Sorry, no Seth in this chapter, not even on the phone. So expect nothing funny. This one is all angst, all the time.
In His Shadow, Part 6: The Visit

Ryan walked silently next to Sandy, a plastic visitor's badge tapping his chest with each step. Out of the corner of his eye, Sandy watched the boy's progress.

Something about Ryan's deliberate steps, his downcast gaze, conjured a faint, unfocused image. It took a moment for Sandy to recognize: at a circus in Brooklyn when he was maybe thirteen, he had seen that a tightrope walker look the same way, rapt concentration boring straight through the ground from his precarious perch far above. No net offered safety between the thin wire and the sawdust-strewn floor.

There was no net now.

Sandy had to provide something to break Ryan's fall. Just in case.

"So, kid," he asked casually, as they waited for a guard to unlock the visitors' door, "Seth have anything to say when you called?"

Ryan seemed confused for a moment. Then a dim smile filtered through the cloud shading his eyes. "Seth? Yeah, he kind of always has something to say."

"That he does," Sandy agreed with fond amusement. "So let me qualify the question. Anything interesting, I mean."

"Well," Ryan mused, "Apparently, the espresso machine at Harbor broke down and kids were upset because they had to drink regular coffee. . . Okay, that sounds really stupid. It's only interesting the way Seth tells it."

Sandy nodded, grinning. "He does have a way of . . . embellishing the ordinary, doesn't he? And what about Kirsten?"

Metal grated against metal somewhere nearby, the harsh sound reminding them both exactly where they were. Ryan shuddered, crossing his arms over his chest. His breathing grew labored, ratcheting off the cement walls, and his eyes locked on the door the same way they would on a coiled snake that may or may not be poisonous.

"Ryan?" Sandy prompted as the guard approached. Despite himself, a note of urgency crept into his voice. "Did you talk to Kirsten?"

"What?"

The guard opened the door and waved them through. Instinctively, Sandy placed his hand on Ryan's back. "Kirsten," he repeated, his fingers pressing gently. "You called her, right kid?"

Ryan swallowed and shook his head slightly. "Oh. Oh yeah," he murmured, following the guard to yet another closed door, watching while he punched in the code. "She promised she'd order from Luigi's."

"Well, that's not why I asked. But still, good to know. So what do you say we have a family dinner tonight. Just the four of us. Maybe watch a movie afterwards, play a round of Trivial Pursuit--the Baby Boomer edition, so I have a chance. And who knows? Seth might be willing to regale us with the saga of Harbor's broken espresso machine."

Sandy kept talking as he guided Ryan into the private visitors area, filling the room with words until they came to an abrupt stop at the sight of Trey. He was already sitting at a table, his shoulders hunched, his mouth screwed to one side. Behind him, another guard stood grimly.

"Ten minutes, Mr. Cohen," he announced. "That's it."

"That's fine," Sandy replied. "I appreciate the warden allowing this on such short notice." He summoned a smile, but the guard didn't respond, didn't blink, didn't acknowledge his comment at all.

For a few moments, no one said anything. The second-hand of the clock on the wall ticked and stopped, ticked and stopped, ticked and stopped, timing the silence.

Finally, Trey took a deep breath. "So. Little brother," he intoned heavily. "This is a surprise." He half-rose from his chair and Ryan flinched, hands jamming into fists, before he caught himself. At the same time, Sandy and the guard each took a step forward.

"No physical contact," the guard growled.

Trey froze. "Right. Yeah. No problem." Lifting his palms in a gesture of surrender, he slumped back in his chair. After a moment, Ryan sat down too. He hitched his seat forward, back, and half an inch forward again, risking one quick glance at his brother, but saying nothing. Sandy pulled out the other chair, then frowned and changed his mind. He moved to stand behind Ryan, narrowly appraising Trey over the boy's head.

Trey nodded, flushing slightly under the scrutiny. "Mr. Cohen. It's, um, good to see you."

"Trey," Sandy replied. His empty voice offered nothing—no concern, no curiosity, no forgiveness. He rested both hands lightly on Ryan's shoulders, making sure Trey saw the gesture, and that Ryan felt it.

Trey squirmed and scratched his eyebrow. "Well, hell, this is damned awkward, isn't it?" He attempted a laugh that vaporized as soon as it met the air. "I gotta admit, Ry. I sort of figured me and you? We were done this time. Never expected you'd show up here."

Ryan lifted his eyes just enough to meet his brother's. "I came to see you before," he recalled dully. "At the hospital."

Trey jerked, startled. "You did that? Really?"

