Primeval Fic - Feel Like You Still Have A Choice (Secret Santa for lukadreaming) - 3/3
By the time Ryan gets back to the cottage, it’s a little past midnight and everyone else has long gone to bed. There’s a note from Annie waiting for him on the side table in the hall, which he reads with a stab of guilt as he toes off his boots and hangs up his jacket.
Tom,
We’re off to bed now - I hope you had a nice walk and got back safe and in one piece. I’m sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable earlier; it wasn’t my intention. I just feel like I know so little about you anymore and I was trying - somewhat cack-handedly, Rick has pointed out - to rectify that. But I understand that you’ve always been a very private person and I want more than anything for you to be comfortable here, so no more intrusive questions, I promise! Just remember that if you have something you want to say, I am always here to listen.
See you in the morning.
~ Annie.
It’s a nice gesture. As different as they are and as far as they have drifted, it is obvious that Annie is trying. She might be mostly getting it wrong, but she is trying nevertheless.
Perhaps, Ryan thinks, it’s time he tried a little bit too.
*-*-*-*-*
Christmas morning dawns bright and frosty and with an excited seven year old pounding on his door. Ryan is well-used to early mornings but he does not enjoy awakening to loud noises. He finds his new resolve to make an effort already being slightly tested.
This is confirmed when he makes his way downstairs and is greeted by a maelstrom of wrapping paper and a lurcher with a bent pair of reindeer antlers tied to his head.
“Joe is being Christmas-sy, Uncle Tom!” Ellie informs him, beaming and waving a ribbon around.
“I think he might be more of a Scrooge,” Ryan says, taking in the dog’s expression. This bounces right off Ellie, as indeed most things appear to but Katie, sprawled on the rug with Trixie, giggles.
Trixie is wearing a Santa Claus hat. She doesn’t appear particularly perturbed by this.
A cold wet nose nudges Ryan’s hand and Joe looks up at him imploringly. Annie notices and laughs. “He’s got you wrapped right around his little finger, Tom.”
This is a blatant lie, but Ryan crouches down to remove the antlers anyway.
*-*-*-*-*
Two hours later and all the presents have been distributed and unwrapped - all that is, save for one main present each, which stand in a jaunty line under the Christmas tree, waiting for after lunch.
Ryan has given out his wine and his socks and his book vouchers, and received in return some hand grenades made of chocolate (Annie beamed with pride), a pair of socks of his own, a nice bottle of whiskey and a truly, inconceivably ugly Christmas jumper. It’s white, with an enormous snowman on the front and protruding woolly bobbles which are apparently meant to be snow. Someone has stitched the coal eyes of the snowman on wonky and too close together. It looks both cross and slightly demented.
“Isn’t it amazing?” Ellie demands.
“Um,” Ryan says, “yes, that’s certainly one word.”
When he looks up in an instinctive search for help, to his surprise it’s Katie’s eyes he catches. She grins and offers him a thumbs up. The gesture is shy but also slightly sarcastic and when Ryan turns back to Ellie to thank her, he finds his smile has become more genuine.
*-*-*-*-*
The Christmas lunch that Annie has prepared is less suited to the five and more to the five hundred. The table is groaning with food. Trixie and Joe sit side-by-side, eyes wide and hopeful. The trail of drool from Joe’s mouth reaches nearly to the floor. It’s the most positive emotion Ryan has ever seen him show, and that is the excuse for the number of pigs-in-blankets that somehow find their way under the table from his plate.
That, and the fact that he’s been castigated by Annie for not buying Joe a Christmas present and despite his assertion that presents for pets is a ridiculous notion, he can’t help but feel a bit guilty. Trixie’s brand new red leather collar is not helping matters.
Either way it’s the best Christmas dinner Ryan has had in years and it’s not just because last year he had a cheese toastie in the break room at the ARC because there were seven sauropods a-swimming in the local reservoir.
They’re just contemplating whether anyone could stand a second helping of dessert when his phone vibrates. He moves immediately to check it, instinct ingrained from years of being on call.
It is, to his surprise, a text from Stephen. Ryan hadn’t expected the other man to make contact again so quickly.
Happy Christmas, it reads. Drop me a line if you’re around later and want to escape for a quick drink.
You too, Ryan replies and then, with a somewhat guilty glance at Annie, do you fancy a walk sometime this afternoon?
He’s not exactly sure what he’s doing. There’s a lot of history between himself and Stephen Hart. Too much, he’s tempted to say, yet his phone vibrates again almost immediately.
Just say when.
Ryan’s stomach feels odd. It’s not an entirely unpleasant sensation, but perhaps another helping of Christmas pudding is in order.
*-*-*-*-*
They gather back around the tree after lunch, for the opening of the main presents. Ellie gets an easel and a set of watercolours that contains more shades of the rainbow than Ryan was aware existed. Katie gets a gift voucher for dog training classes, which clearly cannot come soon enough. Annie and Rick exchange halves of a weekend in France. It’s nice.
He’s surprised, however, when Ellie reaches for the last gift under the tree, reads the label and then ferries it dutifully over to him.
“Oh,” he says, rather stupidly. “Sorry, I didn’t…uh…”
“No, no,” Annie says, immediately, “this is just a little something extra from us. Don’t worry about it.”
“You should have said,” Ryan mumbles.
Annie’s smile is uncomfortably fond. “Just open it,” she says. Ryan obeys.
In his hands sits a picture frame, a simple gunmetal grey rectangle. The photo inside is clearly old but Ryan recognises it instantly. Himself, somewhere in his mid-teens, sat on one end of the sofa with a god awful bowl haircut. Annie sat at the other, younger and blonder, grinning all over her face. And the parents; their mother and Annie’s father, bridging the gap, holding hands and smiling only for each other.
Annie leans forward eagerly. “Do you like it? I found it when I was cleaning out some old boxes and I thought you had to have it. I thought you could put it up, to remind you of the good old days. Everyone needs a good memory or two.”
Ryan swallows hard, trying to dislodge the lump that has suddenly formed in his throat. His stomach feels abruptly cold. “Thanks,” he manages. “It’s great.”
Annie starts talking again, saying something about that particular Christmas but Ryan can’t listen. He digs through his pocket for his phone instead.
Up for that walk now?
He doesn’t wait for Stephen’s reply, interrupts Annie mid-sentence. “I need to go out,” he says. “Sorry, I promised I’d meet a friend for a walk.”
“Oh,” Annie says. “Right, okay.”
“Sorry,” Ryan says again. He’s aware he’s being rude and the put-out look that Rick isn’t even trying to hide confirms it. Ryan places the photograph carefully to one side and stands up. “I’ll be back later. Thank you for lunch and everything.” He’s aware his voice has gone oddly formal and moves to grab his jacket and Joe’s lead, still hanging in the hall from last night.
