryan wouldn’t have been able to hear. He goes inside with a touch to the small of her back, and when he lies on the creaky motel bed he counts at the cracks in the ceiling and tells himself that it’ll be okay.

He’s asleep before she comes inside.

--

It’s not like it’s a secret, but by April, Callie’s showing enough that heavy sweaters and heavier jackets no longer conceal her condition. People at school notice, they must, but they don’t comment on it, and Ryan is just grateful that they can have this, that if there are whispers, they’re behind closed doors, and anyway, they’re married. They’re married and they’re in this together, and he’ll protect her if she needs it, but she doesn’t seem to.

Callie wastes away a little as she enters her sixth month, all the sparkle and shine that had drawn him to her in the first place lost in the downward curve of her lips and the way even touching his hands seems to be too much of an effort for her.

They’re living in the little apartment above Ryan’s garage, and it’s nothing special, but it does have its own door, and for the most part, they’re left alone. It’s not like they can get into much more trouble and besides, they did the right thing, the responsible thing.

It’s not like they’d never talked about it in the early days, Callie wound tight around Ryan’s middle, head pressed against the beating of his heart, whispering things about love and forever and all of the promises words like that entailed.

After college they’d said, the words whispered against Callie’s neck with Ryan’s face pressed into the crook of her shoulder, mouthed against the skin of his stomach, implied by the twist and tilt of their hands and the way Callie would smile at him big and bright whenever the subject of college came up and she could proudly say, “Ryan’s not going to be that far away. We’re going to stay together.”

She doesn’t say things like that anymore because she doesn’t say anything at all. There are no whispers or linked fingers, and they’re like strangers now, lying side by side with nothing more to say to each other than, “Excuse me,” and “When you’re done reading, could you please turn out the light?”

Ryan graduates in May with the rest of his class and doesn’t even bother to check the bleachers for family or loved ones. His dad pulled an extra shift at the casino so that he’d be able to take the day of the baby shower off, and when he’d left that morning, Callie had been complaining about the heat, skin stretched over her swollen belly, hair covering her eyes, shielding them from Ryan and the things she didn’t want him to see.

“Will I see you later?” He’d asked, because all seniors had a five-pack of spaces available for their guests, and people had been asking him to share his for weeks. She hadn’t said no, but Ryan doesn’t look for her anyway. It’s easier to deal with disappointment when you aren’t expecting anything at all. He doesn’t stick around campus once his name is called, even though pomp and circumstance dictate that he should at least toss his cap into the air.

He doesn’t, just unzips his robe and pushes it into the backseat of his car when he gets to it, tossing his cap onto the seat next to him, turning the music up high because Callie isn’t in the car telling him not to, to be careful, to watch the baby, because maybe beings that aren’t fully formed can’t quite comprehend the brilliance of Blink 182.

He makes it home in record time, which makes sense because everyone else in town is at graduation and when he lets himself into the apartment, he’s even smiling. Callie isn’t there, which shoots off something low and funny in his stomach, something that he hasn’t felt in months, not since before holding her hands so tightly that they’d bruised, since before he’d promised her his forever and it had been for real.

He feels free.

The phone rings, next to the bed, and it’s the spare line, the one Ryan’s dad had spent an entire Saturday rewiring so that it would be only theirs, so they had everything they could have ever wanted up here, so that it could really be home until they got on their feet.

“Ryan -- ” and it sounds like Callie, but it isn’t, it’s her sister, Amy, the youngest, panic and worry laced into her voice like needles, pressing onto his skin and drawing blood with every word she tumbles over in her hurried speech. “Ryan, Ryan come quick. The baby. The baby’s coming - it’s early, it’s early and the baby’s coming.”

Ryan can’t breathe, but you don’t need to breathe to be able to drive a car.

--

Ryan’s well aware that he doesn’t have a great deal of experience with the whole procreation process, he's the only child of an only child, so his understandings conceptions of pregnancy and birth are fairly limited to the decades old video shown to giggling classes of awkward eleventh graders during the one week of health spent on sex ed that equated to one big glaring sign saying “Don’t Do It.”

Still, the title of the video, “the Miracle of Life” has stuck with him and it seems like the whole process should maybe have a feeling of awe and holiness to it. Babies are miracles; surely their arrival should feel miraculous, especially to the parents.

It doesn't, though, not really.

Ryan ends up standing beside the bed with one hand on Callie’s knee, mumbling soothing nonsense under his breath that she probably can’t even hear over the louder encouragement of her mother and sister and the directions of the nurses and doctor.

He feels like an intruder onto the scene, watching helplessly as Callie cries and screams, digging her nails into her sister’s hands until her knuckles gleam white. The room is small and crowded, too hot, and Ryan can feel prickles of sweat rolling down his back underneath the dress shirt he’d carefully ironed the night before so it’d be ready for his graduation.

Any other time, he’d be able to see the irony in him becoming a high school graduate and a father on the same day, but he can’t get past the little voice in the back of his head whispering that he did this, he caused this.

It happens so fucking fast; Callie’s arching up off the bed as the doctor tells her to push just one more time while Ryan stares at her stomach, then there’s this monumental shift he can see roll beneath her skin and Callie’s eyes go huge, big and blindingly, beautifully blue.

Then, God, then the doctor’s holding this little red, wriggling thing, tiny arms and legs flailing and saying, “It’s a girl. You have a daughter.”

Callie drops back on the bed, gasping hard, and Ryan catches her eye. For a moment, they stare at each other and the rest of the room drops away, her mom and sister, the doctor cutting the cord and the nurse cleaning up their daughter, and it’s just them. She’s shaking and crying and Ryan thinks, in that moment, that she is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen in his life.

The baby, their baby, is laid into Callie’s arms, still crying, but softer and, after a moment, Amy steps back so Ryan can sit down on the edge of bed and slide an arm around Callie’s shoulders and look at what they have created.