"Yeah. A few times." Ryan shrugged, studying his tightly laced fingers. "It was stupid, I suppose. You were in a coma. You didn't even know."

A rush of raw emotion momentarily transfigured Trey's face. "Man," he mumbled. "You fucking came to the hospital." His voice cracked on the last word and he coughed, pounding his knuckles against his teeth before speaking again. "I figured I spent all that time alone. That's . . . shit, that's something, Ry, you visiting me. . ."

"Yes," Sandy agreed. "It is something, Trey. I'm glad you realize that."

Both brothers flinched in surprise at Sandy's comment, his cold, incisive tone. Ryan swiveled in his seat. "Sandy?" he asked anxiously.

"It's okay, kid." Sandy emphasized his answer with a reassuring squeeze of Ryan's shoulders, but his eyes, icy and unrelenting, continued to skewer Trey.

"Mr. Cohen--" Trey stammered. "Look, I know what you must think of me--"

Sandy silenced him with a crease of his brows. "What I think doesn't matter. Talk to Ryan," he ordered.

"Yeah. All right. Yeah." Blowing out a sputtering breath, Trey rocked back. His fingers erratically drummed on the tabletop. "I don't get it, Ry," he admitted at last. "After everything that went down between us, why would you visit me the hospital? Why are you here now? You want something? 'Cause shit, man, look around. I got nothing to give."

Ryan started to answer, swallowed, started again. "You're my brother," he replied. "I had to know . . ."

"What?"

Helplessly, Ryan hunched one shoulder, ducking his head. "If you'd be all right," he mumbled into a fold of his sweater. "The doctors kept saying . . . you might never wake up."

"I was that bad, huh?"

"Yeah," Ryan answered. "They thought you might . . ."

He broke off, staring as Trey's palm searched below his shoulder, settling on the spot where the bullet exited. Unconsciously, Ryan mimicked the gesture. When he realized what he was doing, his fist closed, and he pulled it down to the table, locking it inside his other hand.

"Die," Trey concluded flatly. He paused for a moment, plucking orange fabric away from his chest. At last, with studied nonchalance, he spoke again. "When you visited me, you ever say anything, Ry?"

Ryan frowned, confused. "No, I . . . what do you mean?"

"On some TV show or something, I remember they said you should talk to people in comas. Helps them get better." Trey's eyes narrowed, searching Ryan's face. "Can't remember ever hearing you, though."

"I never said anything," Ryan admitted. "I just . . . I sat there, that's all."

Trey's lips twisted bitterly. "So you were—what? Just checking to see if I'd kicked it yet? Was that the deal, little brother?"

Ryan snapped upright, shock singing each cheekbone. "No," he argued. "I was worried--"

Trey threw back his head. "No shit," he scoffed with weary disgust. "You got the whole Atwood family threatening to fuck up your sweet life, don't you, little brother? Mom's out there somewhere—never know when she might turn up again. And Dad—hell, he might actually make parole one of these days. At least if I died there'd be one less Atwood who could screw you over--"

"Fuck you, Trey." Ryan hissed.

The words, low and lethal, exploded around a choked sob. They echoed in the sudden silence. Shoving his chair back, Ryan stumbled blindly to his feet. Sandy's arms caught him as he whirled around.

"Hey, hey, kid, whoa. Slow down," he urged. Over Ryan's head, Sandy's eyes flashed a warning to Trey and a plea to the guard, immobilizing them both. The guard stopped inches away from the door, his hand poised to open it, and Trey froze, his body pitched forward, his expression dazed as he watched Ryan struggle within Sandy's embrace.

Lowering his voice so only Ryan could hear Sandy crooned, "Come on, buddy. Calm down." He rubbed Ryan's back rhythmically. "You okay now? Yeah? Talk to me, Ryan. You okay?"

Ryan nodded into Sandy's shoulder. "Trey," he panted. "God, he's such an asshole."

Sandy chuckled softly and eased his hold just a little. "You get no argument from me, kid."

"I didn't," Ryan began. He swallowed convulsively and forced the words out, "I didn't want him to die."

"I know you didn't."

Ryan raised his eyes. Underneath his spiked lashes, they were muddy with despair. "But I wanted to kill him, Sandy," he whispered. "That night, when I found out. . . I could have done it."

Sandy touched his forehead to Ryan's. Then he stepped back, almost, but not quite, releasing his grip. "I know that too," he admitted.

Shuddering, Ryan scanned the room behind Sandy, the blank, solid walls, the small, grilled, window. "It could have been me," he confessed. "When we were fighting . . . if Trey hadn't gotten the upper hand, I could be the one in here now."