Annie follows him out. “Tom, are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he mutters and then forces himself to stop and smile at her. It’s not her fault, not really. “Just need some air.”
Annie doesn’t look like she considers this an acceptable explanation. “Well,” she says, “if you’re going out, you need to dress warmer than that. It’s freezing. Wait there.”
She vanishes back into the lounge and then re-emerges clutching the snowman jumper. Situation momentarily forgotten, Ryan looks at her askance. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
Annie raises an eyebrow. Ryan is reminded inescapably of his mother.
*-*-*-*-*
“Nice jumper,” Stephen says, twenty minutes later, eyebrows jumping into his hair.
“Fuck off.”
*-*-*-*-*
They end up walking alongside the river that flows through Elterwater Valley. It’s beautiful and the terrain is rocky but flat, which suits Ryan’s current energy levels down to the ground.
He’d been a bit worried that their meeting in the pub had been a one-off and that things would be awkward, but conversation between them flows, stopping and starting, meandering along as easily as the river.
They’ve been walking for about a mile and a half before Stephen breaks the comfortable silence that has fallen between them.
“If you don’t mind me asking,” he says, “what’s wrong?”
Ryan starts slightly. He thought he’d been hiding his earlier unease well.
“It’s nothing,” he says and then, without really planning to, “my sister gave me a photograph for Christmas.”
“What a cow,” Stephen says lightly, and Ryan snorts and instantly regrets it. It is not an attractive sound in any circumstance.
“She’s my half-sister,” he says, eventually, feeling an urge to explain but not really knowing why. “My father died when I was seven and my mother re-married.”
Stephen remains quiet, but Ryan can feel him watching him out of the corner of his eye.
“Annie and I, we’re not close,” he continues. “After Dad died, Mum packed everything up - photos, letters, belongings - and she stopped talking about him. She said we had to start again, find a new beginning. She kept saying we needed to find ‘new stars’; she was obsessed with astronomy. She met Annie’s father when I was eight and Annie was born pretty soon after,” Ryan pauses, trying to collect his thoughts. “It’s not that I don’t love her. It’s that she doesn’t understand that her family is not…my family.”
“What about your mother?” Stephen asks.
“She never talked about my Dad. She acted as though Mark was my father too. New stars, I suppose.” Ryan shrugs, “I could never quite manage to forget in the same way.”
“Understandably,” Stephen says. There’s a silence, broken only by the crunch of their boots on the icy ground.
“Sorry,” Ryan mutters, suddenly feeling embarrassed. “You didn’t want to hear all that.” He drags his eyes up off the ground and finds Stephen smiling at him.
“I don’t mind,” he says, “but the person you need to say it to is your sister.” He blushes abruptly, colour high on his cheekbones. “If you don’t mind a bit of advice, that is.”
Ryan laughs and shakes his head. “Yeah,” he says, “I know. One day.”
Stephen doesn’t reply but he nudges closer for a couple of strides. His shoulder brushes Ryan’s as they walk.
*-*-*-*-*
When Ryan returns to the cottage later, all is peaceful. Trixie is in a food coma, whiffling softly in front of the fire, with Katie sprawled out next to her with a book. Ellie is absorbed in her easel, furiously painting something which could be her father, but could also potentially be a collection of root vegetables. Rick, oblivious, is snoring on the sofa, magazine dropped off to one side.
Ryan takes Joe’s lead off, watches him keel over next to Trixie and then wanders through to the kitchen, where he finds Annie sat at the table, with an empty cup of tea. She’s staring into space and jumps violently when he taps lightly on the door.
“Tom,” she says, hand clutched over her heart, “are you trying to kill me?”
Ryan chuckles. “Sorry,” he says and moves in to sit at the table with her. “Everything okay?”
“Of course,” Annie says, watching him closely. “You?”
Ryan smiles and finds that it’s genuine. Whatever his reasons for opening up to Stephen, it’s made him feel a little bit lighter about the whole thing. “Fine,” he says. “Do you want tea?”
Annie nods and as Ryan gets up to make it, she catches his hand. “Are you sure you’re okay, Tom?” she asks. “I didn’t mean to upset you earlier. I’m sorry if there’s something I did?”
Ryan feels horribly guilty. He squeezes her hand once and then moves away. “It’s okay,” he says, a bit gruffly. “It’s not you. Just…history. I’ll tell you about it one day.”
For the first time, he thinks maybe he means it. He makes the tea and sits back down. They sip in silence for a while and then Ryan remembers his resolution to himself to try a little bit harder.
He’s talked about his father enough for one day, but maybe there’s another step he could take. Absently, he traces a circle on the table with one finger. “I’ve retired,” he hears himself say.
Annie starts slightly. “Retired? As in, from your current job?”
“No,” Ryan says. “Well, yes. But also for good.”
“But why?” Annie asks, obviously shocked. “You love your job.”
“I did,” Ryan says. “But I got tired.”
Annie takes his hand again. “Oh, love,” she says. “If that’s what you wanted, then congratulations.”
It’s at times like this that Ryan could easily forget that she’s actually his younger sister.
“What are you going to do now?” Annie asks. This is the question that Ryan has been dreading, but he’s too grateful that she hasn’t asked why he’s been lying to her for the dread to manifest too much.
“I haven’t got a bloody clue,” he replies.
Annie squeezes his hand. “Well,” she says, “just remember, you’re always welcome here.”
“Thanks,” Ryan says, and is surprised to find he means it.
*-*-*-*-*
By the time Ryan gets home after Boxing Day it’s so late it’s basically morning. The house is freezing, the cold seeming to have taken root in the walls and the half hour wait for the heating to kick in is fairly unpleasant.
He heads straight for bed, not bothering to unpack any further than dumping his bags in the hall in a pile. It takes less than five minutes for Joe to abandon his chilly bed in the living room and heave himself up next to Ryan. This is not behaviour Ryan is planning on tolerating in the future, but for once, Joe’s furnace-like properties are going to have to win out over the distinct aroma of dog. Sheets can be washed.
*-*-*-*-*
When Ryan awakens, the winter sun is shining weakly through his bedroom window and the house is silent around him. Beside him Joe has somehow managed to worm his way beneath the duvet and there’s a knobbly paw jabbing Ryan in the kidney. Ryan grimaces.
He gets up, having never been in the routine of lounging around in bed and, after a pause, drags Joe unceremoniously out from under the duvet. The lurcher grumbles, belches and goes back to sleep on the rug.
Ryan spends the morning getting the house back in order. He unpacks, strips the bed, does his laundry and goes to the shops to restock the fridge. After lunch, he goes for a run, ten miles up to the Heath, around and then back again. It’s bright out but the cold burns his lungs and the tips of his ears and he’s glad to get back. He suspects he might be going soft.