She is red and still covered in what Ryan calls slime in his head, though he knows there has to be a less middle school word for it. She has a thatch of reddish hair and eyes gleaming an indistinct, unfocused blue. She has a trio of freckles on the back of her hand and a little circular birthmark on her chest.

“Hi,” Ryan whispers, hesitantly laying one finger in her hand. Her fingers close tight around it and that part, that part feels miraculous.

The nurse behind them looks apologetic as she breaks the moment, taking the baby gently and giving her to yet another nurse, heading for the infirmary, probably. Callie's eyes are dazed as she looks up at him, and Ryan can't exactly blame her, he would never be able to survive something like this. "Have you picked out a name yet, love?" The nurse's voice has an accent to it that Ryan can't place, but it's lovely and lilting, and her eyes are warm.

Ryan blinks. They haven't, they've barely even talked about it, but Callie's practically comatose, and Ryan's pretty sure the baby would hate them for the rest of their natural lives if they named her Baby. Jesus. "Cal," he whispers, and her lashes flutter but her eyes don't open, and her cheeks are flushed. "What're we gonna name the baby?" She makes a noise low in her throat, burrowing into the thin hospital covers they'd just thrown over her, eyes still closed. "Cal, come on," he whispers, voice low, a desperate sound.

That seems to get her, and her eyes open just the barest sliver of an inch. "I don't really care, Ryan." He flinches, even though he doesn't mean to, and she must see it, because her face changes a little bit. "I'm just. I'm so tired. And she's healthy, right? That's all that matters." She closes her eyes again, and there's this cold, dead weight in Ryan's stomach that he hadn't even realized was there until right then.

The nurse is still standing there, a few feet back, sure, but constant. "Ella," Ryan says, voice clear, surprising himself. "Her name is Ella. Ella Grace Ross." He tries not to collapse at the weight of the words, not ever fully realizing how big and important a thing like a name really is. The nurse is smiling at him, and she touches his arm, lightly. "That's beautiful, love. She's beautiful."

Ryan wipes at his cheeks, pushing away the tears that had pooled in his eyes and manages to whisper, "Thank you."

two.

Ryan's boss is quietly and acutely aware of that fact that Ryan is barely nineteen, married with a baby, and scraping by on the force of coupons and food stamps most months, so he makes a point of offering Ryan overtime whenever he can.

Once upon a time that would have rankled, scraping across what little pride Ryan retained growing up as the kid whose mother abandoned him and whose father had a tendency to come stumbling up the block, falling down drunk three nights a week. Now, he's too aware of the fact that he's making minimum wage at Sam's Club to worry about being proud.

"Sarah called in sick. You want her shift?" his boss asks as Ryan sits in the break room, sipping at a cup of apathetic coffee. He nods without thinking because God knows they can always use the money, and begs a cell phone off one of his coworkers, a middle aged woman with teased, bleached blond hair who has a soft spot for Ryan and his "darling, little sugar pie of a baby girl."

The phone rings once, twice, three times and clicks over the voicemail. Ryan bites back an irritated sigh. They no longer have a car, because he sold his, and Ella's stroller is a rickety, unreliable thing bought at a garage sale for six bucks and a fake gold necklace of Callie's, so it's not like they could just pick things up and go for a drive or a walk. Besides, there's nothing Callie hates more than taking the bus for anything other than to getting back and forth to work. "Hi, Cal," he mumbles. "It's me. Barry offered me an extra shift, so I'm going to be a couple hours late tonight. I'll see you when I get home. Bye."

He only realizes an hour later as he's stocking jumbo family sized jars of peanut butter he forgot to say 'I love you.'

--

The apartment is dark when he gets back, which makes sense, because it's late -- it's past midnight, but when he goes to check on Ella, she's not in her crib. Callie's not anywhere either, and Ryan's shaking by the time he manages to sit at the edge of the bed. He can't. He can't even think about where they could have gone, why Callie would have ever taken Ella away from him -- when he hears the key in the lock.

Callie trudges up the stairs, but she's smiling, hair down around her shoulders for once, Ella asleep on her shoulder, thumb tucked between her lips. Ryan can barely control himself when he stands, pulling Ella towards him and tucking her face against his shoulder, whispering nonsense words against the top of her head and kissing her cheek when she starts to stir.

"What the hell, Ryan," it's not a question, Callie's voice is flat, even flatter than Ryan's can get on his worst days, her eyes angry and piercing, and just. God. He's still shaking.

"I thought -- "

"You thought what, Ryan? That I'd taken her and left you?" He knows she's just trying to push him, he knows it, but that doesn't stop his heart from seizing up anyway, can't help the way his arms wrap even more tightly around the baby sleeping on his shoulder now. It wouldn't be a lie to say that this is the most alive he's felt all day. "I don't even know what I would do with a baby on my own, God." She's talking more to herself than she is to him now, sinking down to where he'd been sitting, holding her head in her hands. "I couldn't raise her by myself."

"Cal, you don't have -- " When she looks up at him, her eyes are wet, but even if he'd had a hand free, Ryan's not sure he'd try and comfort her. He doesn't know what that says about him, what it says about them. He wonders vaguely, as Ella gurgles in her sleep, if there even is a them anymore.

"I know I don't have to, Ryan," she spits out, angry and hard, but deflating with every word that passes her lips. "I know I don't have to, but you're better for her than I am anyway. She loves you more." He doesn't disagree right away. He could, but he doesn't, just cuddles Ella closer and presses another kiss against her forehead. Eventually, his heart stops racing, but only when he manages to stop picturing the dark and empty crib in his mind, only when he stops remembering how cold Callie's side of the bed had been.

Eventually, he puts the baby down. She whimpers a little, as he sets her head down on the baby pillow, but she stops when he lays his hand on her back for a minute.

