Disclaimer: The O.C. is property of Fox.
Author's Note: This chapter is distinctly more cheerful. Well, fairly. Who knew I was a closet Ryan basher?
Seth hummed to himself as he used an ice pick to attack the remains of cremated turkey that still clung stubbornly to the bottom of the pan.
"You're dirty sweet and you're my girl," sang Sandy, joining in with his son as he entered the kitchen. Seth stopped singing. He wasn't really in the mood for company, and could feel his frustration growing with each stab at the blackened char encrusted on the pan.
"Did I ever tell you I saw T-Rex play live?" Sandy said, recognizing Seth's mood and deciding not to let him mope.
"You did?" said Seth, rinsing the pan again. The progress was virtually zilch
"Uh-huh. Me and your mom, on one of our first dates. That was a great night out. And a great night in," he added, his twinkling eyes complemented by a flick of his Muppet-like eyebrows.
"Dad, must you share? Despite keeping Mom away from the food, we still ended up eating Chinese on Thanksgiving, Ryan went AWOL, Marissa's mom tragically didn't, Anna and Summer hate me and I've cleared up a mysterious pile of vomit from my bedroom, which I think was once a margarita. I don't think I can cope with all that and the revelation that you and Mom were once horny Children of the Revolution in the same night."
Seth sighed and turned off the faucet, letting the turkey pan drop with a clang in the sink, "Maybe Ryan's family has the right idea; maybe I invest too much in festivities." He pushed himself up on to the counter top and rubbed his eyes wearily.
Sandy moved to the sink and began to fill the bowl up with hot water. "What about Chrismukkah? You're not about to cancel the world's best fictitious holiday, are you?" asked Sandy, adding a squirt of detergent to the bowl and creating a mountain of bubbles.
"Well, Chrismukkah's the exception that proves the rule, obviously."
"Obviously."
Seth remained quiet. He didn't really feel like talking; joking aside, this had been a crappy day. Admittedly, he had got to spend a lot of it making out with two fantastic girls, both of whom oddly had managed to see past the weird hair and his gangly arms to find something in his bumbling verbosity that delighted them. It had lasted just one afternoon. Four hours. Beyond ridiculous.
"It'll be okay, you know," said Sandy, interrupting his son's thoughts. "It may not seem like it now, but things will work themselves out."
"Dad, let me ask you something."
"Sure."
"Did you ever go out with two women at once and get found out?"
"Yes I did."
"And did it end well?"
"Not particularly, no."
"Did they exact bitter revenge?"
"Possibly."
"And did either of them ever go out with you ever again?"
"Alas, no."
"Then how can you conceivably say to me that things will work themselves out?"
"I'm an optimist," Sandy smiled gently at his son, "We're a dying breed."
"Guess so."
Sandy swilled the last of the burnt crust of turkey out of the pan and into the garbage disposal. "Ta-da. See, I don't even give up on dirt."
"You're an example to us all, Dad," said Seth, hitching off the counter, "I'm going to bed."
"Go talk to your mother first. She's feeling pretty sorry for herself right about now."
"And you want me to cheer her up? Did you not just hear myself self- indulgent rant?"
"There's always someone worse off than yourself," said Sandy, handing Seth a bottle of water from the refrigerator and two paracetamol, "Go give her these."
"Fine," said Seth petulantly, taking them, "But if she starts reminiscing about your Glam Rock days, I'm out of there."
"Goodnight, Seth."
Sandy watched as Seth disappeared out of the kitchen, shuffling his feet all the way. He hoped that his son's amorous misadventures of the day wouldn't re-ostracize him at school, just when he was starting to not loathe it. He'd be okay. Ryan would always look out for him and as long as Seth had good friend in him, Sandy knew that he needn't worry. He checked his watch; it was nearly half nine and Ryan had said he would be back by eight. He hoped he was just stuck in traffic; but Sandy had a gnawing feeling in the pit of stomach and it was growing steadily worse. He checked his watch again. Ten minutes; then he'd call.
Ryan lay on his side, watching as the blood from his I.V. ran out of the bag suspended on the pole next to him, down through a tube and into a needle in the inside of his elbow. Each tiny red bead seemed to be moving amazingly slowly and Ryan was trying to work out if he could feel the actual moment it entered his bloodstream.
"Plip, plip," he mumbled to himself, smiling.
He felt good. Actually, he felt pretty damn fantastic. This, he was aware, was odd. Right now, he should feeling pretty crappy; in addition to the blood bag on his I.V. there were a further two less interesting bags of clear liquid, he had a medical student who didn't look old enough to shave finishing stitching the wound in his back, his left arm was swollen and splinted and curiously sausage like. He was very very aware of his teeth. They seemed uncannily huge in his mouth, usually a peculiarly individual indicator that he was drunk. As the greasy fog he was seeing the world through began to clear, Ryan realized that it was because his face was bruised and puffed up, in a manner largely reminiscent of a pumpkin. He couldn't breathe through his nose, which didn't particularly matter at this moment, due to the oxygen flowing in through the mask that rested lightly on his face. Any other time, he would most likely be embarrassed, right now, not so much. This, Ryan concluded, was probably not unconnected to the fact that he was completely spaced out on morphine. Beautiful, giddy, morphine. In fact, if whoever was whistling would just shut up, he would consider himself to be blissfully content.