Back at home, having run out of things to do, he makes a mug of tea and sits down on the sofa. Joe joins him, ears drooping. Ryan had been hoping that the Christmas away would perk him up a bit, but other than pig-in-blanket related enthusiasm, that seems to have been a vain hope. He looks as miserable as ever.
Ryan is starting to wonder whether it might not be kinder to take him back to the Home and let them find him someone who knows what they’re doing. His sheets are currently clogging up his washing machine with dog hair, but it’s still not a particularly pleasant thought. He sighs and reaches for the remote.
Two minutes later, Masterchef is interrupted by the buzzing of his phone.
Ryan, I’m back in London this afternoon. Fancy a pint this evening? I’ve got a proposition for you.
*-*-*-*-*
Stephen’s proposition, as it turns out, is a job. He phrases it as a ‘favour’, but it’s quite clearly not. It also feels like pity and the fact Ryan is fairly certain Stephen hadn’t intended it that way is the only reason his response is ‘no’, rather than ‘go to hell’.
Assistant coach quitting or not, he’s ninety percent certain that Stephen does not need an ex-Special Forces soldier helping to train young people at his local shooting range. He’s also fairly sure that nothing on his CV qualifies him as suitable for a ‘community outreach program’.
He says as much to Lyle the next evening when they meet up for a curry. They’re at Lyle’s place, which has been unusual for them in the past. Ryan has never felt particularly comfortable relaxing socially in the same airspace as James Lester.
But as Lyle had pointed out over the phone earlier, Lester is not Ryan’s boss anymore and perhaps it is time for him to ‘get over himself’. Sometimes, Ryan thinks he preferred the days when Lyle was his subordinate and required to at least fake a modicum of respect.
Tonight, thankfully, Lester has made himself scarce.
“So, let me get this straight,” Lyle says, stabbing viciously at his chicken biryani, “you met up with Stephen - Stephen Hart - when you were at your sister’s for Christmas and now you’re friends and he’s offered you a job.”
“We’re not friends,” Ryan says. “Not really.”
Lyle raises an eyebrow in an almost perfect parody of Lester. Urgh, couples. “No, you just text all the time and go for drinks and for romantic walks in the snow.”
Ryan chokes on a particularly sharp piece of poppadom. “We do not text all the time. And it was not a romantic walk in the snow.”
“Right,” Lyle says blithely. “And you didn’t fancy the pants off him when we worked together, either.”
Ryan’s really not sure fifty-something year old men are supposed to use the phrase ‘fancy the pants off’. Regardless of how true it may or may not have been. “It’s not like that,” he snaps. “He’s just being kind.”
“God forbid,” Lyle mutters. “But you turned the job down?”
Ryan shrugs. “He’s only doing it out of some misplaced sense of duty. I think he thinks I need it. I don’t want to be someone’s charity case and I’d be crap at it anyway.”
“Crap at teaching teenagers from horrible backgrounds how to shoot?”
Ryan nods and focuses on his naan bread. Across from him, Lyle puts his cutlery down.
“Okay, Ryan, I’m going to say this and I’m only going to say it once, so listen for fuck’s sakes. You’re an idiot. Take the job. I knew Stephen Hart and unless he’s changed drastically, pitying you won’t have even crossed his mind. He asked you because he knows you’re the best and because he really fucking liked you when we worked together. From the sounds of it, he probably still does.” It looks like getting that out might have caused Lyle actual physical pain. “So stop being so bloody stubborn and take the damn job.”
There’s a long and awkward silence. Lyle picks his knife and fork back up and starts chewing loudly. “Anyway,” he says. “I’ve got a few days off next week. Fancy a trip to the Brecons? Been ages since we did any cycling.”
“Yeah,” Ryan says, “okay.”
*-*-*-*-*
Much later, when he’s back at his, sat on the sofa with a glass of whiskey, he reaches for his phone. He pulls up a blank text message and stares at it for a minute.
Then he types out a message to Stephen and presses ‘send’.
I’ll do it.
*-*-*-*-*
The few days away with Lyle are good. They eat, they sleep, they cycle. It’s simple. Ryan feels a nagging sense of guilt at leaving Joe, having bribed the neighbour’s son to walk and feed him, but it’s fairly easy to ignore. The lurcher never really seems to notice when he’s actually there, so.
Stephen remains in regular contact by text, even though Ryan had let him know he was going away. Mostly, it’s just admin stuff about Ryan taking up a position at the range, but there’s a bit of casual chat in there as well. Stephen’s sense of humour is as sharp and dry as Ryan always remembered and he makes a concerted effort to never let Lyle catch him grinning at his phone. Unfortunately, he’s only semi-successful.
All-in-all, by the time he’s letting himself back in through his front gate late Friday evening, he’s feeling okay - settled and positive in a way he hasn’t for a while. He dumps his bags by his feet and starts to dig through his pockets for his keys and that’s when he suddenly becomes aware of the barking.
It’s faint, but getting progressively louder and it sounds like it’s coming from inside Ryan’s house. Joe.
Ryan freezes, hand immediately flying for the gun that he no longer carries, senses snapping to alert. He’s never heard Joe bark the entire time he’s had him. Something’s wrong.
The front door is still locked and bolted, so Ryan slides the key into the lock as slowly as possible and turns it, before sliding the bolt back and letting the door swing silently open. He reaches down and frees the knife he still carries in his boot, before stepping forward. The hallway is dark and still around him.
Joe’s still barking furiously, muffled behind the closed door of the kitchen and Ryan can hear the frantic scrabble of his claws against the wood. The door to the living room, open at the end of the corridor, reveals nothing moving. Ryan edges forwards, back to the wall and as quietly as possible reaches out to open the kitchen door.
All his attempts at stealth are immediately rendered moot. As soon as the door is open a tiny crack, Joe’s nose appears, slamming it open and the lurcher ricochets into the hallway like a furry grey football. He launches himself at Ryan, barking ceasing immediately and Ryan, dazed and confused, finds himself pinned to the wall, Joe’s front feet firmly planted just below his ribs. Ryan drops the knife.
The lurcher’s tongue is lolling out of his mouth, open in some semblance of a delighted grin and his skinny grey tail is whipping back and forth. Ryan is so surprised he can’t actually move, except to lift his hands and scratch all around Joe’s ears. The lurcher groans happily and frantically licks his wrists.
They stay like that for a few more moments, before Joe - joints clearly protesting - lurches back to the floor and leans against Ryan’s knees instead, panting contentedly and leaving a damp patch on Ryan’s trousers. The front door is still swinging wide open and a very sharp knife still lies unsheathed on the floor, so eventually Ryan nudges Joe off, reclaims the knife and hauls his bags inside.
