It looks like its actually gonna happen this time! With Prospect Park making things official this past week, we could actually be seeing new episodes of AMC (and OLTL) in just a few months. Thanks to PP for apparently never giving up on getting this done. This really is an opportunity for these shows to be trail-blazers once again. Let's hope for the best.
I took a bit of a different approach with this chapter. Hopefully it translates well...and forewarned, there's another twist ending coming. Sorry, can't seem to resist those : )
####
He hides.
They play that game a lot. Hockett can't get enough. He tip-toes - never runs, just in case - peeking around every corner. He's even looked in the oven a couple times. Ryan would always watch him from his 'hiding place': an obvious nook to most people, probably, but not to him. Not to them. He would roll his eyes, but...he loved it too. Ryan saw his brother like that - laughter personified - and it felt real. Right. It didn't matter they weren't swimming in Fisher Price. It didn't matter they wore the same clothes they'd worn the last four games.
It didn't matter.
So he hides that day better than he ever has. He hides, and he makes friends with the dust bunny setting up a home on his foot. Dad does't see him. Neither of them do.
And Ryan pretends he doesn't hear.
I'm sorry.
Pretends.
He looks, just a peek, over the edge.
The can is shattered all over those puke-green tiles. He doesn't know a can could shatter, but it does, with enough encouragement. The brown foam rushes up…more, more. Like some endless pit.
The veins pulse around Dad's knuckles. They tighten. Harden. Take over.
Ryan pets the dust bunny. It goes. He asks the bunny to come back. Real nice, real soft, again and again. Like a good boy. It leaves anyway.
He pretends the other smash is just a pot falling over. Clumsy boy.
Daddy, please.
Pretends.
The tiny moans, barely there – they're just sounds from a zoo on the TV.
Clean it up.
Pretends.
No, no, no.
He hides. Waits for Hockett to throw up his hands and say 'Surprise, I found you,' so they can laugh like tomorrow doesn't exist. But he won't come.
Ryan gives his position away. His brother always hates that.
He's crawling. Toward Ryan. Hockett's pajamas are so sticky. He'll have to get the detergent.
Holding his stomach, too. Maybe he's got a stomach-ache. Reaching, so small and he's always reaching, even when Ryan's not there.
Ryan knows how a pillow sounds, looks, after it's punched. After it's kicked. It gives just a trace: a few muted muffles. And then it's back in place. Normal. You'd never ever know, except when you feel it. It never feels the same.
He hid.
Never again.
#
Through the clouds, he barely makes out the small mass huddled against his knee.
"Don't leave, please."
Ryan wipes the water away before hunching, face-to-face with the wide-eyed boy whose tear-brimmed lids match.
"Hey now, Hockett." He sweeps a brown lock tickling his little brother's cheek. "Just because I'm leaving, it doesn't mean I'll ever leave you. I'll always be right here" - he places a palm across a toothless smile, across a heart – "watching those crazy cartoons, giving you these…" His fist rubs hair relentlessly, which draws out a short, sweet snicker he savors. "…I'll always be here."
"You got hurt right after I told Mama and Daddy about your new job." Jonathan's lip trembles; his voice quavers. "I didn't know, Ry. I didn't know it was supposed to be a secret. I'm sorry. All my fault. Please don't go. I'll be good, I promise."
Jonathan throws himself into Ryan's arms, shreds his big brother up a couple scratches more. He doesn't know if he has any blood left inside. His fingers ease, stroke Jonathan's hair. "None of this is your fault, Hockett. I know me and Daddy yelled at each other, but it has nothing to do with why I'm leaving. We got a little mad is all." All his effort, but he chokes on the words anyway.
"Then why?" comes the muffled reply against his shoulder.
"I need to go away for a bit. I'm getting to be an old man now, you know. Pretty soon you're gonna have to put me out to pasture." He winks. Hopes Jonathan will believe the lie.
"The cows might get mad." This observation brings another round of head-razzing. "You'll be back, right?" Shy, timid, never his brother.
"Of course." He tries to tell himself this isn't another lie. The trick doesn't work. "But it might be a while. You'll probably have forgotten all about me."
"Never ever, Ry." Jonathan meets his eyes direct, wide, and Ryan blinks fiercely. "I love you."
Ryan smiles. His last one for a while. He savors it. "Right back at you, Hockett I want you to promise me something." Jonathan fixes him with his solemnest, which only makes Ryan's lips widen more. "Erin, she might get lonesome. You, too. If that happens, I want you to gather up all the superpowers you've got, put on that cape" - he affixes the invisible garment around his brother's shoulders, perfect accessory to the crooked grin - "and dazzle her. Make her happy. Make each other happy. Can you do that?"
"I can try." Jonathan puffs his chest in true Dynamite Kiddo fashion. "Naw, I will."
Ryan pulls him back. He places a soft kiss on his brother's forehead, his smile never disappearing.
"You'll come back if I need you?"
He kisses Jonathan's forehead again, lingering…wanting to mean every word: "In a heartbeat."