"All done," said the med. student as he placed a dressing over the neat row of stitches before gently helping Ryan roll on to his back. Ryan sighed sleepily as he closed his eyes. That whistling was really beginning to get on his nerves and by the look of the furrowed brow of the student, he wasn't the only one. The oxygen mask was beginning to tickle his nose, so he made a clumsy move to take it off, but the student stayed his hand. "Not so fast, kid. You still sound like a tea kettle." He took his stethoscope from around his neck and warmed it up on his hands before listening to Ryan's chest.
"When's the last time he had an asthma attack?" asked the student, turning to someone just out of Ryan's field of vision.
"Not since he was a little kid; he grew out of it years ago," Ryan heard Arturo's say as his voice floated across the room. "Hardly had it, never had it bad, just when his mom- " Ryan heard Arturo stop and registered the restraint in his voice as his friend cleared his throat. "Just got a little whistley sometimes."
Ryan was grateful for Arturo's discretion; he really didn't want to go into a detailed discussion of his family history right now. There would be time enough for that when he called the Cohens and Ryan fervently hoped that there would be morphine going all round when it was time for that particular conversation.
The student put his stethoscope back around his neck and turned to Arturo, "It's probably just the stress. I'm going to give him another treatment to be sure." He turned back to Ryan, with a cheerful tone that matched his exaggerated smile, "And now I'm going to see if those x-rays are back and we can get that arm fixed. How does a turquoise cast sound? It's what all the cool kids are wearing these days."
"He likes yellow," said Arturo, a little too quickly, watching as the student's face flickered with concern. Arturo shrugged, the kid may be young but he wasn't stupid. "He always went for yellow." The student nodded in understanding at the uneasy young man.
"Yellow it is."
Ryan was beginning to drift off again, but he felt the need to correct Arturo. "Orange," he said, his voice muffled by the still tickling oxygen mask.
"What?" said Arturo, as he stood up and moved towards Ryan. He still couldn't get over how small the kid looked.
"Not yellow, orange," Ryan said, between soft wheezy breaths. He smiled weakly at Arturo, "Time for a change."
"Orange. Sounds good," said the student as he headed for the door, "A nurse'll be in with you before long and I'll be back later. Try to sleep, Ryan."
Ryan didn't think that sleep would be a problem; he was so tired he could only manage a grunt in response. Satisfied, the medical student left the two friends alone. Arturo pulled up the chair next to his Ryan's bed and sat down. He regarded the sleepy figure critically.
"So, I filled my end of the bargain, Ryan. I didn't call Theresa. Now it's your turn. You gotta return the favor."
Ryan wasn't sure he liked the sound of this. He'd already fulfilled one favor tonight and that hadn't turned out spectacularly well. He tried to look extra sleepy.
"Hey, don't try playing possum on me man, this is important." Ryan turned his head to Arturo, scowling at him. Arturo took Sandy's cell phone out of his pocket and flipped it open.
"The Cohen's number," Ryan looked as though he was about to protest, but Arturo swiftly rebuked him, "And don't even think about not giving it to me, or I go fetch back Doogie and tell him you want the latest in hot pink casts." Ryan smiled in spite of himself. He took the phone clumsily from Arturo and hit the speed dial before handing it back.
"Ask for Sandy," said Ryan as he closed his eyes; he very much wanted to be asleep when Sandy asked to speak to him- Arturo was a terrible liar.
Kirsten couldn't work out if it was the phone that was ringing or just her painfully throbbing head as she leant over the toilet, waiting for the dry-heaves to finish. It never ceased to amaze her how she managed to forget how fantastically revolting throwing up was, whether it was on the rare occasions she got sick, or as in this case, entirely self-inflicted. That said, the act of having to spent tonight's debacle sober would have been even worse. She waited for a minute, trying to regain her composure before going back to bed. Kirsten was by no means an alcoholic, but she had buttons and tonight various members of her family had systemically pushed every one of them. In fact, the very thought of Julie and Caleb was enough to bring the dry-heaves back, and the way that Sandy just let it all wash over him seemingly without a care in the world sometimes grab that surfboard of his and shove it right-
"Mom? You okay in there, or you still spewing?" Seth's voice floated through the bathroom door from the bedroom, interrupting her thoughts.
