Chapter Text
Courtland is good at disappearing. Ryland's apartment is not big – the official tour he gave his brother took all of ten minutes – so there aren't many places to hide. Somehow, Courtland finds every single out of the way corner to put himself into. He watches from doorways. He rotates around the place as if on a clock. He subtly tests the knobs and locks and bolts. He frowns sharply at the buzz of the downstairs intercom, then disappears to check it out. Ryland can't look at screens as he recovers, so after seven games of tic-tac-toe with Claire, two naps, and one slow audiobook chapter, he starts using their pad and paper to track his brother's habits.
Ryland approaches it as methodically as he can; as if he were a new cell with a plethora of organelles to label. Claire lays on her stomach at the foot of the bed, sketchbook open and colorful Crayola markers spread around her. He borrows some just for the hell of it, notes their drying nature, and scribbles out a buy Claire new markers because his scrambled brain will probably forget.
Green is for Courtland's physical habits: the way he stands (shoulder width apart, hands held out in front of himself, crossed formally) the way he walks (measured, careful steps, always taking the most efficient path to his destination) any other ticks (chews, or works his jaw, sometimes sucks in his cheek, always casting his eyes around the place).
Orange is for Courtland's verbal tendencies, not that there are many. He hums more than speaks. He will complete sentences with his eyes or jerks of his chin, which would fall under a physical habit if not for the fact that he doesn't like to move when it isn't necessary. Out of the thirty-two complete sentences that Ryland has heard him say, he has initiated conversation seven times, which is a whopping twenty one percent. So, not a talker then.
Blue is what Ryland can remember about Courtland, and it's the shortest section. He had a soft smile. He never got angry with them even when Ryland dismantled something in the house to see how it worked. He cut Colt's hair for him. He cooked and taught them how to clean. He slept on his side, making just enough space for Ryland to tuck into bed with him.
Ryland's head hurts dragging up all these memories, so Claire takes the markers.
“Is this weird?”
Claire briefly pauses putting her markers away in rainbow order to look at him, then look at the doorway. Court is checking the window at the end of the hall.
“Not really,” Claire says. “He was like this before. When we met, I mean. When he watched over me.”
Before. It's something they can only talk about in brief snatches. Moments where Ryland is laying flat on the floor in Claire's room and the clock is edging into the early morning. She will whisper about nails digging into her upper arm and dragging her up the stairs of a house she didn't know. She'll cry trying to describe the orange-red flare of the night sky as fire rained down through the windows. Ryland holds her and promises her safety for the rest of her life.
“He killed someone with a bowl to protect me.” She sounds like she's just remembering it. “He – he hurt himself to protect me.”
Ryland looks down at his memory section, to where he scribbled saved me and was punished for it. “Yeah,” he breathes. “I'm not surprised.”
“I'm sorry,” Ryland says, “it's not much.”
Courtland is holding the folded blankets and sheets like they're delicate. “This is perfect, thank you.” He starts making up the couch. Ryland watches for what is maybe far too long before he makes himself turn around and walk away.
Colt makes things lighter.
“No, no,” he huffs, pulling Ryland's laptop closer. “I've got it. I've got this. Come on, Ry, I know science.”
“Dad, don't trust him,” Claire warns. “I don't want to learn science at a first grade level.”
Colt's mouth opens in mock offense. His palm flies to his chest. “I am at least in the fifth grade of science, kid.”
“Are you bragging?” Court wonders. Colt glares at him.
“Can we just get this done?”
Ryland's fingers are itching to snatch the laptop back and just make the lesson plans himself, concussion be damned. Unfortunately, Court hovers over them like a warden with a medical degree. He keeps swiping Ryland's phone right from his hand. And this is even after Ryland checks all around himself before sneaking it. This was their solution to spring break ending in about three days when Ryland's cleared-for-no-concussion date was only in two.
“What do you need, boss?” Colt wiggles his fingers. “I've gotten pretty good at typing since the accident. No one here can touch me in the typing games.”
“That's so embarrassing,” Claire says.
“I need,” Ryland interrupts before they can start again, “a PowerPoint. Let's start there.”
Any hope that Ryland would have about this process being quick and easy is dashed immediately. Colt has opinions on the transition slides. Claire wants to use fun fonts and sound effects. Court tsks at every single text box Colt creates because the words are too big and blocky. Ryland stares at them as they argue over what is supposed to be his favorite unit to teach: DNA extraction from strawberries and onions. He should be frustrated and annoyed and snappy, but instead he's just – fond.
Okay, well, he's annoyed, but mostly he's fond.
“Guys,” he reminds them, “this is one PowerPoint. We still have to make worksheets and a ton of other stuff.”
This, of course, does not encourage them to hurry. It's a long afternoon of this, and Claire has to declare it over when she gets hungry. Ryland goes to get up, but Court holds out a hand.
“Stay,” he says softly. “I'll handle it.”