Callie's pretending to be asleep when he climbs into bed, but he can hear her breathing, and it's not deep and even the way he knows it is when she's lost in unconsciousness. "Cal," he whispers slowly, and he can see her shoulders stiffen. "She's just a baby, she's barely three months old. She doesn't understand." Callie nods, once, stiffly, but he remembers her tears in the moonlight.

"Yeah," she says, but her voice is shaking, and he can tell she doesn't mean it.

--

Ella's second birthday falls on a Wednesday, so the Saturday after, they have a tiny little party in Ryan and Callie's rented bungalow. It's just family, Ryan's dad, Callie's mom, her little sister Amy, and her older sister Beth, who drags her fiancé along. He spends the entire time standing uncomfortably in their tiny kitchen with his hands shoved into his pockets, glancing at the clock on the wall like it's some kind of trick and trying to talk to Ryan about sports.

The gifts are inexpensive and largely practical, jeans and little tee shirts, a pair of sneakers that light up from Callie's mom and a little hockey jersey from Ryan's dad. Marlena from work gave Ryan a worn gift bag filled with her own kids' hand me downs, which are still perfectly serviceable toys and Ella's blue eyes light up when she pulls out the teddy bears with carefully reattached ears and dolls with paint features nearly worn off. Ryan splurged on a light up toy thing with a box that guaranteed to entertain her for hours and make her smarter at the same time.

Ryan settles Ella on his lap as Callie carries out the cake. It's small, made from grocery store cake mix, but it has purple icing more or less evenly applied and 'happy birthday' squeezed on in Ryan's neat scrawl. "Happy birthday, Ella Bella," Ryan murmurs, kissing the downy soft top of her head as Ella giggles.

"You want a big piece, little lady?" Ryan's father asks as he cuts and Ryan smiles softly to himself. Ross, as he will forever think of his father, is a decent grandfather, much better than he ever was as a father, at least. He keeps himself sober around Ella and treats Callie with a kind of distant cordiality.

"Yes," Ella chirps.

Callie's standing on the archway between the tiny kitchen and the cramped living room, arms folded across her chest. She's already dressed for the shift she has to take as soon as the little shindig wraps up, a baggy, garish blue Wal-mart polo sapping the color out of her face and a pair of tan khakis. Her hair falls around her face, loose and dull, heavy with split ends, and Ryan wishes, more than anything that he could give her back the shimmer and shine that had made her stand out in the first place, the glow that seemed to settle just beneath her skin like some kind of special radiance.

Ryan's dad sets a paper plate heaped with cake on the battered coffee table and Ella dives in, shoving her fists into the crumbling cake with a happy gurgle and Ryan laughs, smearing icing across her face and front. She's so precious, his daughter, precious and precocious and full of life. He glances up at Callie, expecting to see the same look of indulgent amusement. The deep frustration and blatant annoyance written in the lines of her pretty face shocks the hell out of him.

"Callie?"

"I gave her a bath this morning." She shoves a hand through her hair and steps around the coffee table, impatiently hauling Ella into her arms, "And I just finished the damned laundry."

Ryan stands and follows her across the living room to the short hallway that connects to the rest of the house. He can feel their families listening, murmuring softly under their breath to each other and, no, fuck no, if they're going to do this, they sure as hell aren't going to do it in front of the few people in their life who don't look down on them. "Callie, calm the hell down. I'll give her a bath, it's not a big deal." Ryan hooks his hands under Ella's armpits and pulls her out of Callie's arms and into his. She's quiet, wide-eyed and watching.

"Great, and I'll clean up all the crap out there. Fucking fabulous, Ryan." Her words sting, bitter and laden with hurt that Ryan can't understand.

"Callie, Jesus, calm down." Ryan shifts Ella on his hip, feeling her start to tense as a prelude to crying.

"Fine, fine. I'll take care of it, give her here."

Callie reaches for Ella at the same moment as Ryan moves to step back and her nails, always kept just a little long, catch on the soft skin of Ella's arm, leaving three neat rows of raised marks that, after a beat of shocked silence, well up with little pearls of blood. Ella lets out a blood-curdling shriek and buries her face in Ryan's neck as Callie steps back, eyes widening in horror. "Ryan, I didn't mean to -- "

"Goddamnit, Callie!" Ryan yells, feeling Ella shake in his arms, feeling the fear pour off her tiny body. "Fuck you."

He walks into the bedroom and slams the door, cradles Ella to his chest and murmurs, "It's okay, baby girl," until he hears Callie leave, until Ella calms.

--

He should have expected it. He should have expected it, because they're home alone for once, and it's actually been a nice morning so far. Callie's actually speaking to him, her smile looser at the corners than it's been in longer than Ryan can remember, and there's an easy fondness that Ryan is shocked can still exist between them.

She's even humming as she comes out of their bedroom, hands full with a laundry basket, packed to the brim and cutting off her eye line. She trips over one of Ella's toys, and it's almost like slow motion when she falls, the basket dropping first, then her body. She loses her balance, slamming her face into the heavy plastic, splitting her lip open.

"God DAMMIT." There's blood all over the top layer of clothes, shirts of Ryan's and some of Ella's jumpers. Everyone knows blood doesn't come out, even if it's the accidental kind.

"Cal," he's moved closer to her, crouched over where her body is shaking, but when he touches her arm, she pushes him off, rough, eyes wild when she manages to look at him.

"Can your brat of a kid not ever fucking learn?" It's not like he'd been laughing at her before, he hadn't been, but all of the good humor of the morning, all of the ease that had started to creep in through his joints just seeps back out again.

"What did you say?" The words fall like acid from his mouth and when she blinks up at him, fire and anger in her eyes, and she's wiping the blood away from her mouth. It blends in with her skin, a memory that can't ever really forgotten, adding a rosy hue to her cheeks that looks completely out of place with the color of her hair and the way her eyes flash.