He unpacks in a bit of a daze, Joe dogging his every movement, constantly underfoot, still wagging his tail. When everything has been straightened out, Ryan puts the kettle on, props himself up against the kitchen counter and pulls out his phone. He texts Stephen.
I just got back, and my dog is acting weird.
Stephen replies in under a minute.
…weird?
He was barking and now he’s following me around and wagging his tail every time I look at him.
Ryan can almost hear the chuckle of amusement in Stephen’s next message.
You’ve never left him overnight before have you? He’s clearly happy to see you. Welcome home.
Ryan is not an idiot - this is the conclusion he had drawn - but to have someone else confirm it makes him grin at the instant coffee. He spoons some into the mug instead and stirs absently.
Joe’s tail beats a steady rhythm against the kitchen floor. Welcome home, it seems to say, welcome home, home, home, home.
*-*-*-*-*
The next morning, Joe appears in Ryan’s bedroom at half past six. He appears to be checking that Ryan hasn’t fled in the night. Once his fears have been allayed, he sits on the rug at the end of the bed and dedicates himself to licking his toes for a while. Ryan sits up in bed and watches him. Maybe, he thinks, maybe he’s not doing so badly at this after all.
He gets up and makes breakfast and when Joe sees that he is not immediately packing another bag to leave again, he goes and sits in the corner of the lounge, back to the room, staring mournfully out of the French windows.
He sulks for a week.
*-*-*-*-*
Months pass, and Ryan starts at the shooting club. It’s nothing like his last job. The hours are a godsend for one thing. The teenagers, less so, but Ryan glowers a lot and cons Blade into coming along and doing a knife throwing demonstration and after that they start to seem more and more inclined to listen to him. Some of them are actually quite decent.
He sees a lot of Stephen. They go out for food and to the pub and on walks and bike rides and spend long evenings in front of the TV. It turns out that Stephen has a lot of opinions on Masterchef. Joe adores him.
Stephen isn’t the man that Ryan used to work with anymore. He’s older, more confident, far more settled in his skin. It’s ironic really, that they re-met when Ryan was feeling so adrift - a direct role reversal of when they used to know each other. But it’s good. Stephen’s sharp and funny and handsome.
Ryan just likes him.
He stays in touch with Annie as well. They ring every fortnight, not talking for long, just touching base. They’re not as close as she obviously wants but things are improving. Sometime, someday, Ryan will talk to her about his dad and then maybe she’ll understand more. But for now, they’re both trying and that’s all that can be asked.
In fact, everything is ticking along nicely. Ryan has friends and family and things to do with his time. He still wakes up with nightmares and there are still times when he reaches out for the purpose of the day and finds it lacking, but mostly, he’s okay.
It remains so, until an evening in March, when his phone rings at quarter past eleven. He answers somewhat blearily, having dozed off over a book. It’s Stephen.
“Ryan?”
“Yeah,” Ryan croaks, and then clears his throat and tries again. “Sorry, yeah, what’s up?”
“Do you remember when we first met?” Stephen sounds slightly nervous. Ryan pictures him as a flighty horse and sits up a little straighter.
“The first time or the second time? Are you okay?”
“Fine, fine.” Ryan is definitely not imagining the thread of panic in his voice. “The second time.”
“In the pub,” Ryan says. “My dog farted.”
“Right, yes. And we talked about things we’d always wanted to do that we’d never had a chance to.”
“Yes,” Ryan said, slowly. “I remember. What’s going on?”
“We both said we wanted to travel,” Stephen says, and then, “South America, yes?”
Ryan has wanted to go to Peru since he was a little boy. He does vaguely remember telling Stephen this over pint number two or three.
Stephen seems to take his silence as agreement. “I’m going,” he says. “For a month. To South America, I mean. I bought a plane ticket.”
“Oh, right,” Ryan says, feeling a little bit odd. “Congratulations, I suppose? You’ve always wanted to go.”
“No,” Stephen says, nonsensically. Ryan is starting to wonder whether he’s been drinking. “But that’s the thing.” There’s a long and loud pause. “I was just wondering if you wanted to come with me.”
Ryan blinks. “Sorry, what?”
“I know it’s out of the blue, but you said you’ve always wanted to see Peru and I - I’d like to see it with you.” Stephen sounds as unsure as Ryan has ever heard him. “It’s just,” Stephen continues, “we’ve both got the time now haven’t we, and it’s your birthday soon and I started thinking about it and then I couldn’t stop.”
To say Ryan is surprised is putting it mildly. From Stephen’s general tone, it’s taken a lot for him to ask. Ryan is vaguely impressed - he would never have had the balls. His mind immediately begins pondering the politest way to turn Stephen down, but then he takes a moment to really think.
He’s always wanted to travel, Stephen is right. Before, he’d never had the time. Too many people relying on him, too many hours that needed working and dinosaurs that needed wrangling. But that part of his life is done now, and he’s mostly accepted it. Saying yes would mean leaving Joe, but Lyle would have him and that would wind Lester up beautifully. His instinct is to say ‘I can’t’ but that’s not really true anymore and he’s getting tired of the lie.
He tries not to think too hard about spending a month alone with Stephen.
“Ryan?” Stephen sounds hesitant.
Ryan looks at Joe, who thumps his tail. “Yeah,” he finds himself saying. “Yeah, okay, why not?”
In the end, it’s the easiest yes he’s ever given.
*-*-*-*-*
After he’s hung up with Stephen, Ryan fetches Joe’s lead and drags him out for a walk, even though it’s nearly midnight. Joe, while clearly not completely on board with this plan, seems to sense Ryan’s need to think and is less resentful than usual.
They go to Hampstead Heath and Ryan climbs to the top of Parliament Hill and settles on a bench, looking out over the city. This has always been one of his favourite spots in London.
He sighs heavily, which Joe echoes, and forces himself to think about what he’s agreed to tonight. His problem, Ryan thinks, is that he’s always been opposed to new beginnings. His mother probably has to shoulder some of the blame for that. When he was a boy, her version of a new beginning had been to deny everything that came before. ‘Finding new stars’, she’d called it. But to him, all that had happened was that first they’d forgotten his father, and then they’d replaced him. Since then, he’s always had an innate reluctance to move on. He’s scared, it seems, of doing the disservice of forgetting. It’s no wonder retirement hasn’t really suited him.
Ryan looks up, and the stars must be particularly bright tonight because he can see them even through the London smog. It’s cold. He feeds Joe a gravy bone from his pocket as apology and then starts to think.
He thinks about South America and Joe and his job at the shooting range. It seems like he’s moving on, whether he wants to or not. New horizons, new stars. But then, however, there’s also Stephen and Lyle and Annie and he’s been invited to an Easter celebration with the staff of the ARC.
