Title: Damage
Author: Goldencompass
Rating: G, I'd say.
Summary: A Cohen family dinner. (Fairly short)
Feedback: Please!
Disclaimer: I don't own any of them.
He's watching. He doesn't realize he's doing it, but while he eats, while they fight, his eyes dart back and forth between them. He chews his steak loudly, hoping to drown them out. What they're fighting about has been long ago forgotten.
He hums to himself in his head: lalalalalala this is no big deal lalalalalalalala stop being an idiot Ryan lalalalalalalala please stop please stop pleasestopstopstopstop...
"Please. Please stop yelling. I - just - please." He whispers.
And all conversation at the table screeches to a halt, as if he'd shouted it from a bullhorn.
He grips his knife and fork tightly, stabbing into the steak in front of him as if it wasn't already dead, hoping to hide the way his hands have started shaking. And the Cohen's certainly don't notice the shaking - they overlook it because they're too focused on the white-knuckle-inducing grip he's got on his cutlery.
"Ryan?" Seth asks quietly.
Ryan doesn't answer. He pretends to examine his meat and expertly grilled vegetables, and has begun counting the peppercorns, while still watching Them through his hair.
"You're right Ryan. We shouldn't be doing this, and certainly not at the dinner table" Sandy gives his wife a pointed look. Ryan's nerves jump, as if he's suddenly been infused with electricity. "Seth, maybe you and Ryan should go out to the pool house. Read some comics or something. That way your mother and I can talk in private." As he says this, Sandy gets up to put his dishes away and pauses to re-connect with his wife, touching her shoulder, calming them both.
Ryan's fork clangs to his plate, twisted and bent, a visible metal wound.
"Oh, oh guys, I -"
"Don't worry about it Ryan, it obviously wasn't the good china, or you wouldn't have been able to do that." Kirsten voice is laughing, but Ryan hears the nervousness in it. He does not recognize that the nervousness is for his well being rather than her own.
"No really, I can fix it. I mean, maybe I can't fix it, but let me clear the table and do the dishes. I'm really sorry; I don't know what my problem is. I'm sure I just made your night worse and you were already angry and god, I don't know what's wrong with me." Ryan was beginning to ramble. It was probably the longest thing he'd ever said since he moved into the pool house. He walked backwards, bringing his own dishes to the sink, returning for Kirsten's, never turning his back on them. He kept talking while he did this, mostly things he'd already said, using the tone of pathetic-attempt-at-distraction that came natural to teenagers.
"Ryan, really, it's ok. Go with Seth, the fork is a speck of nothing in the grand scheme of things. Although I may have to re-think the idea of getting you that set of weights I was going to look into for your birthday." Sandy cracked. Seth coughed suggestively from the doorway.
Ryan stood between the two adults. "I think I should stay." His eyes locked with Sandy's and then slid away to his feet.
A sigh escaped Sandy's lips. "No one's going to get hurt Ryan." He told the boy, lifting Ryan's chin so that he would look him in the eye again. There was a crunching sound.
"Wow, man," Seth said from the doorway, "maybe you should stick to plastic."
Ryan glanced down at his hand where the glass once was. This is a nightmare, what the hell is wrong with me? I've got to snap out of this. He closes his hand tightly into a fist around the shards of glass.
"Hey! Hey! What the hell are you doing? Ryan, god, you're going to hurt yourself!"
Ryan watches as a drop of blood drops to the pristine white kitchen floor. As it hits the tile, the sound of a bomb explodes in Ryan's head.
He stares at Kirsten. "I gotta go." He whispers. "I'm really sorry," and he rushes through the kitchen doors and into the dark.
He's watching. He doesn't realize he's doing it, but while he eats, while they fight, his eyes dart back and forth between them. He chews his steak loudly, hoping to drown them out. What they're fighting about has been long ago forgotten.
He hums to himself in his head: lalalalalala this is no big deal lalalalalalalala stop being an idiot Ryan lalalalalalalala please stop please stop pleasestopstopstopstop...
"Please. Please stop yelling. I - just - please." He whispers.
And all conversation at the table screeches to a halt, as if he'd shouted it from a bullhorn.
He grips his knife and fork tightly, stabbing into the steak in front of him as if it wasn't already dead, hoping to hide the way his hands have started shaking. And the Cohen's certainly don't notice the shaking - they overlook it because they're too focused on the white-knuckle-inducing grip he's got on his cutlery.
"Ryan?" Seth asks quietly.
Ryan doesn't answer. He pretends to examine his meat and expertly grilled vegetables, and has begun counting the peppercorns, while still watching Them through his hair.
"You're right Ryan. We shouldn't be doing this, and certainly not at the dinner table" Sandy gives his wife a pointed look. Ryan's nerves jump, as if he's suddenly been infused with electricity. "Seth, maybe you and Ryan should go out to the pool house. Read some comics or something. That way your mother and I can talk in private." As he says this, Sandy gets up to put his dishes away and pauses to re-connect with his wife, touching her shoulder, calming them both.
Ryan's fork clangs to his plate, twisted and bent, a visible metal wound.
"Oh, oh guys, I -"
"Don't worry about it Ryan, it obviously wasn't the good china, or you wouldn't have been able to do that." Kirsten voice is laughing, but Ryan hears the nervousness in it. He does not recognize that the nervousness is for his well being rather than her own.
"No really, I can fix it. I mean, maybe I can't fix it, but let me clear the table and do the dishes. I'm really sorry; I don't know what my problem is. I'm sure I just made your night worse and you were already angry and god, I don't know what's wrong with me." Ryan was beginning to ramble. It was probably the longest thing he'd ever said since he moved into the pool house. He walked backwards, bringing his own dishes to the sink, returning for Kirsten's, never turning his back on them. He kept talking while he did this, mostly things he'd already said, using the tone of pathetic-attempt-at-distraction that came natural to teenagers.
"Ryan, really, it's ok. Go with Seth, the fork is a speck of nothing in the grand scheme of things. Although I may have to re-think the idea of getting you that set of weights I was going to look into for your birthday." Sandy cracked. Seth coughed suggestively from the doorway.
Ryan stood between the two adults. "I think I should stay." His eyes locked with Sandy's and then slid away to his feet.
A sigh escaped Sandy's lips. "No one's going to get hurt Ryan." He told the boy, lifting Ryan's chin so that he would look him in the eye again. There was a crunching sound.
"Wow, man," Seth said from the doorway, "maybe you should stick to plastic."
Ryan glanced down at his hand where the glass once was. This is a nightmare, what the hell is wrong with me? I've got to snap out of this. He closes his hand tightly into a fist around the shards of glass.
"Hey! Hey! What the hell are you doing? Ryan, god, you're going to hurt yourself!"
Ryan watches as a drop of blood drops to the pristine white kitchen floor. As it hits the tile, the sound of a bomb explodes in Ryan's head.
He stares at Kirsten. "I gotta go." He whispers. "I'm really sorry," and he rushes through the kitchen doors and into the dark.