Denial shadowed Sandy's face, but he didn't argue. He waited.

A full minute passed before Ryan could speak again. When he did, his tone was hollow. "I keep telling myself I would have stopped before it was too late. But I don't know, Sandy. Maybe I wouldn't. It's in me—everything that's in Trey. It's in me too."

"No," Sandy countered sharply. "It's not."

Ryan dropped his head, shook it into Sandy's shoulder. "I want to believe you. But I don't know, Sandy," he repeated hopelessly.

"Listen to him, Ry. He's right." Rough-edged and heavy, Trey's words rumbled across the room.

At the sound of his brother's voice, Ryan tensed. His fingers splayed before knotting together and a muscle jumped under the skin of his jaw, but he didn't turn around.

"Shit, Ryan, what the hell do you think happened that day?" Trey demanded. "You let up. I could see it in your eyes, man—you wanted to kill me. But you had a chance when I was down, and you didn't take it. So . . . I did." He paused, but Ryan just stood, rigid and unresponsive. "You and me? We're different people, all right?" Trey insisted. "God, Ry, this is so fucked up. I didn't mean . . . Look, just . . . come back, okay? Don't leave like this."

Sandy's gaze raked over Trey, then returned to Ryan. He cupped a hand lightly around the boy's neck. "It's up to you, kid. We can go home," he suggested. "Anytime you want. Just say the word. You do not have to do this."

Ryan closed his eyes, opened them. "Yeah, Sandy I do," he replied. Carefully, quietly, he picked up the chair he had knocked to the floor and replaced it at the table. Then he sat down again, folding his arms over his chest.

"Fuck, man," Trey muttered. "I'm sorry. Just forget all that shit I said before, all right?"

"Why?" Ryan asked tonelessly. "You meant it. You think I wanted you dead to make my life easier."

Trey exhaled a shamed protest. "No, Ry. I mean, okay, I know that's what it sounded like."

"That's not what it sounded like," Sandy argued. Abruptly, he pulled back the chair next to Ryan and sat down. His relentless stare blazed across the table, incinerating the last of Trey's bravado. "It's exactly what you said."

"Mr. Cohen," Trey stammered. "Okay, yeah, I suppose, but it's not what I meant."

"No?" The word was a challenge. "Then explain what you meant. To your brother, not to me."

Trey picked at a scab on one of his knuckles. "Shit, I just . . . Okay, listen, Ry. I'm fucking glad you were there, at the hospital. But I can't figure why the hell you would bother. Not after . . . everything. You should have wanted me dead." Crusted skin shredded under his nails, reopening the cut below. One perfect drop of blood formed, followed by another. Trey started to rub them away with his cuff.

Ryan winced. "Wait," he urged. He fished in his pocket, but his hand emerged empty. "Sorry . . . I thought I had--"

"Here," Sandy pressed a handkerchief into Ryan's palm. "Trey can use this. It's clean."

His lips crimping, Ryan nodded his gratitude and slid the square of cloth across the table to his brother. Their fingers touched for a moment as Trey took the handkerchief.

"Thanks," he said gruffly.

"Atwood!" the guard barked. Both Ryan and Trey recoiled and snatched their hands back. "Five more minutes."

Trey's eyes flicked to the clock on the wall. "Yeah, got it," he acknowledged grimly. "Look, Ryan--"

"I went to the hospital because I hoped you would wake up," Ryan blurted. He never lifted his gaze from Trey's wounded hand. "I wanted my brother back. It doesn't even make sense, because I hated you--"

"Yeah, that much I figured. You still do, right?"

Ryan's mouth moved, testing his answer before he spoke. "Sometimes," he admitted. "I hate what you did, Trey. But . . . I can't always make myself hate you. It would be easier if I could." He sketched an ironic half-smile that faded before it could reach his eyes. "Guess we have that in common. You feel the same way about me, don't you?"

"Yeah," Trey muttered. He peeled the handkerchief off his knuckles and studied the Rorschach blot formed by his blood. Then he cocked his head, raising his eyes to Ryan's. "Actually, no," he amended. "It's not the same, Ry. I never hated you."

Disbelief thinned Ryan's lips. His hands moved reflexively to curl around his own neck.

Catching the gesture, Trey flushed. "I didn't," he insisted. "Not even then. Shit, little brother, don't you get it? Seeing you with the Cohens, the way you were living, the way they care about you—it fucking hurt, all right? Knowing the only reason they let me hang around was because of you."

"Trey--" Sandy interjected.

"What?" Trey demanded. "I got that wrong, Mr. Cohen?"