Perhaps, Ryan thinks, idly scratching Joe’s ears and watching the sky, perhaps his mother was wrong. New beginnings aren’t just about finding new stars.
They’re about rearranging the ones that you’ve got.
Tom,
We’re off to bed now - I hope you had a nice walk and got back safe and in one piece. I’m sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable earlier; it wasn’t my intention. I just feel like I know so little about you anymore and I was trying - somewhat cack-handedly, Rick has pointed out - to rectify that. But I understand that you’ve always been a very private person and I want more than anything for you to be comfortable here, so no more intrusive questions, I promise! Just remember that if you have something you want to say, I am always here to listen.
See you in the morning.
~ Annie.
It’s a nice gesture. As different as they are and as far as they have drifted, it is obvious that Annie is trying. She might be mostly getting it wrong, but she is trying nevertheless.
Perhaps, Ryan thinks, it’s time he tried a little bit too.
*-*-*-*-*
Christmas morning dawns bright and frosty and with an excited seven year old pounding on his door. Ryan is well-used to early mornings but he does not enjoy awakening to loud noises. He finds his new resolve to make an effort already being slightly tested.
This is confirmed when he makes his way downstairs and is greeted by a maelstrom of wrapping paper and a lurcher with a bent pair of reindeer antlers tied to his head.
“Joe is being Christmas-sy, Uncle Tom!” Ellie informs him, beaming and waving a ribbon around.
“I think he might be more of a Scrooge,” Ryan says, taking in the dog’s expression. This bounces right off Ellie, as indeed most things appear to but Katie, sprawled on the rug with Trixie, giggles.
Trixie is wearing a Santa Claus hat. She doesn’t appear particularly perturbed by this.
A cold wet nose nudges Ryan’s hand and Joe looks up at him imploringly. Annie notices and laughs. “He’s got you wrapped right around his little finger, Tom.”
This is a blatant lie, but Ryan crouches down to remove the antlers anyway.
*-*-*-*-*
Two hours later and all the presents have been distributed and unwrapped - all that is, save for one main present each, which stand in a jaunty line under the Christmas tree, waiting for after lunch.
Ryan has given out his wine and his socks and his book vouchers, and received in return some hand grenades made of chocolate (Annie beamed with pride), a pair of socks of his own, a nice bottle of whiskey and a truly, inconceivably ugly Christmas jumper. It’s white, with an enormous snowman on the front and protruding woolly bobbles which are apparently meant to be snow. Someone has stitched the coal eyes of the snowman on wonky and too close together. It looks both cross and slightly demented.
“Isn’t it amazing?” Ellie demands.
“Um,” Ryan says, “yes, that’s certainly one word.”
When he looks up in an instinctive search for help, to his surprise it’s Katie’s eyes he catches. She grins and offers him a thumbs up. The gesture is shy but also slightly sarcastic and when Ryan turns back to Ellie to thank her, he finds his smile has become more genuine.
*-*-*-*-*
The Christmas lunch that Annie has prepared is less suited to the five and more to the five hundred. The table is groaning with food. Trixie and Joe sit side-by-side, eyes wide and hopeful. The trail of drool from Joe’s mouth reaches nearly to the floor. It’s the most positive emotion Ryan has ever seen him show, and that is the excuse for the number of pigs-in-blankets that somehow find their way under the table from his plate.
That, and the fact that he’s been castigated by Annie for not buying Joe a Christmas present and despite his assertion that presents for pets is a ridiculous notion, he can’t help but feel a bit guilty. Trixie’s brand new red leather collar is not helping matters.
Either way it’s the best Christmas dinner Ryan has had in years and it’s not just because last year he had a cheese toastie in the break room at the ARC because there were seven sauropods a-swimming in the local reservoir.
They’re just contemplating whether anyone could stand a second helping of dessert when his phone vibrates. He moves immediately to check it, instinct ingrained from years of being on call.
It is, to his surprise, a text from Stephen. Ryan hadn’t expected the other man to make contact again so quickly.
Happy Christmas, it reads. Drop me a line if you’re around later and want to escape for a quick drink.
You too, Ryan replies and then, with a somewhat guilty glance at Annie, do you fancy a walk sometime this afternoon?
He’s not exactly sure what he’s doing. There’s a lot of history between himself and Stephen Hart. Too much, he’s tempted to say, yet his phone vibrates again almost immediately.
Just say when.
Ryan’s stomach feels odd. It’s not an entirely unpleasant sensation, but perhaps another helping of Christmas pudding is in order.
*-*-*-*-*
They gather back around the tree after lunch, for the opening of the main presents. Ellie gets an easel and a set of watercolours that contains more shades of the rainbow than Ryan was aware existed. Katie gets a gift voucher for dog training classes, which clearly cannot come soon enough. Annie and Rick exchange halves of a weekend in France. It’s nice.
He’s surprised, however, when Ellie reaches for the last gift under the tree, reads the label and then ferries it dutifully over to him.
“Oh,” he says, rather stupidly. “Sorry, I didn’t…uh…”
“No, no,” Annie says, immediately, “this is just a little something extra from us. Don’t worry about it.”
“You should have said,” Ryan mumbles.
Annie’s smile is uncomfortably fond. “Just open it,” she says. Ryan obeys.
In his hands sits a picture frame, a simple gunmetal grey rectangle. The photo inside is clearly old but Ryan recognises it instantly. Himself, somewhere in his mid-teens, sat on one end of the sofa with a god awful bowl haircut. Annie sat at the other, younger and blonder, grinning all over her face. And the parents; their mother and Annie’s father, bridging the gap, holding hands and smiling only for each other.
Annie leans forward eagerly. “Do you like it? I found it when I was cleaning out some old boxes and I thought you had to have it. I thought you could put it up, to remind you of the good old days. Everyone needs a good memory or two.”
Ryan swallows hard, trying to dislodge the lump that has suddenly formed in his throat. His stomach feels abruptly cold. “Thanks,” he manages. “It’s great.”
Annie starts talking again, saying something about that particular Christmas but Ryan can’t listen. He digs through his pocket for his phone instead.
Up for that walk now?
He doesn’t wait for Stephen’s reply, interrupts Annie mid-sentence. “I need to go out,” he says. “Sorry, I promised I’d meet a friend for a walk.”
“Oh,” Annie says. “Right, okay.”
“Sorry,” Ryan says again. He’s aware he’s being rude and the put-out look that Rick isn’t even trying to hide confirms it. Ryan places the photograph carefully to one side and stands up. “I’ll be back later. Thank you for lunch and everything.” He’s aware his voice has gone oddly formal and moves to grab his jacket and Joe’s lead, still hanging in the hall from last night.
Annie follows him out. “Tom, are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he mutters and then forces himself to stop and smile at her. It’s not her fault, not really. “Just need some air.”