Ryan's practically forgotten his words until she spits them back at him. "I said," her voice is low, almost like a growl, but slow, like she's been saving up all of the things she has to say to him, like she's thought out her speech carefully. "Does your kid always have to leave everything out?"

"Callie, she's two years old." She's standing, straightening like she didn't hear him, like what he has to say doesn't matter at all. "She couldn't possibly know better, she's just a little kid." That's what seems to do it, what sends away whatever semblance of rationality she had hiding behind her pretty blue eyes; he's got to turn away from the hatred he can see there.

The words she spits out are venomous. "She's a fucking mistake is what she is." That's the first straw, what has Ryan's fists clenching at his sides as she smoothes down her shirt, eyes boring into the back of his head. "I should have gotten that damn abortion when I had the chance." And that's the last one. Ryan doesn't remember spinning around and charging towards her, but he knows the feel of his palm against her cheek, how they both recoil back when it's over, shaking like it's winter and they don't live in Las Vegas.

"Don't you ever -- " Ryan's voice is shaking too, and he wishes he could clamp onto it with something, the way his hands are clasped together in the pocket of his hoodie. "Don't you ever talk like that about her again." Callie's blinking at him, holding her palm up to her cheek, all the fire and rage and anger gone from her eyes, from the set of her shoulders.

"I can't do this, Ryan," her voice is a whisper, ghostly and barely there. "I can't play house and have a baby and do laundry for the rest of my life, I can't." Her bottom lip is trembling and her jaw too, her entire body is whirring like she's made of piano wire, and the tears on her cheeks mix with the blood, making the color less vibrant.

"You can't take her," he says, voice steady and calm, strong. The thought of Ella is probably the only thing that's holding him upright. He won't let anyone take her away from him. "I won't let you take her away from me." Callie blinks, surprised, owlish, but she nods, once.

"She's yours, Ryan," she whispers, voice practically lost in the emptiness of the room. "She was always yours."

--

Two weeks later, Callie catches Ryan's arm as he walks out the door and presses a dry, apologetic kiss to his cheek. She's fresh out of the shower, hair damp and skin flushed, and wrapped up in an old robe of Ryan's she claimed when he got a new one, saying she liked that it was already soft from the wash and smelled like fabric softener and Ryan's shampoo. Ryan stiffens at the unexpected contact, they haven't said more than a dozen words to each other since the fight; Ryan's stomach still clenches painfully at the thought. He's never hit anyone before, much less the girl he promised to love, honor and obey until death do them part. Ryan doesn't make promises lightly.

Ryan knows, in that moment. He knows.

"I'll drop Ella off at daycare."

Callie closes her eyes for a moment and sighs, folding her arms across her chest. "Okay."

Ella's sitting on the floor in front of the couch, thumb in her mouth, blanket tucked around her shoulders like a cape as she watches cartoons. Everyone says she's the spitting image of him, which always seems to fall as another mark in the unspoken tally between Callie and Ryan, but he can see Callie's influence in the snubbed lines of her young face, especially her eyes. Bright and vivid blue, those have nothing to do with Ryan, they're all her mother's.

"Come on, Elle Belle." Ryan scoops her up and walks out the door and she settles comfortably against his chest, hand fisted in his shirt. Callie's mother has always watched her before, but she told them last month that she was going crazy never leaving the house, so starting today, she'll go to daycare twice a week. "You'll pick her up?"

Callie's gaze jerks down to the floor and Ryan's stomach twists. He's known her for so long, even before they started dating, he knew her, and he knows her ticks and tells as well as he knows his own. She can lie with the best of them, so long as she doesn't have to look them in the face. "Yeah."

Ryan glances back over his shoulder as he walks out the door and he sees her standing in the middle of the living room, arms wrapped tight around her chest, staring at the little house Ryan was so proud of when he found, that she hates for being small, for needing repairs, for not being enough and he doesn't say goodbye.

It's a little after six when Ella's daycare calls Ryan's work. "I'm sorry to bother you, but Mrs. Ross hasn't come around to pick up Ella yet and there's no one answering at the house."

Ryan swallows bile. "I'm sorry, I was supposed to pick her up and I forgot. I'll be right there." He hears her mumbling something that sounds like, "Parents these days," and very definitely doesn't think about Callie and the hollow look in her eyes.

Ella's smiling when he comes to get her, no tears or sadness or anything but good humor from his girl, and there's a lump in his throat when he sees her, curly-q curls hitting her cheeks. "Da!" She shouts when she sees him, scrambling down from the mini armchair they'd perched her on and rushing towards him and hurtling herself at his legs.

"Hey El," he says, and she's grinning up at him but he can't quite make himself look into her eyes when he hugs her.

It's just the two of them, now.

three.

There's no question of Ryan staying in the house with Callie gone, not with the wallpaper she picked out on every wall, the curtains she sewed hanging from the windows, her very presence seeped in the joints and beams of the house. He can't stay in the same city where they loved and hated, the same state that encompasses the entirety of their lives together. The need to get away burns beneath his skin, itching in his palms and the back of his mind. It's too much with everything saturated in memories and people looking at him, some pitying poor Ryan, others thinking he got nothing less than he deserved for trapping that smart, pretty little girl.

He sits his father down in the living room while Ella plays on the couch, the room still decorated with the dusty memorabilia of Ryan's childhood. There's a hockey trophy on the shelf above Ella's head with one of the sticks broken off after it got thrown across the room during one Ryan's more violent forays into angry teenagerdom.

"I can't stay here," Ryan says, running a hand through his hair. He's already spent what should have been rent on a half broken sedan that the owner swears will get them at least seven or eight hundred miles from Vegas, which doesn't quite seem far enough, but is better than nothing, and he's emptied out the small savings account he'd begun to try and afford and bigger house. Callie didn't know about it; he'd wanted to surprise her.

"Where to?" Ross Sr. asks quietly. "Hell, Ryan, you've only been out of the state once in your life."