Sandy surveyed him evenly. "No," he conceded, "you're right. We did welcome you because of Ryan. We thought—I thought—I knew what was best for both of you. I was wrong."

Trey shrugged. "Yeah. Well. You didn't know me. But you, Ry—hell, you know me better than anybody on earth. And you didn't want me around. You got any idea how that made me feel?"

Ryan inhaled sharply and nodded, ashamed.

"I felt like shit," Trey recalled harshly. "Every. Goddamn. Minute. Like every move I made was a test. Like I should ask your permission to fucking breathe."

"I know," Ryan admitted. He put one fist on top of the other, pounding them together softly. "But I was scared, Trey. I thought once you saw how the Cohens lived, you'd . . . you know, be tempted and--"

"Fuck things up for you. Yeah. I got that, Ry."

"No. Fuck things up for you," Ryan countered. "God, Trey, you were on parole. And I knew how easy it was to screw up because I'd done it. So yeah, I was scared you'd do something stupid that would get you sent back to . . ." Abruptly, he bit off the last word, but they all heard it anyway.

Trey's mouth contorted, pulling to one side. "Right. Prison. And whaddya know? Here I am."

There was a long silence, filled with nothing but the passing of time. Finally Trey continued, his voice drifting from someplace far away. "You know the worst thing, Ry? There you were, with a brand-new family. Friends. A future. And me? I had nothing."

Ryan swallowed, grimacing helplessly. "Trey--"

"Nothing," Trey insisted. "Not even my brother. So yeah, I resented the hell out of you. But it was never hate, Ry. Not on my side."

Ryan shook his head, a warning and a plea. "Don't," he whispered. "Don't lie to me, Trey." He struggled with the words, trying to keep his voice even. "You hurt Marissa. You pulled a gun on me. You would have killed me. You told the police I shot you. That's got to be hate."

For a moment Trey clenched his eyes shut, breathing shallowly between his teeth. "Damn it, Ry!" he cried suddenly. His hands had been clutching the arms of his chair in a death grip. Suddenly they shot forward, slamming flat on the tabletop.

"Atwood!" the guard cautioned. He stepped closer and Sandy stood up, one hand protectively on Ryan's shoulder.

Trey ignored them both. "You think I wouldn't undo all of that if I could?" he demanded. His voice was low, gravelly and urgent. "I was so fucked-up, man, that night with Marissa. And then when you found out . . . the way you looked at me—like you didn't even know me, like I was every asshole Mom ever brought home. I couldn't stand it, Ry. And I just . . . I went crazy. God, if you had only left when I asked--"

"What the hell are you talking about, Trey? Are you trying to say this was all Ryan's fault?" Sandy's voice snapped through the room, incredulous and icy with disdain.

"No, Sandy, it's okay," Ryan said quietly. "He's right. I should have left. I wish to God that I had. But when I started to go . . . I don't know. Something just snapped . . ."

"Yeah. In me too. Ryan?" Trey ducked his head, squinting intently, trying to compel Ryan to look at him. "Ry? Fuck, man, I don't even know how to say this. Look, it's just . . . I'm still your brother. All right?"

Ryan nodded tersely, unable to answer.

Something seemed to dissolve inside Trey. His muscles went slack and he slumped down in his seat. "Hell, if you can't forgive me, I get that, Ry," he murmured. "It's not like I can fucking forgive myself either. This . . ." He touched his chest again, stabbing a finger into the spot of the old wound. "Shit, Ry, having Marissa shoot me? It sounds so damned twisted, but I swear, I'm glad she did. It's better than having to live with what I might have—would have—done to you . . ."

"On what, Trey?" Ryan demanded.

Trey shook his head, bewildered.

"What do you swear on?" Ryan persisted. "Last time you swore on Mom, and I believed you. But turns out, you were lying. Why should I believe you this time?"

"Because." Trey lifted his chin, looking candidly at Sandy before facing his brother. "This time I swear on us," he said. "On who we were back in Fresno. You and me, Ry. You remember?"

"Time, Atwood," the guard announced abruptly.

Ryan's head snapped up. "What? No." he protested. "Just a few more minutes. Could we . . . please?"

The guard frowned, already gesturing a refusal.

"You know," Sandy observed equably, "According to my watch, that clock is about three-four minutes fast. Maybe if it wouldn't present any problems, we could split the difference?"

"The deal was a ten minute visit, Mr. Cohen."

"True," Sandy conceded. "But they haven't spent that much time actually talking. And this might be the last chance they get for . . . a while. Look, I'd really appreciate any help you could give us here. We all would."