Annie doesn’t look like she considers this an acceptable explanation. “Well,” she says, “if you’re going out, you need to dress warmer than that. It’s freezing. Wait there.”
She vanishes back into the lounge and then re-emerges clutching the snowman jumper. Situation momentarily forgotten, Ryan looks at her askance. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
Annie raises an eyebrow. Ryan is reminded inescapably of his mother.
*-*-*-*-*
“Nice jumper,” Stephen says, twenty minutes later, eyebrows jumping into his hair.
“Fuck off.”
*-*-*-*-*
They end up walking alongside the river that flows through Elterwater Valley. It’s beautiful and the terrain is rocky but flat, which suits Ryan’s current energy levels down to the ground.
He’d been a bit worried that their meeting in the pub had been a one-off and that things would be awkward, but conversation between them flows, stopping and starting, meandering along as easily as the river.
They’ve been walking for about a mile and a half before Stephen breaks the comfortable silence that has fallen between them.
“If you don’t mind me asking,” he says, “what’s wrong?”
Ryan starts slightly. He thought he’d been hiding his earlier unease well.
“It’s nothing,” he says and then, without really planning to, “my sister gave me a photograph for Christmas.”
“What a cow,” Stephen says lightly, and Ryan snorts and instantly regrets it. It is not an attractive sound in any circumstance.
“She’s my half-sister,” he says, eventually, feeling an urge to explain but not really knowing why. “My father died when I was seven and my mother re-married.”
Stephen remains quiet, but Ryan can feel him watching him out of the corner of his eye.
“Annie and I, we’re not close,” he continues. “After Dad died, Mum packed everything up - photos, letters, belongings - and she stopped talking about him. She said we had to start again, find a new beginning. She kept saying we needed to find ‘new stars’; she was obsessed with astronomy. She met Annie’s father when I was eight and Annie was born pretty soon after,” Ryan pauses, trying to collect his thoughts. “It’s not that I don’t love her. It’s that she doesn’t understand that her family is not…my family.”
“What about your mother?” Stephen asks.
“She never talked about my Dad. She acted as though Mark was my father too. New stars, I suppose.” Ryan shrugs, “I could never quite manage to forget in the same way.”
“Understandably,” Stephen says. There’s a silence, broken only by the crunch of their boots on the icy ground.
“Sorry,” Ryan mutters, suddenly feeling embarrassed. “You didn’t want to hear all that.” He drags his eyes up off the ground and finds Stephen smiling at him.
“I don’t mind,” he says, “but the person you need to say it to is your sister.” He blushes abruptly, colour high on his cheekbones. “If you don’t mind a bit of advice, that is.”
Ryan laughs and shakes his head. “Yeah,” he says, “I know. One day.”
Stephen doesn’t reply but he nudges closer for a couple of strides. His shoulder brushes Ryan’s as they walk.
*-*-*-*-*
When Ryan returns to the cottage later, all is peaceful. Trixie is in a food coma, whiffling softly in front of the fire, with Katie sprawled out next to her with a book. Ellie is absorbed in her easel, furiously painting something which could be her father, but could also potentially be a collection of root vegetables. Rick, oblivious, is snoring on the sofa, magazine dropped off to one side.
Ryan takes Joe’s lead off, watches him keel over next to Trixie and then wanders through to the kitchen, where he finds Annie sat at the table, with an empty cup of tea. She’s staring into space and jumps violently when he taps lightly on the door.
“Tom,” she says, hand clutched over her heart, “are you trying to kill me?”
Ryan chuckles. “Sorry,” he says and moves in to sit at the table with her. “Everything okay?”
“Of course,” Annie says, watching him closely. “You?”
Ryan smiles and finds that it’s genuine. Whatever his reasons for opening up to Stephen, it’s made him feel a little bit lighter about the whole thing. “Fine,” he says. “Do you want tea?”
Annie nods and as Ryan gets up to make it, she catches his hand. “Are you sure you’re okay, Tom?” she asks. “I didn’t mean to upset you earlier. I’m sorry if there’s something I did?”
Ryan feels horribly guilty. He squeezes her hand once and then moves away. “It’s okay,” he says, a bit gruffly. “It’s not you. Just…history. I’ll tell you about it one day.”
For the first time, he thinks maybe he means it. He makes the tea and sits back down. They sip in silence for a while and then Ryan remembers his resolution to himself to try a little bit harder.
He’s talked about his father enough for one day, but maybe there’s another step he could take. Absently, he traces a circle on the table with one finger. “I’ve retired,” he hears himself say.
Annie starts slightly. “Retired? As in, from your current job?”
“No,” Ryan says. “Well, yes. But also for good.”
“But why?” Annie asks, obviously shocked. “You love your job.”
“I did,” Ryan says. “But I got tired.”
Annie takes his hand again. “Oh, love,” she says. “If that’s what you wanted, then congratulations.”
It’s at times like this that Ryan could easily forget that she’s actually his younger sister.
“What are you going to do now?” Annie asks. This is the question that Ryan has been dreading, but he’s too grateful that she hasn’t asked why he’s been lying to her for the dread to manifest too much.
“I haven’t got a bloody clue,” he replies.
Annie squeezes his hand. “Well,” she says, “just remember, you’re always welcome here.”
“Thanks,” Ryan says, and is surprised to find he means it.
*-*-*-*-*
By the time Ryan gets home after Boxing Day it’s so late it’s basically morning. The house is freezing, the cold seeming to have taken root in the walls and the half hour wait for the heating to kick in is fairly unpleasant.
He heads straight for bed, not bothering to unpack any further than dumping his bags in the hall in a pile. It takes less than five minutes for Joe to abandon his chilly bed in the living room and heave himself up next to Ryan. This is not behaviour Ryan is planning on tolerating in the future, but for once, Joe’s furnace-like properties are going to have to win out over the distinct aroma of dog. Sheets can be washed.
*-*-*-*-*
When Ryan awakens, the winter sun is shining weakly through his bedroom window and the house is silent around him. Beside him Joe has somehow managed to worm his way beneath the duvet and there’s a knobbly paw jabbing Ryan in the kidney. Ryan grimaces.
He gets up, having never been in the routine of lounging around in bed and, after a pause, drags Joe unceremoniously out from under the duvet. The lurcher grumbles, belches and goes back to sleep on the rug.
Ryan spends the morning getting the house back in order. He unpacks, strips the bed, does his laundry and goes to the shops to restock the fridge. After lunch, he goes for a run, ten miles up to the Heath, around and then back again. It’s bright out but the cold burns his lungs and the tips of his ears and he’s glad to get back. He suspects he might be going soft.
