Title : Empty Diary
Author : Helen C.
Rating : PG-13
Summary : Car accident. Ryan. Amnesia. There, that's clear, isn't it?
Disclaimer : The characters and the universe were created and are owned by Josh Schwartz. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
A/N. This fic wouldn't be seeing the light of day if it hadn't been for Joey's enthusiastic comments and invaluable help. Thanks, again!
Chapter Five
It turns out that going to school is a very bad idea.
Big surprise.
For a while, Ryan thinks he's going to be fine. Sure, the dull throbbing is annoying, and he can't focus enough to take notes, which is unfortunate but not catastrophic.
The dull throbbing becomes a sharp pain around noon—not sharp enough to be incapacitating, but definitely sharp enough for Ryan to re-think his decision. He should call the Cohens, ask them to come get him, and crawl back in bed.
Home sounds like bliss right now.
He has pain pills home. He doesn't take them with him anymore because it has been so long since the last migraine, and because he didn't expect to take a knock to the head when he left home in the morning.
Foolish oversight.
The mere thought of the pain pills is enough to make him grab his phone from his bag.
Then, he pictures Sandy, or Kirsten, having to leave their work and drive half an hour to pick him up, and he gives up on the idea. He can make it through the day without bothering them. He just needs to take some Tylenol and hope it helps. In a few hours, he'll be able to go home and rest. He can make it.
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The Tylenol doesn't help.
Neither does the chemistry teacher's rant directed at two students who almost blow up the lab. For a second, Ryan feels dangerously close to throwing up on his desk, but he manages to take deep breaths until it passes. The guy seated next to him shoots him a strange look but Ryan ignores him.
By the time Ryan gets out of school and starts walking home, all he can think is, "Hurts," sometimes intermingled with "Fuck," and "Shit." Not very elaborate, but it about sums it up.
Fuck, fuck, fuck and fuck.
Hurts.
Fuck.
Ryan tries walking faster—he needs to get home now, or he's going to pass out on the street, and wouldn't that be a wonderful end to a no-less delightful day?
Walking faster just makes things worse, which shouldn't have been possible.
He stops walking, wondering what he should do next.
Breathe calmly?
Sit down on the curb before he falls down?
Call the Cohens?
All of the above?
Before he can reach a decision, someone taps on his shoulder, startling him.
He spins around too fast—yet another mistake.
Ryan's legs instantly turn to rubber and he falls to his knees. The impact sends another fresh wave of pain through his head. For a moment, it feels like someone is prodding his brain with a white-hot poker and he bites down a cry.
Shit.
Ryan hears a startled, "Hey," feels hands grab his arms to prevent him from face planting, and loses the battle against nausea. He barely has time to shrug off the arms around him and to lean over before he starts throwing up.
"Fuck!" he hears.
He can only agree, as the heaving makes the pain even worse.
But there's a bright side to the blinding pain he's experiencing.
At least he's way past caring who's watching him empty his gut.
Scratch that, there are two bright sides.
At least, now, things can't get any worse.
"You okay, man?"
"Fine," he manages to croak.
There's a sharp laugh above him. Then, he feels hands under his arms, dragging him up. "Come on, man," he hears. "We're going to attract tourists if we stay here. I live close by. Let's get moving."
He tries to stand on his feet, but his legs can't carry him. He starts to fall and hears a grunt. "Shit."
Another voice adds to the mix. "Matt? Need help?"
"Yeah. He's kind of heavy."
Another pair of hands settle on Ryan's arms and he allows himself to be half-lead, half-carried away.
He doesn't see anything anymore, doesn't even know if his eyes are open or closed. All he knows is that he's dizzy, and fuck, the pain is sharp, and pulsing with every step he takes—or tries to take.
He bumps against something, hears one of the guys carrying him swear, feels himself being hefted a little higher.
He thinks they climb up stairs at some point, and he allows his wingmen to guide him through a corridor, unresisting when they lie him down on something soft. They sit him up again to take off his jacket, and when they roll him over to his side, he gets sick again.
Then, there's a cool hand brushing against his cheek.
He hears a female voice from somewhere above him, and a male voice replying, but he can't make out words.
The voices fade into the distance and Ryan gratefully slips into unconsciousness.
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He awakes to someone calling his name and groans.
He doesn't want to wake up.
He feels someone shaking him, and tries to open his eyes.
"—ambulance," he hears.
"No," he whispers.
"Ryan—"
That voice is familiar, comforting. Ryan needs to think about it for a moment before it comes back.
"Sandy?"
"Yeah." A slight squeeze on his arm, a hand on his forehead.
"No hospital," Ryan says, his voice barely audible.