It was an eighth grade trip to Washington. Ryan walked dogs and mowed lawns for six months to save up the money. He'd washed Callie's mother's car for half price because he'd had a desperate crush on Beth at the time. Fuck.

"I don't know. Maybe California or Oregon." Ryan shrugs. "Not here. Dad. Just. Not here."

"When?"

Ryan glances out the window, through the faded gauze of the curtains, to the rusted car baking on the curb beneath a merciless sun. Ella's car seat is strapped in the back, wedged in among boxes and suitcases and plastic bags filled with almost three years accumulation of junk. There's a cooler in the front seat full of Cokes and Snickers for Ryan, apple juice and crackers for Ella, and just under five hundred dollars zipped up in a pencil case buried beneath the title in the glove compartment.

"Today," Ryan mumbles as Ella crawls into his lap. "Now, Dad."

"Right, then." Ross Sr. digs the heel of his hand into his eye for a long moment and extends his arms to Ella. "Come here and say goodbye to me, little lady." Ella obligingly climbs into his lap and wraps her chubby arms around his neck. "Love you, Granda," she squeals, and he murmurs something in her ear that Ryan can't hear, but she kisses both cheeks and the tip of his nose before settling back in Ryan's arms.

"I'm sorry." The words bubble up unexpectedly and Ryan blushes.

"Don't be," Ross Sr. says, voice rough, "You tried. Just, call me when you get ...when you get wherever it is you're going." He touches his palm to Ryan's shoulder, just for a second, and it's not a hug -- it's barely anything, but it sends some warmth through Ryan's aching limbs, and it's enough. It really is enough.

"We'll be okay, Dad," he says, and the way his father nods at him makes Ryan believe it. Ella squirms against him, hooking her arms around his neck again, turning to face Ross Sr. and smiling blindingly. "Be 'kay, Granda, promise." Ryan's father nods, and if his eyes are wet in the corners, neither of them comment on it.

--

Ella likes the car -- she loves the car, which really is a blessing, because Ryan didn't realize just how much he'd missed this. He wonders if they can just keep driving forever, just the two of them and the open road. He knows it's not possible, they probably won't even make it all the way to California, but it's a nice thought, that they can just drive away from the mess their lives used to be.

He drives through the whole night, and finally, finally Ella's asleep in the backseat, lashes almost white in the lamplight. He's parked them in a rest area, because even Motel 6's cost money and sure he's got some, enough for gas and a couple meals; enough to hopefully get him to California, to his friend Patrick's couch and a job someplace where he doesn't have food to stock, but it's not enough for motels and certainly not for the lap of luxury. It's lucky that his seat reclines and he'd had the foresight to pack blankets.

There's a pay phone under the street lamp, and he doesn't want to get out of this car, doesn't want to shatter the quiet peace that surrounds Ella wherever she goes. He does it anyway, he has to. Callie left them. She left Ella, and that wouldn't have mattered if it had just been the three of them, but on the off chance that her family doesn't know yet, he has to tell them.

The wind is biting when he pushes out of the car, careful not to close the door all the way, careful not to wake Ella. She has nightmares sometimes, and he wants to be able to hear if she needs him. After he's deposited his fifty cents in, he dials the number he's had memorized since he was ten, listening as it rings over and over.

Mr. Shaw has worked the early bird shift at the casino for as long as Ryan has known him, so even though the sun is only just starting to stream past the clouds, he knows the entire house will be awake. The answering machine clicks on, Amy's peppy voice breaking through the silence on Ryan's end. "Um. Hi. It's Ryan. I'm not. I want to say I'm not sure if Callie talked to you before leaving, but she must have. I have Ella, and she's safe and happy, and I just. I needed you to know that she's okay. That we're okay, or that ...we're going to be, anyway." He hangs up the phone without saying goodbye and leans his forehead against the cool metal.

Ella's awake when he gets back to the car, he can just make out her eyes in the rearview, and he turns to look at her before shifting out of park. "How's my girl?" he asks, and she just grins at him, big and bright. "I 'kay, Da!" He stretches his hand out, linking their fingers, and she giggles again, the sound high and musical.

"I'm 'kay too," he says, and wishes he didn't have to let go of her hand.

--

Haverford is about as far north as you can go before the California coast becomes the Oregon coast. It's small, easily an hour away from the next big town, twenty minutes over from any of the other small villages that dot the stormy coast. Ryan drives past the neat, hand painted welcome sign after nearly an hour of cruising along an empty highway, hugging the coastline. Ella's asleep in the back, blanket draped over her car seat with a half empty Capri Sun held loosely in one fist.

Ryan drives carefully through the town, still largely asleep, down the aptly named 'Main Street' lined with little Mom and Pop operations, a single grocery store, a general store, a hardware store. There's no fast food or casinos. No Starbucks and no fucking Sam's Club, thank God. Patrick's house is slightly off the main drag, though Ryan can't help but smirk to himself to use the term. It's a two-story clapboard, neatly tended and painted, with a small garden in the front and a Honda parked in the driveway. Ryan can just see the water as he idles on the curb.

There is nothing of Callie, neither the sparkle she began with nor the bitterness she left them because of. Ryan exhales, and for the first time, it doesn't hurt.

He twists around in the seat and gentle shakes Ella's foot. "Wake up, baby girl." She shifts, snuffling into her blanket before opening her eyes and looking at Ryan with a bleary grin. "Sleepin',"

"I know, but we're here, sweetie." Ryan cuts the ignition and pulls out the key. The car groans into the silence and Ella sits up in her seat, pressing her chubby hands to the window. "What do you think?"

Ella presses her nose to glass and breathes out, sending fog ghosting along the surface. She spots the water and giggles, eyes going big. "Fish." Her tone is infinitely more certain than Ryan feels. "Fish, Da."

Ryan laughs, a genuine laugh. "I like it too."