"Mom?" Seth didn't sound too worried as he knocked lightly on the door, "Dad says if you don't come out in two minutes then I'm to break the door in, and you know Ryan's the burly one. Plus, you know there are some things a kid shouldn't have to see and that definitely includes his vomming mother. Especially as I'm very sensitive to these things; I don't think I need to remind you of that time in C.V.S. and the case of the amazing projectile banana."
"Seth!" exclaimed Kirsten, interrupting her son's ramblings.
"Yeah?" he replied, half-knowing her response.
"Please shut up, honey." Kirsten got to her feet and flushed the toilet before taking a look at herself in the mirror. Grey, sweaty and slightly blurry round the edges. Excellent. She'd definitely looked better. She splashed her face with water and opened up the bathroom door to find Seth sitting on her bed, a glass of water in one hand and a pair of pills in the other. He proffered them both to her now with only the smallest of smiles as she made her way across the room to join him. Kirsten took them gratefully and then sat down on the bed beside her son.
"So, what have we learned from this evening's adventures, Mom?" asked Seth mischievously.
"Never to open the door without the chain on?"
"Well, obviously. Anything else?"
"Never try and match make Dolphin and Cowboy fans?"
"That too. And?"
"Never get drunk when your kids are around to make fun of you."
"Exactly. I think that just about covers it." Kirsten smiled wearily at Seth as he pulled her into a gentle hug. Sometimes she had to remind herself he was only sixteen. Tonight, as he did so often, he seemed much older; sadder and wiser than his years.
"I got one for you," Seth and Kirsten looked up to see Sandy standing in the doorway, worry lines written across his furrowed brow, the phone dangling idly in his hand. "How about never let your kids go alone to see their incarcerated brothers on Thanksgiving?"
"What's wrong, Dad?" asked Seth, picking up on his Dad's concern.
"Ryan," Sandy sighed, trying to work out how to phrase his news as non-alarmingly as possible.
"What about him?" asked Kirsten, suddenly more alert as she registered her husband's troubled expression.
He decided to opt for honesty, "He's in the hospital. In Chino."
"What?!" Kirsten exclaimed, standing up with an air of authority that belied her churning stomach and pounding head.
"You're kidding, right, Dad? " said Seth, following suit. Sandy looked down, unwilling to meet his son's questioning eyes, "Dad? You're not serious?"
Sandy sighed, "Afraid so," he said, looking up finally, "Ryan's friend Arturo just called; said Ryan got in some kind of fight with some guys Trey knows. They worked him over pretty good." He forced himself not to look at his family instead of the more comforting floor, sickened by his own words, "They used a crowbar." He looked over at Kirsten, feeling curiously almost too ashamed to meet her gaze.
Seth half-laughed in disbelief and disgust, breaking the silence. "That's, oh my God, that's just... Is he okay?" he trailed off, feeling stupid, "Yeah, cause that's not the dumbest question of our times." Seth shook his head, unable to think straight.
"Sandy?" asked Kirsten gently, bringing her husband out of his daze, "Is Ryan okay?"
"Well, it seems he's going to be. They gave him a good going over; broke his arm pretty bad, but it sounds like considering the circumstances, he got off light."
"Did you talk to him?"
"He was asleep. I'm going to head down there now, you guys should get some sleep, join me in the morning."
"I think emphatically not, Dad," said Seth heading for the door, "I'll just get my jacket, then we'll motor."
"This is not a discussion, Seth," said Sandy, blocking his way, "You're going to stay with your mother. You can come down in the morning, bring some of Ryan's things with you."
"Why not now?"
"Because I say so," Sandy decreed.
Seth made as if to speak, but Kirsten cut him off, "Seth, you're father's right. It's best if your Dad goes now, and we'll follow on." Seth shook his head, tight-lipped. He couldn't believe this.
"I'll call you when I've seen him, okay buddy?" offered Sandy.
"Yeah, whatever," said Seth, more petulantly than he intended, but still feeling no inclination to apologize. Sandy pulled his son into a hug, squeezing him tight, trying to convince himself that he was not afraid of the world his children were growing up in.
"I love you, you know that?" he said, kissing Seth's forehead, before reaching up to tame a particularly wayward curl. Kirsten came to join them and Sandy broke away from Seth to give her a goodbye kiss on the cheek. "It'll be fine. I'll see you soon." Sandy left his family and they heard his hurried footsteps echo through the hall and the front door close behind him a moment later. Kirsten laid a comforting hand on Seth's shoulder.
"Go call a cab, I'll get dressed." Seth turned to look at his mother, surprised. "Fifteen minutes' headstart ought to be enough, don't you think?" she said, her eyes sparkling with sudden determination in stark contrast to only a few minutes early in the bathroom. Seth's face lit up and he pulled her into a hug, "Best mom ever," he said, before breaking away and hurrying out to leave Kirsten alone in the bedroom once more, with only her growing feelings of guilt to trouble her.
Chapter Four will follow more swiftly than Chapter Three. After all, thanks to Channel 4, I no longer have the real O.C. to distract me, dammit!