"Ryan…"
Ryan drifts off again.
The next time he comes to, there's someone sitting next to him, talking with Sandy.
"I'm sure it's not. I'll swing by your house tomorrow, and of course, don't hesitate to call me if there's any change."
Something cold brushes his upper arm and he feels a sting and a slight burn.
"He should sleep for a few hours still."
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"Ryan?"
Very slowly, he opens his eyes. The room he's in is dark and quiet, and he sighs in relief when it dawns on him that his head doesn't hurt as much as it did before.
He looks around, careful not to move too quickly. Sandy crouching next to him, studying him.
"Hey," Ryan croaks, surprised at how hoarse his voice sounds.
"Does your head still hurt?"
"A little. Not as much." He swallows painfully, his throat dry. Sandy hands him a glass of water, and he takes a few sips. "What happened?" he asks.
"Looks like you made a slight strategic mistake." Ryan flushes at the look of concern on his face. "Why didn't you call?" Sandy asks.
I didn't want to bother you, Ryan wants to say. He knows what Sandy would say to that, though.
Sandy nods as if he expected as such. "A kid from your school was following you when you were coming back home. You looked about to pass out so he tried to ask you if there was a problem." He smiles at Ryan, part compassionate, part amused. "He was a little surprised when you fell down, and even more so when you got sick. But he's grateful you avoided his shoes."
Ryan groans and throws an arm over his face. Sandy chuckles. "Yeah. He lives close by, so he brought you to his place, and you passed out. You've been out for a few hours now."
"Sorry?" Ryan tries.
Sandy sighs. "I called a doctor friend of mine. He accepted to come as a favor. He says you'll be fine. It could have been serious, Ryan. You fell down this morning, you could have had a concussion, you could…" He trails off.
"I'm sorry," Ryan repeats.
Sandy shakes his head softly. "We'll discuss it later. Can you make it home?"
Ryan sits up slowly, considering the matter. "I think so. He gave me something, didn't he?"
"Yes. I'll go say goodbye and thank our hosts. I'll be right back."
Ryan hums in agreement, and sinks back into the couch, eyes closed.
Almost as soon as Sandy has gone, a door creaks open. "Sandy?"
"Nope," a vaguely familiar voice replies.
Ryan opens his eyes and finds himself face to face with Matt, who's studying him with interest.
"You look kind of rough."
"Yeah." Ryan mentally cringes at the thought that he has been sick in front of this guy. Great.
"Your dad is going to be here soon, but I just wanted to make sure you were okay."
"He's not my dad," Ryan blurts out. He grimaces, because fuck, that's not what he meant. "I mean, I live with him, but he's not my father."
Matt looks unperturbed. "Okay. Well, he looks cool."
Ryan smiles. "He is. And, you know, thanks… I don't really remember, so I guess I must have been pretty messed up."
He doesn't like to think about what could have happened to him on the street—given the state he was in, he probably would have allowed anyone to take him away.
Actually, that's exactly what he did.
"No problem," Matt says. "See you at school tomorrow."
"Yeah," Ryan replies. "See you."
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It's actually two days before Ryan feels good enough to go back to school.
He spends the better part of these two days apologizing to the Cohens, trying to explain to them why he acted like he did when he doesn't understand it himself.
Was it unwillingness to bother them? Embarrassment at having been punched in the face…twice? Stubbornness?
Reasons don't seem matter to Kirsten. "Should such a thing happen again, you are to call us," she orders. "If you don't, I swear I'll ground your ass for the next decade. I don't care if we're busy, I don't care if you only have a small scratch. I won't have you passing out on the street again."
Kirsten makes a very convincing bad cop when she puts her mind to it.
"Okay," he says. "Sorry."
Since he's stuck home, he decides he might as well put the time to good use and calls both Summer and Luke.
Summer tells him more about Newport than he ever wanted to know—a girl was found giving a blow job to the newest Dean of Discipline in a closet? Did these things happen in real life?
Luke laughs at him for several long minutes when Ryan tells him about his latest encounter—"Man, I swear, you attract these weirdos. You must send out, 'Punch me now' vibes."
Despite the teasing and the TMI factor, they manage to cheer him up—and neither of them asks him if he remembers them yet. They just share stories from their lives with him, encouraging him to do the same.
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Going back to school is unnerving.
Getting mugged would have been bad enough, but passing out and throwing up in front of two of his classmates on top of it was really taking it to another level.
Still, nothing eventful happens. No one looks at him differently despite the bruises on his face. No one tries to talk to him. Everything is the way it was three days before.
Then, at lunch, Matt walks to Ryan's table, says, "Hey," sets his tray of food next to Ryan's and slides on the bench.