The guard scanned all of their faces, considering. "Fine," he agreed. "Two more minutes. That's it." He retreated, deliberately turning his back on the clock.

There was a brittle silence, brokenly by Sandy's gentle prompting, "Ryan? You had something you wanted to say?"

"Yeah," Ryan affirmed vaguely. He was staring at the handkerchief that Trey had discarded in a stained, wadded heap. Reaching for the nearest corner, he started to drag the cloth across the table.

Sandy cupped a hand over Ryan's to stop the movement. "Kid, don't," he urged.

Ryan blinked. With an effort he dropped the handkerchief, knotting his fingers around each other instead.

"Just talk, all right?"

"All right," Ryan agreed distantly. Inclining his head, he gazed past his brother's shoulder, somewhere into their shared past. "I remember who we were in Fresno, Trey." His lips curved in a fleeting, wistful smile. "But it was a long time ago. Too much has happened. We're never gonna be those kids again."

Trey's mouth crimped. "So what does that mean, Ry? You leave now and we're done?"

"No. We can't be done," Ryan replied. He sounded surprised, and his eyes, teeming with memory, returned to meet Trey's. "You said it yourself. You're my brother. I'm just not sure what that means anymore."

"Okay." Trey paused, took a deep breath and continued more firmly, "Okay. But if you ever want to figure it out . . . hell, you know where to find me, right?" He produced a shaky, sardonic grin, but the façade slowly cracked as he waited for Ryan's answer. "Anytime, Ry," he pleaded. "I really . . . I don't want to lose you, man. Not again."

Ryan swallowed. He glanced up Sandy, his face a question etched in longing and doubt.

"Whatever you decide, kid," Sandy answered softly. "I don't know Trey. You do. But I'll support you either way."

Ryan started to say something, stopped, and braced himself to try again.

"Time," the guard declared. Crossing the room in two heavy steps, he placed an insistent hand under Trey's elbow, prodding him upright.

Trey tensed, but he pushed himself to his feet. "Thanks for coming, Ry," he said tonelessly. "Mr. Cohen. Thank you for . . . everything you've done for my brother." He started to extend his hand, caught himself, and snatched it back.

"Atwood. Let's go."

Trey glanced at Ryan, his expression empty. Shaking his head, he turned to follow the guard.

"I'll come back," Ryan blurted.

"What?" Trey froze, halfway to the door.

Ryan stood up, gripping the edge of the table. "I'll come back," he repeated. "Maybe not right away. But I will, Trey. I swear." Slowly, he raised one hand, a vow and a farewell.

Trey nodded, his eyes glistening. "Good," he whispered. "That's really . . . that's good." Exhaling a wary smile, he mirrored Ryan's gesture, mutely making his own promise. "So . . . I gotta go. You take care of yourself. I'll see you, little brother."

Rolling his shoulders back, Trey lifted his chin and walked out, striding firmly ahead of the guard. Ryan and Sandy watched while the door closed behind them.

Across the room, the visitors' door slid open.

"Mr. Cohen?" The admitting guard called. "You ready?"

Sandy cupped the back of Ryan's neck. "What do you say, son?" he asked. "You ready to call it a day?"

Ryan sighed and sagged against Sandy for just a moment. "Oh, yeah," he admitted. "But Sandy . . . thanks for this. Really. It meant a lot."

Patting his back in reply, Sandy steered Ryan out of the room. Wordlessly, they trailed the guard down the long hallway to the check-in area. Ryan unpinned his visitors badge, handed it to the clerk, and initialed next to his name on the clipboard. "So we're going home now?" he asked. There was a note of exhausted relief in his voice. "Kirsten said I should call her when we're on our way."

Sandy paused, his own badge dangling from his fingers. "Actually," he mused, "there's something I'd like to do. You up for one more stop, kid?"

Ryan shrugged, smiling wryly, although he looked slightly disappointed. "I'm your shadow, remember? Plus, you've got the car keys. Do I have a choice?"

"Well, when you put it that way . . ." Sandy chuckled. "But yes, you do have a choice." He returned his badge and completed the sign-out forms, glancing at his watch. "I'm declaring my work day officially over. One of the perks of being self-employed. So you're off the clock, shadow, and you can veto the whole idea if you want. Although I guarantee it won't take long."

"Okay, I guess, but, um . . . Sandy?" Ryan frowned quizzically. "You haven't told me what the idea is."

Sandy wagged his eyebrows. He opened the exit door, and sunlight immediately washed over their faces, welcoming them and warming them both.

"Let's call it your extra credit assignment."

TBC