Patrick's front door opens and Ryan smiles as the man himself steps out in flannel pajama pants, a tee shirt, and a fedora, of all the weird things. He stands on the porch and waves and Ryan thinks maybe it'll be okay.

--

Ella's quiet around Patrick at first, clinging to Ryan's legs more than usual and peeking out from behind him, eyes as wide as saucers when Patrick starts to sing. She mimics him when his back is turned, sitting on Ryan's lap, head pressed against his chest, eyes closed. They aren't really words, the sounds that she sings out, but Ryan thinks they're beautiful anyway.

He's almost shocked at how quickly they've managed to settle. Patrick sings Ella to sleep every night and Ryan makes them all breakfast in the morning, mashed waffles for Ella because she likes the feel of them against her still growing teeth and black coffee for him and Patrick. He hasn't started to work yet, but only because Patrick won't let him.

"You've got to relax, Ross. It's not like you have rent to pay. I won't kick you out if you don't have money on the first of the month. Now sit your ass down and let me school you in Tekken." Ella is playing with her building blocks in the corner, her little body moving to a beat only she can hear, and in the midst of the whirring noises of the system she looks up, and says, "Ass," with perfect diction. Ryan blinks and Patrick has to clamp his hand to keep a horrified laugh from coming out. "Ass, ass, ass." She hums, and Ryan maybe, honestly wants to die.

"Kid's got a set of pipes," Patrick mumbles, one day, tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth as he shields Ella's eyes, keeping the shampoo from getting in them. She giggles up at him, mid warble, finally comfortable in his presence, and pauses her Soap Suds song to say, "Pipes," solemnly. Ryan can't keep from grinning, and Ella grins back, her smile as bright and blinding as it always is.

"Honey, I'm home!" Someone -- someone being Patrick's neighbor Pete, calls from the kitchen, and Ryan can hear the screen door slamming. Ryan rolls his eyes as a dull, red flush settles on Patrick's skin, and he pushes Patrick out of the way when he gets so distracted that he starts getting sloppy, his tee shirt wet by the time he actually moves. "You sure you're not married, Stump?" he asks, picking Ella up out of the tub and wrapping her in the towel he'd purposefully set aside. "Because I don't recommend it, but that guy seems persistent."

"It's not like that," Patrick hisses, cheeks still obviously hot. Ryan shrugs and pushes his face against Ella's tummy, pressing a kiss at her ribcage. "Ready for dinner, Ellie Belly?" he asks her, just as Pete calls the same question from the kitchen and Ella's entire face lights up. Patrick's just managed to calm down the blush on the skin of his cheeks, and even his eyes widen at the sheer glee in Ella's.

"Da, Da, down!" Ryan's become ridiculously adept at putting on diapers, so once Ella's is fastened, he sets her on the parquet and she goes scuttling into the kitchen with him hot on her heels. "Feet! Feet!" She gurgles as she sees Pete, arms up in the air, waiting for him to pick her up. "Feet," she pouts, making eyes at him that Ryan's pretty sure no one in the history of existence has been able to resist. "Feet, up!" Pete is definitely not immune. He picks her up, positioning her over his shoulders and holding her little arms high above her head. "Da! 'ook!" She's laughing and she's happy, and Ryan feels something catch at in his throat the sight of this.

It may not be perfect, but he finally has a family.

--

Pete's music store is named Ramen Records, for no reason that he will explain, preferring to smile mysteriously and make vaguely inappropriate hand gestures whenever the question is raised. It's stocked with a hodge-podge of music he likes, with a few grudging concessions made for the top 40 hit makers that bring in too much business for Pete to justify keeping them out on purely ethical grounds. He bitches about it, loudly and at great length, but if it's carry Britney Spears or fall victim to the iTunes machine, he'll take the lesser of two evils. Several shelves are dedicated to impeccably maintained vinyl and the front display case holds piles of vintage band shirts found at thrift stores all over the damn state.

Pete offers Ryan a job after he's spent a month mooching off Patrick, to the point where he's starting to develop a tick because he can't just take from someone without giving back anything more than, "The pleasure of your company, Ryan, please stop worrying about it." Besides, much as he likes Patrick, he can't see spending the rest of his life sleeping in his spare room with Ella tucked under his arm. He's got to get back out on his own, if for no other reason than to prove that he can.

"Dress code is jeans, sneakers and hoodies," Pete says the first day, eying Ryan's slacks and un-tucked button down. "Wear khakis or any of that yuppie shit and I'll send you the hell home and dock your pay. We're the town rebels, so we gotta dress the part. And, speaking of pay, it's kind of shitty. Sorry about that. We're the only record store in the area, but we aren't exactly making enough to finance a hostile take over the free world. And the Elster is made of fucking sunshine, which, I mean, you're her dad, you know that, so anytime you want to bring her in is so cool and any customer who objects can blow me."

Ryan nods, hands in his pockets, and glances around the store to the shelves of records, walls covered in posters (some signed) that Pete won't part with for love, money, or sexual favors, and even some graffiti art done by God knows who. Pete unlocks the front door and flips the open/closed sign over, humming tunelessly under his breath. "Where the hell did Patrick find you?"

Pete laughs, loud and braying, and it should rake painfully across Ryan's nerves, but doesn't. "Languishing in Chicago. He saved me from the dungeons of the DePaul undergrad program and a miserable fucking life as a businessman."

"And what are you now?"

"Now?" Pete echoes, leaning against the counter. "I'm a motherfucking bohemian."

Ryan snorts. "Fight the power," he murmurs tonelessly, just to watch Pete grin. Ryan is not disappointed when he does, all big white teeth and crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

"Damn skippy."

--

It doesn't happen all that often, if by all that often you mean "never" but Ella does have her bad days; nights when she won't sleep, or can't, mornings where not even Patrick's singing can soothe her.