Back at home, having run out of things to do, he makes a mug of tea and sits down on the sofa. Joe joins him, ears drooping. Ryan had been hoping that the Christmas away would perk him up a bit, but other than pig-in-blanket related enthusiasm, that seems to have been a vain hope. He looks as miserable as ever.
Ryan is starting to wonder whether it might not be kinder to take him back to the Home and let them find him someone who knows what they’re doing. His sheets are currently clogging up his washing machine with dog hair, but it’s still not a particularly pleasant thought. He sighs and reaches for the remote.
Two minutes later, Masterchef is interrupted by the buzzing of his phone.
Ryan, I’m back in London this afternoon. Fancy a pint this evening? I’ve got a proposition for you.
*-*-*-*-*
Stephen’s proposition, as it turns out, is a job. He phrases it as a ‘favour’, but it’s quite clearly not. It also feels like pity and the fact Ryan is fairly certain Stephen hadn’t intended it that way is the only reason his response is ‘no’, rather than ‘go to hell’.
Assistant coach quitting or not, he’s ninety percent certain that Stephen does not need an ex-Special Forces soldier helping to train young people at his local shooting range. He’s also fairly sure that nothing on his CV qualifies him as suitable for a ‘community outreach program’.
He says as much to Lyle the next evening when they meet up for a curry. They’re at Lyle’s place, which has been unusual for them in the past. Ryan has never felt particularly comfortable relaxing socially in the same airspace as James Lester.
But as Lyle had pointed out over the phone earlier, Lester is not Ryan’s boss anymore and perhaps it is time for him to ‘get over himself’. Sometimes, Ryan thinks he preferred the days when Lyle was his subordinate and required to at least fake a modicum of respect.
Tonight, thankfully, Lester has made himself scarce.
“So, let me get this straight,” Lyle says, stabbing viciously at his chicken biryani, “you met up with Stephen - Stephen Hart - when you were at your sister’s for Christmas and now you’re friends and he’s offered you a job.”
“We’re not friends,” Ryan says. “Not really.”
Lyle raises an eyebrow in an almost perfect parody of Lester. Urgh, couples. “No, you just text all the time and go for drinks and for romantic walks in the snow.”
Ryan chokes on a particularly sharp piece of poppadom. “We do not text all the time. And it was not a romantic walk in the snow.”
“Right,” Lyle says blithely. “And you didn’t fancy the pants off him when we worked together, either.”
Ryan’s really not sure fifty-something year old men are supposed to use the phrase ‘fancy the pants off’. Regardless of how true it may or may not have been. “It’s not like that,” he snaps. “He’s just being kind.”
“God forbid,” Lyle mutters. “But you turned the job down?”
Ryan shrugs. “He’s only doing it out of some misplaced sense of duty. I think he thinks I need it. I don’t want to be someone’s charity case and I’d be crap at it anyway.”
“Crap at teaching teenagers from horrible backgrounds how to shoot?”
Ryan nods and focuses on his naan bread. Across from him, Lyle puts his cutlery down.
“Okay, Ryan, I’m going to say this and I’m only going to say it once, so listen for fuck’s sakes. You’re an idiot. Take the job. I knew Stephen Hart and unless he’s changed drastically, pitying you won’t have even crossed his mind. He asked you because he knows you’re the best and because he really fucking liked you when we worked together. From the sounds of it, he probably still does.” It looks like getting that out might have caused Lyle actual physical pain. “So stop being so bloody stubborn and take the damn job.”
There’s a long and awkward silence. Lyle picks his knife and fork back up and starts chewing loudly. “Anyway,” he says. “I’ve got a few days off next week. Fancy a trip to the Brecons? Been ages since we did any cycling.”
“Yeah,” Ryan says, “okay.”
*-*-*-*-*
Much later, when he’s back at his, sat on the sofa with a glass of whiskey, he reaches for his phone. He pulls up a blank text message and stares at it for a minute.
Then he types out a message to Stephen and presses ‘send’.
I’ll do it.
*-*-*-*-*
The few days away with Lyle are good. They eat, they sleep, they cycle. It’s simple. Ryan feels a nagging sense of guilt at leaving Joe, having bribed the neighbour’s son to walk and feed him, but it’s fairly easy to ignore. The lurcher never really seems to notice when he’s actually there, so.
Stephen remains in regular contact by text, even though Ryan had let him know he was going away. Mostly, it’s just admin stuff about Ryan taking up a position at the range, but there’s a bit of casual chat in there as well. Stephen’s sense of humour is as sharp and dry as Ryan always remembered and he makes a concerted effort to never let Lyle catch him grinning at his phone. Unfortunately, he’s only semi-successful.
All-in-all, by the time he’s letting himself back in through his front gate late Friday evening, he’s feeling okay - settled and positive in a way he hasn’t for a while. He dumps his bags by his feet and starts to dig through his pockets for his keys and that’s when he suddenly becomes aware of the barking.
It’s faint, but getting progressively louder and it sounds like it’s coming from inside Ryan’s house. Joe.
Ryan freezes, hand immediately flying for the gun that he no longer carries, senses snapping to alert. He’s never heard Joe bark the entire time he’s had him. Something’s wrong.
The front door is still locked and bolted, so Ryan slides the key into the lock as slowly as possible and turns it, before sliding the bolt back and letting the door swing silently open. He reaches down and frees the knife he still carries in his boot, before stepping forward. The hallway is dark and still around him.
Joe’s still barking furiously, muffled behind the closed door of the kitchen and Ryan can hear the frantic scrabble of his claws against the wood. The door to the living room, open at the end of the corridor, reveals nothing moving. Ryan edges forwards, back to the wall and as quietly as possible reaches out to open the kitchen door.
All his attempts at stealth are immediately rendered moot. As soon as the door is open a tiny crack, Joe’s nose appears, slamming it open and the lurcher ricochets into the hallway like a furry grey football. He launches himself at Ryan, barking ceasing immediately and Ryan, dazed and confused, finds himself pinned to the wall, Joe’s front feet firmly planted just below his ribs. Ryan drops the knife.
The lurcher’s tongue is lolling out of his mouth, open in some semblance of a delighted grin and his skinny grey tail is whipping back and forth. Ryan is so surprised he can’t actually move, except to lift his hands and scratch all around Joe’s ears. The lurcher groans happily and frantically licks his wrists.
They stay like that for a few more moments, before Joe - joints clearly protesting - lurches back to the floor and leans against Ryan’s knees instead, panting contentedly and leaving a damp patch on Ryan’s trousers. The front door is still swinging wide open and a very sharp knife still lies unsheathed on the floor, so eventually Ryan nudges Joe off, reclaims the knife and hauls his bags inside.
He unpacks in a bit of a daze, Joe dogging his every movement, constantly underfoot, still wagging his tail. When everything has been straightened out, Ryan puts the kettle on, props himself up against the kitchen counter and pulls out his phone. He texts Stephen.