"Hey," Ryan replies carefully.
Matt doesn't let Ryan's lack of enthusiasm deter him. He takes a hearty bite of his sandwich, smiles and asks, "Did you actually get why reading Madame Bovary is important and will change our lives, or did you just fall asleep right with the rest of us?"
"Uh, fell asleep," Ryan replies, honest. He makes a mental note to ask Sandy whether he liked literature before, 'cause right now, he certainly isn't enjoying it.
"Good, you pass the test," Matt says generously. His eyes catch something over Ryan's head. "Hey, guys, over here. Another back row sleeper. Flaubert has a lot to answer for."
Ryan raises his eyes in time to see two other students approaching.
"Steve," a blond guy says, sitting down and starting to gulp down his food under the disapproving eyes of the second addition—as redhead girl, who raises an eyebrow at Matt.
"No one likes Flaubert," she says. She turns to Ryan, gives him the once over, nods once and says, "I'm Julia, by the way. Nice to meet you."
He nods back politely, wondering how long it will take them to start grilling him.
He doesn't have long to wait.
"So, you like our school?" Matt asks.
"Sure."
There's an expectant silence, which he uses to sip his coke.
Julia snorts. "A man of few words, I see."
Ryan opens his mouth to protest, but realizes she's probably right, and shrugs.
Matt starts laughing. "I knew I'd like you."
Steve stops long enough to throw in, "Yeah. You and Julia do the talking, Ryan and I will act the part of the strong, silent types. Works for everyone."
"You're not the silent type, you're just too busy eating to waste time talking," Julia retorts. "That's different."
Ryan doesn't speak up, instead watching the other three bicker and tease each other. When he chuckles at one of Matt's childish insults, Julia gives a triumphant smile, so quick that Ryan wonders if he imagined it.
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Surprisingly, it isn't Matt or Julia who get the whole story out of him.
For reasons Ryan can't start to guess, the three friends have been keen on inviting him into their group. They don't push him to talk, they seem content to accept his one-word answers and his shrugs as elaborate replies, and they take his opinions in stride whenever he ventures to offer one.
He doesn't see a lot of them outside of classes, but he sometimes follows them when they decide to go to the movies, or to the nearest pizzeria. Ryan learns very soon that Steve is the one who helped Matt to carry him inside when he passed out that day, and he's pretty sure that they never really talked about the specifics with Julia, which Ryan appreciates.
They don't gang up on him to give him the third degree.
Instead, they take turns asking questions, backing off as soon as Ryan sends a "Leave me the hell alone" signal—that is usually just a change of subject.
First, it's Matt who asks him where he comes from. Ryan looks away and asks Steve if he understood anything in the last chemistry class.
Two weeks later, Julia asks him the same question. Ryan looks down and mumbles, "Fresno. Chino. Newport." He gets up and leaves them staring dumbfounded at him, feeling stupid. They're asking the most harmless questions, and he always reacts as if he had to protect his privacy with his life.
And what's worse, they don't even seem to hold it against him.
But damn it, the next time one of them asks, he'll suck it up and answer the question, instead of fleeing like a coward.
So, shortly after the Christmas break, when Steve and Ryan go back to Steve's house to work on an assignment, Ryan steels himself for what is sure to come.
Sure enough, it only takes fifteen minutes for Steve to launch another offensive.
"So."
Ryan shakes his head, torn between amusement and annoyance.
"Go ahead," he says. "Ask. I know it's your turn."
Steve raises an eyebrow. "Wow, I think this is the longest sentence I've heard you say all day."
Ryan leans back on his chair, his eyes trained on the Coldplay poster hanging over the bed.
"Okay," Steve says. "What's your story, oh mysterious one?"
"People took me in a little over a year ago, and a few months later, their real son and I went to a party in LA with some friends. On the way back, we got hit by another car. The girls got away with scratches, the Cohens' son died on the scene, and I got a bad head injury. I don't remember anything from my life before the accident happened."
Ryan takes a deep breath, marveling at the fact that he just managed to sum up the most difficult year of his life in four sentences.
Steve gapes at him for a short while. "Yeah, okay. Hm…"
"Pretty much," Ryan says.
"That's why you got that headache," Steve says, the pieces slowly falling into place. "It wasn't just taking a few punches, it was because of the…" He trails off, staring at Ryan. "And is that also why you never talk about the people you live with?"
Ryan shrugs, bends down to pick up a book in his backpack. "There isn't much to say. They're nice. I like them."
He gestures to the notes spread out on Steve's desk. "Let's finish this, okay?"
Steve nods, composing himself.
"Feel free to tell the others," Ryan says, opening his book.
They don't talk about anything but their homework after that.
TBC