She has them, and it makes taking her into the store with him that more stressful an experience. "She's always welcome man," Pete says, trying to reassure him and stop the frantic hand-motions he'd been making, but Ryan's stomach is churning uncomfortably and nothing can stop it. "You know she's always fucking welcome. I like her more'n I like you."

By mid-afternoon, she's calmed a little, but only after knocking down three displays and getting sick over Pete's oh-my-god-signed-by-Mikey-Way-of My Chemical Romance tour tee shirt. To be quite honest, Ryan's been waiting for angry eyes and harsh words since then, but Pete had just laughed and told Joe, the-sometimes-stock-guy, to make sure he took it to the dry cleaners.

They're closing up for the night, Pete double and triple locking the door because, "Store's my entire life, man. It'd be like someone stealing the little miss over there from you." Ella's asleep finally, head on Ryan's shoulder, thumb tucked into the side of her cheek.

"So you're saying it's like your child?" Pete nods, earnestly even, but the moment breaks when he laughs, reaching his hands out to take Ella, gently putting her in the car seat on Ryan's of the car.

They carpool because Ryan's car mysteriously stopped working three days after they'd gotten to town and Pete wouldn't have it any other way. For the moment, it's okay, he's got nowhere else he'd rather be, and he's lucky enough that everything of necessity is within walking distance. When they're about a half mile from home -- Ryan's managed to rent an apartment, right off the beach and not even a five minute walk from Pete and Patrick, Pete starts to clear his throat.

"Are you okay?" Ryan asks wearily, but Pete smiles at him, winningly, but too bright by half, and Ryan's got this pit of dread starting to form in his stomach, because when Pete looks like that things tend to blow up. Ryan had seriously walked into the back room last week to get an eyeful of Pete's ass pressed against the grimy picture window, flashing the entire parking lot.

He'd been grinning then, too and Ryan tries not to fear for his life and peeks into the back seat to check on Ella, who's gurgling happily, all of the morning's crankiness completely gone. "So I don't want you to panic," Pete is saying, and Ryan really can't help it when his fingernails dig into the soft cloth of the seat.

"Telling me not to panic is like telling someone who is about to be attacked by bears to sit very, very still." Pete tilts his head to the side, as if honestly considering the words. "What did you do?" He's trying to breathe deep and slow, the way they tried to teach in the one Lamaze class he and Callie had managed to go to.

"Nothing, man. God. You'd think I did crazy shit all the time." His smile just has a tinge of crazy, and Ryan barely has time to roll his eyes by the time they're pulling into the driveway and his eyes land on a car he doesn't recognize. It's only when they've gotten out does he realize that it's not the neighbor's, and almost of its own volition, his stomach starts to seize up, mouth has gone strangely dry. Pete's frowning when Ryan manages to look at him.

"Lunchbox and I were just thinking," Ryan can barely hear him, the rushing in his ears is too loud, it's too much, and logically, Ryan knows that Pete and Patrick have other friends, a lot of other friends, that he's among friends here, that they'd never do anything to hurt him or to hurt Ella. Logically, he knows that, but the fear pooling low in his stomach has nothing to do with logic. "Your boss sucks -- "

"You're my boss, Pete," Ryan manages to grit out, fingers coming up to massage at his temples. Pete grins at him again, less manic this time, but it still does nothing to calm his nerves.

"Okay, so maybe your boss is fucking awesome, the greatest boss in the history of great bosses," Ryan manages to roll his eyes. "The hours that you work are still long, and they still suck, and as much as I love the Ramen, dealing with shithead thirteen year olds all day who want the soundtrack to motherfucking Crossroads isn't easy work, so -- "

"Are you firing me?" There are icicles starting to circle Ryan's heart, and breathing is even less easy than it was a minute ago. "Pete, seriously, is it Ella? I can figure something out, or maybe we can switch around my schedule so that I work in the afternoons, because she needs me most in the mornings, and I can. I just. I really need this job. I -- "

Pete's eyes are stormy now, dark and angrier than Ryan can ever remember seeing them. "Shut the fuck up, Ross, seriously. You're family now." Ryan blinks. "There's just this guy we know. He runs the daycare in town, and he said he'd take you guys for half price." Ryan blinks again. He thinks he's getting a tick. "You can say no, dude. You can. But he's a friend of ours, and just. Meet him." Ryan unbuckles Ella from her seat, and when he's got her in her arms his hold is a little tight. He's swallowing, completely prepared to hate this guy, and then the door swings open.

Walking into the house is so much harder than he'd ever thought it could be.

--

The guy turns out to be a few inches taller than Ryan is and wearing a slightly ridiculous green shirt with what looks oddly like pandas dancing along the hem, tight jeans, perfectly coordinated sneakers, and long hair that falls across his eye no matter how many times he tosses his head to keep it out of his face. His name is Spencer Smith, he's a year younger than Ryan (though Ryan internally qualifies that with chronologically younger than him because there are days it feels like no one could ever possibly be as old as he is), and he lives with a roommate.

Ryan spends most of the meal, Patrick's spaghetti and garlic bread, shamelessly watching him eat, looking for any indication that he's really a pedophile or a serial killer because when it comes to Ella, Ryan doesn't fuck around, even on Pete and Patrick's recommendation. Spencer obviously notices, but he takes it in stride, carrying on a conversation with Patrick about some old favorite movie. Ella, constantly wary of strangers, plants herself on Ryan's lap and refuses to move; Pete constantly flicks his gaze between Spencer and Ryan, as though he's trying to gauge the success of his venture.

"All right," Spencer says, setting his fork down with a soft clatter. "I know you probably want to ask me questions, so instead of trying to hide them in small talk, why don't you just start asking and I'll answer."

Patrick blushes and tries to subtly elbow Spencer in the side but, for the first time, Ryan cracks a wry smile as he shifts Ella on his lap. "Okay. Why do you run a daycare? You're twenty, that's kind of an odd thing to be doing."