I just got back, and my dog is acting weird.
Stephen replies in under a minute.
…weird?
He was barking and now he’s following me around and wagging his tail every time I look at him.
Ryan can almost hear the chuckle of amusement in Stephen’s next message.
You’ve never left him overnight before have you? He’s clearly happy to see you. Welcome home.
Ryan is not an idiot - this is the conclusion he had drawn - but to have someone else confirm it makes him grin at the instant coffee. He spoons some into the mug instead and stirs absently.
Joe’s tail beats a steady rhythm against the kitchen floor. Welcome home, it seems to say, welcome home, home, home, home.
*-*-*-*-*
The next morning, Joe appears in Ryan’s bedroom at half past six. He appears to be checking that Ryan hasn’t fled in the night. Once his fears have been allayed, he sits on the rug at the end of the bed and dedicates himself to licking his toes for a while. Ryan sits up in bed and watches him. Maybe, he thinks, maybe he’s not doing so badly at this after all.
He gets up and makes breakfast and when Joe sees that he is not immediately packing another bag to leave again, he goes and sits in the corner of the lounge, back to the room, staring mournfully out of the French windows.
He sulks for a week.
*-*-*-*-*
Months pass, and Ryan starts at the shooting club. It’s nothing like his last job. The hours are a godsend for one thing. The teenagers, less so, but Ryan glowers a lot and cons Blade into coming along and doing a knife throwing demonstration and after that they start to seem more and more inclined to listen to him. Some of them are actually quite decent.
He sees a lot of Stephen. They go out for food and to the pub and on walks and bike rides and spend long evenings in front of the TV. It turns out that Stephen has a lot of opinions on Masterchef. Joe adores him.
Stephen isn’t the man that Ryan used to work with anymore. He’s older, more confident, far more settled in his skin. It’s ironic really, that they re-met when Ryan was feeling so adrift - a direct role reversal of when they used to know each other. But it’s good. Stephen’s sharp and funny and handsome.
Ryan just likes him.
He stays in touch with Annie as well. They ring every fortnight, not talking for long, just touching base. They’re not as close as she obviously wants but things are improving. Sometime, someday, Ryan will talk to her about his dad and then maybe she’ll understand more. But for now, they’re both trying and that’s all that can be asked.
In fact, everything is ticking along nicely. Ryan has friends and family and things to do with his time. He still wakes up with nightmares and there are still times when he reaches out for the purpose of the day and finds it lacking, but mostly, he’s okay.
It remains so, until an evening in March, when his phone rings at quarter past eleven. He answers somewhat blearily, having dozed off over a book. It’s Stephen.
“Ryan?”
“Yeah,” Ryan croaks, and then clears his throat and tries again. “Sorry, yeah, what’s up?”
“Do you remember when we first met?” Stephen sounds slightly nervous. Ryan pictures him as a flighty horse and sits up a little straighter.
“The first time or the second time? Are you okay?”
“Fine, fine.” Ryan is definitely not imagining the thread of panic in his voice. “The second time.”
“In the pub,” Ryan says. “My dog farted.”
“Right, yes. And we talked about things we’d always wanted to do that we’d never had a chance to.”
“Yes,” Ryan said, slowly. “I remember. What’s going on?”
“We both said we wanted to travel,” Stephen says, and then, “South America, yes?”
Ryan has wanted to go to Peru since he was a little boy. He does vaguely remember telling Stephen this over pint number two or three.
Stephen seems to take his silence as agreement. “I’m going,” he says. “For a month. To South America, I mean. I bought a plane ticket.”
“Oh, right,” Ryan says, feeling a little bit odd. “Congratulations, I suppose? You’ve always wanted to go.”
“No,” Stephen says, nonsensically. Ryan is starting to wonder whether he’s been drinking. “But that’s the thing.” There’s a long and loud pause. “I was just wondering if you wanted to come with me.”
Ryan blinks. “Sorry, what?”
“I know it’s out of the blue, but you said you’ve always wanted to see Peru and I - I’d like to see it with you.” Stephen sounds as unsure as Ryan has ever heard him. “It’s just,” Stephen continues, “we’ve both got the time now haven’t we, and it’s your birthday soon and I started thinking about it and then I couldn’t stop.”
To say Ryan is surprised is putting it mildly. From Stephen’s general tone, it’s taken a lot for him to ask. Ryan is vaguely impressed - he would never have had the balls. His mind immediately begins pondering the politest way to turn Stephen down, but then he takes a moment to really think.
He’s always wanted to travel, Stephen is right. Before, he’d never had the time. Too many people relying on him, too many hours that needed working and dinosaurs that needed wrangling. But that part of his life is done now, and he’s mostly accepted it. Saying yes would mean leaving Joe, but Lyle would have him and that would wind Lester up beautifully. His instinct is to say ‘I can’t’ but that’s not really true anymore and he’s getting tired of the lie.
He tries not to think too hard about spending a month alone with Stephen.
“Ryan?” Stephen sounds hesitant.
Ryan looks at Joe, who thumps his tail. “Yeah,” he finds himself saying. “Yeah, okay, why not?”
In the end, it’s the easiest yes he’s ever given.
*-*-*-*-*
After he’s hung up with Stephen, Ryan fetches Joe’s lead and drags him out for a walk, even though it’s nearly midnight. Joe, while clearly not completely on board with this plan, seems to sense Ryan’s need to think and is less resentful than usual.
They go to Hampstead Heath and Ryan climbs to the top of Parliament Hill and settles on a bench, looking out over the city. This has always been one of his favourite spots in London.
He sighs heavily, which Joe echoes, and forces himself to think about what he’s agreed to tonight. His problem, Ryan thinks, is that he’s always been opposed to new beginnings. His mother probably has to shoulder some of the blame for that. When he was a boy, her version of a new beginning had been to deny everything that came before. ‘Finding new stars’, she’d called it. But to him, all that had happened was that first they’d forgotten his father, and then they’d replaced him. Since then, he’s always had an innate reluctance to move on. He’s scared, it seems, of doing the disservice of forgetting. It’s no wonder retirement hasn’t really suited him.
Ryan looks up, and the stars must be particularly bright tonight because he can see them even through the London smog. It’s cold. He feeds Joe a gravy bone from his pocket as apology and then starts to think.
He thinks about South America and Joe and his job at the shooting range. It seems like he’s moving on, whether he wants to or not. New horizons, new stars. But then, however, there’s also Stephen and Lyle and Annie and he’s been invited to an Easter celebration with the staff of the ARC.
Perhaps, Ryan thinks, idly scratching Joe’s ears and watching the sky, perhaps his mother was wrong. New beginnings aren’t just about finding new stars.
They’re about rearranging the ones that you’ve got.