#
The tendrils of flames billow behind them, and crazily, all he can think of is Dynamite Kiddo, come to save the day from the evil dragon. That was the plan, anyway. Find the girl, save her from the evils of a coke-addled life on the streets, be the hero….for once, be the part rather than badly act the part. He could even give that con inside him that never really left the building his due. This was an assignment, after all. With grateful clients. And with grateful clients came grateful paychecks.
Another hero had seen fit to intrude on the proceedings, though. And that damsel in distress had somehow transformed into a small boy. And…and after what he'd seen, he wasn't so sure that the Justice League itself could fix this mess.
He could walk away. Call 911, walk away, and be done with it. That's what the 17-year-old with the duffle bag is screaming at him to do. The smooth con-man is giving him that whisper he knows too well at the same time: It's not your problem. You gotta know when to cut and run.
Ryan looks at the small building now engulfed in fire.
He looks back at the road: empty, deserted. Oh-so-inviting.
Shaking his head, he curses under his breath and trots toward Brot Monroe.
He doesn't look back.
#
His fingers tapped the keyboard furiously. Damnit.
The connection in here was less than ideal. But having a look at the gray slabs that passed for walls, he couldn't say that he hadn't gotten exactly what he paid for. A run-down warehouse wasn't the ideal office space, but he'd found that the deeper he immersed himself in this little town that had somehow grabbed him by the…throat over 15 years ago, the more swank cubicles and 9-to-5 hours weren't gonna fit the bill.
At least in this part of town, nobody was particularly inclined to ask questions. It was populated by more of the 'shoot first and ask questions later' types.
Ryan managed to salvage the hunk of junk hard drive long enough to call up his massive virtual file cabinet. He'd amassed quite a collection, and each folder was filled to the brim. He scanned past the names, many of them familiar. Too familiar. He'd deal with them all in time, because circumstances had taught him to take the emotion out of it. For their sake.
For his sake.
The cursor hovered over the largest file: a monster devouring more of his hard drive by the day. This one, for this one in time was today.
Now, actually.
His ears had been schooled in every sound from this neighborhood, and from this humble abode especially. Every creak from a mouse. Every whispered transaction. Every scream so faint you could almost convince yourself it was just a trick of the wind.
The hard, confident clicks, though….oh, they were something new. His guest had arrived.
With one chance for an explanation.
Ryan slid the flash drive from the computer and in turn slid it into a well-hidden hole. Its lone companion was the letter he had left for Greenlee. In case…
The next part took longer. Took time he didn't have as the clicks grew closer. Closing his eyes, he secured the gun in his waistband and covered the bulk with his slightly oversized shirt. The weight, the chill caused a brief flinch.
As he looked toward the door, the flinch – and the doubts – disappeared. Ryan, ever the proper host, went to greet his guest.
#
Princesses weren't supposed to wear jeans or use the wrong words. They were spoiled, indulgent. They weren't supposed to see past the smile and the lie. They weren't supposed to see the real guy.
And they assuredly were not supposed to fall in love with that guy.
And he...he was never supposed to fall in love period.
And it wasn't supposed to hurt so hard – or feel so good - when he crashed.
#
Six-pack.
That was supposed to be a complement…or a put-down. Probably both.
That was supposed to be the start of the game.
Nothing more.
They weren't supposed to change the rules.
Until they did.
#
She was that girl.
They were only supposed to work in rom-coms or horror flicks.
She was supposed to steal his wallet and maybe his clothes. She wasn't supposed to steal his heart.
He wasn't supposed to give her the key, or take it back so willingly.
#
Fathers were supposed to be hurt, disappointment. A curled fist and foul breath…fouler words.
A little girl and a little boy weren't supposed to undo him with just a smile.
Or so thoroughly, completely alter the definition of Dad.
#
It is New Year's and everything old is new again. The oil paintings, the far-flung ceilings, the carved staircases that make him feel like an intruder. And at home.
The music swells and his gaze moves - no, glides - to that staircase. The Crystal Ball without benefit of the crystals or the fancy clothes. Somehow, none of that matters.
She is here. Her hair isn't swept back and her gown rivals Cinderella's…after the ball.
Just her.
Just enough.
He holds out a hand that does not curl into a fist, flashes a smile that is not aimed at the next mark, and touches her with a hand – with a heart – free of its weights.
It attaches to an anchor.
This time, he doesn't say goodbye.
"May I have this dance, Princess?"
#
They…they sounded like the employees in the laundromat below his old apartment, but different.
There was shouting and exuberance and the whistle of streamers, but now….none of the hidden sadness, the unspoken certainty of another crushed resolution, another empty year.
There was only….hope.
Three, Two, One…
He'd thought the pain would stop him. He'd thought he couldn't move, but somehow, his hand reached one final time through the darkness, towards a far-away light.
Towards her.
She takes his hand and leads him away.
Not away.
To.
To love is to risk not being loved in return. To hope is to risk pain. To try is to risk failure, but risk must be taken because the greatest hazard in life is to risk nothing.
He'd heard it somewhere before. As his eyes close, he knows its absolute truth.