"Because the band I was in fell apart in Iowa right before my mom got sick," Spencer replies calmly. "So, I came home, she passed away, and there was no one to take over the daycare, so I did. Besides, I like kids and I'm not going to have any of my own, so there are far worse things I could be doing with my life."

Ryan cocks his head. "You're never going to have kids?" Buddy, I thought the same damn thing.

Spencer smirks and glances to Pete and Patrick in turn. "They didn't tell you. Jon isn't just my roommate, he's my boyfriend. Going on two years now. Is that a problem?" The set of his chin is vaguely defiant and Ryan wonders if maybe it has been a problem before.

"No, it's not." Ryan smoothes down Ella's hair. "All right, what do you like to do in your free time?"

"It's like being on a blind date," Spencer laughs, but his tone is amused rather than sarcastic. "Spend time with Jon, of course. He's a freelance photographer, so on the weekends we usually go somewhere so he can take pictures and keep me in a manner to which I've become accustomed. I play drums, too, hence the whole band thing. I have to keep them in the basement, but every now and again I convince Patrick to bring over his guitar and we play. I read a lot, too. Really, anything I can get my hands on is fair game since the library is both two towns over and pathetically small, but my favorite authors are Gaiman and Palahniuk."

Ryan's heart stutters and he levels his gaze at Pete. "You told him to say that so I'd like him."

"I fuck -- ah, fricking did not." Pete throws up his hands. He's already responsible for teaching Ella shit, damn, piss, and whore. Whore is her favorite. "Swear to God. Spencer, back me up."

"I can show you my falling apart copies if you'd like."

Ryan chuckles and shakes his head, but even though the tight feeling in his stomach has dissipated a little, he's still surprised as the words pass his lips. "Alright. I guess we can try."

--

Ella's bottom lip is trembling. It's trembling and her eyes are filling with tears, and Ryan feels the bile rising in his throat. "No, Da." She's shaking her head, curls flying. "No, Da, stay." She's gripping onto the sides of his jacket, chubby little fingers catching on the buttonholes. "Please." Ryan's heart feels like it's splitting inside his chest, and his hands are planted on her sides. He can't make them let go.

"You remember Mr. Spencer, Elle. He'll be with you all day. He will. And then Uncle Feet - Pete and I will be back, and then we can go home." She's shaking her head, tears streaming down her cheeks, and Ryan can't. He can't. He turns to look at Spencer, to shake his head apologetically, to pick her up and run as far and as fast as possible, but Spencer's lips are set and Ryan feels like he's drowning. "It'll be okay, Ella." She's shaking her head though, sobs starting to wrack through her body when he finally does move his hands away.

Pete's got to clamp a hand on his shoulder to keep Ryan from falling over, and he can't look as Spencer scoops up Ella, even though he can hear the screams. It's lucky there's a trash bin right outside the building, because he's leaning over it, the remnants of the coffee he'd had earlier pushing past his lips. Pete has the decency to look away, but when they get into the car, he hands Ryan a crumpled handful of tissues with the same weird heart-bat-skull design that he has inked on his stomach.

Ryan would smile if it didn't feel the entire world crumbling around him.

It's not a stretch to say that it isn't a productive day, and when Ryan gives the wrong change back to the eleventh customer in a row, Pete settles a hand on his shoulder. "I know," Ryan mutters, almost under his breath, voice bleak. "It's just. She's all I've got." Pete looks like he understands, and at 4:45, a full four hours before they're supposed to close, he raises his brows.

"Are you gonna get your ass out of here and go get the rugrat or am I gonna have to kick you out?" Ryan blinks and Pete rolls his eyes. "Take the car. Patrick is across the street, dipshit. He and his chariot will take me home." Ryan's not sure what he wants to do more, cry with relief or hug Pete until he can't breathe. Pete tosses him the keys and he doesn't end up doing either, catching them in a fluid motion he wouldn't have believed of himself, and doesn't even hide the fact that he's running to the car.

Spencer doesn't look surprised to see him when he rushes inside the daycare, decorated in its soothing greens and bright blues, and the second Ella sees him she's scrambling off a scruffy guy's lap, throwing herself at Ryan's legs. The tears on her cheeks are soaking into the legs of his jeans, and Ryan almost collapses from the weight of her little body.

"Da," she's barely breathing in heavy little bursts, and Ryan has to close his eyes because he feels so dizzy. "Da, back. Da." Her little chin is quivering, but there's a smile somewhere in there too, just this side of blinding. Ryan picks her up and it's like his entire body is settling, finally, when he presses a kiss onto her forehead.

"Hey," Spencer says quietly, and even though Ryan had sort of tracked his progress through the corner of his eye, he's still not ready for the full impact of Spencer's eyes on his skin. "Hey, I know it's none of my business," his voice is low, and Ryan realizes it's because Ella has nodded off, body heavy and warm in his arms, tiny little breaths hitting the side of his neck. "But the other night, you said you'd done the daycare thing?" Ryan nods, because he can't really trust himself with words yet. "I don't know you, man. I don't know where Ella's mom is, but she got really upset after you left, kept saying 'Mama' and 'gone' and I just. It would explain a few things." Ryan is ready to be on the defensive, but he's exhausted and his shoulders don't have the will to hunch on their own. Spencer's eyes are kinder than he'd expected.

"The last time we left Ella at daycare was also the first time we left her at daycare. Her mom didn't come to pick her up. We haven't seen her since." Spencer blinks. Ryan's pretty sure that's as shocked as his face actually gets. After a minute, Ryan can feel a dull flush settling across his cheeks. "I'm. I'm sorry about the scene this morning. I. She doesn't really ask for Callie much, you know? I knew it would be hard. But." Spencer touches his arm, the free one, and Ryan tries not to flinch.

"It's okay, Ryan. It'll be okay. You're doing a great job with her." He smiles, a little, and Ryan tries to believe him.

Master post!

Part Two.