Ryland sinks into his seat, eyes wide. He watches Court go into the kitchen. Across from him, Colt is watching just the same. Claire peeks over at them, then takes a breath and starts bossing Court around. Ryland can tell it's all bluster – they've been avoiding each other very neatly, but such close quarters means they're gonna have to get over it eventually.
“It's weird, isn't it?” Ryland looks at Colt. “It's not just my head injury?”
Colt leans against his own fist, elbow on the table. “Hard to say. I'm on painkillers to the max, man.” Ryland snorts. “But I guess it's alright if it's weird. Maybe things need to get weird. Jo and I are weird.”
“You are?”
“I made her leave,” Colt says plainly. “I fucked up. I'm goddamn lucky that weird is all it is.”
“And this is the same,” Ryland concludes. “We're lucky it's weird.”
“He's alive,” he says. “We're more than lucky, Ry.”
Ryland studies his brother. Colt still has the laptop open on his lap. He's typing with one hand, brows furrowed as he finagles Google classroom to get what he wants. Ryland's chest swells with the overwhelming feeling of gratitude. For everything, really. All the ways that Colt has fucked up and all the ways that he's forgiven Ryland for doing the same.
“We aren't weird,” he blurts.
Colt glances at him. “We aren't?”
“No,” Ryland says. “No, Colt. We're not.”
He looks back at the screen rather quickly, failing to hide his smile. “Good. Now leave me alone, alright? I'm busy. It's important that the kids learn.”
Ryland laughs wetly. “Yeah,” His voice is hoarse. “Yeah, it is.”
He's up at three in the morning, back in the living room. It's dark, but he can see the rise and fall of Court's body there on the couch. The dim light filtering through the room gives him just enough vision to see his brother's eyes open.
“Ry?” Court's voice is rough. “What's wrong?”
“Nothing,” he says, stepping back clumsily. “Nothing. Goodnight.”
When Court was first given his ‘tour’ of the apartment, Claire's door remained shut tight. Ryland awkwardly gestured to the room and made a joke about teenagers and their privacy, but it fell flat as the days passed and Court could see how easily he slipped in there. It's not about privacy as much as it's about trust. Court gets it. Owning a space is special. It's vulnerable.
His room at his dad's place is the only equivalent he can draw, because cells and safehouses shouldn't count. It was bland. His father hardly wanted to spend the money to feed them, let alone let them decorate the walls. Court also knew that anything he valued enough to display was a threat when his father was pissed off. He used to have a photo strip of him and the twins from one of their days at the beach. He kept it taped to the top of his bedside table drawer. On hard nights, he would pull it free and hold it to his chest.
It was lost in his shuffle to prison, and that, not including his mugshots, were the last photos ever taken of him. Until Claire, that is.
At night, she curls up close to Ryland, abandoning her own bed to seek out his warmth. When Court wakes up in the middle of the night to check the locks and entry points, he lingers on the shape of the two of them bundled together.
She did this a lot back when you first – uh – dropped her off, Ryland explained haltingly as he put together a load of laundry. Court wanted to take it from him and make him sit down, but Ryland was fine and capable. Courtland's heart was the one that wasn't. Slept near me. I'm kinda nervous about it happening again, but the therapy appointments seem to be going well, so I don't know.
He stared down at the basket for a moment after that, lost in his head. Court almost asked if he needed something, but Ryland whispered, almost to himself, almost like a reminder, I will never be sure.
Then, with a breath, he grabbed the detergent and left the room.
He takes Ryland's words in now as he looks at Claire. “Sorry?”
“A tour,” she says firmly. She seems – irritated. Or nervous. “Of my room. Do you want it or not?”
Court wants to ask if Ryland forced her to do this. “Okay,” he says instead.
She turns sharply and hurries down the hall. He follows. When he gets to the door, she blows out her cheeks and pushes it open. Since it's the middle of the day, all her curtains are open. It's cleaner than the time that Court checked it for bugs. The bed is made. The desk is clear. Her bookbag hangs off the back of the desk chair in staged nonchalance.
“That is a poster of my favorite band,” she points. “These are photos of my friends. Olivia is my best friend, clearly.” Yes, Court recognizes the girl. She's in way more photos than any of the others. “I drew these. They're okay, I guess.”
Court follows her as she shows him her jackets and her markers and the books that she's reading. As he goes, he's having trouble figuring out what to say or do, but she doesn't seem to mind. In fact, she anticipates it in the way she has. When he doesn't say anything, she says, in a gruff mocking voice, that is very cool, Claire, or occasionally, I like the color purple too which makes him smile just a bit.
“And this is where I keep family,” she says.
Court leans down. Attached to her mirror are a bunch of small photos. Jody is standing in shin-length lake water with her cargos rolled up and her arms up high. Ryland is holding up a paper mache Neptune on a string. Colt is in his wheelchair, grabbing Ryland in a headlock and giving him a noogie. There's Ryland and Ms. T wearing matching teacher sweaters in the hallway of the school. There's Claire and Colt knocked out together on his couch. And –
Court's throat catches.
It's him. The polaroid that Claire snapped when they first met. He forgot about it after he tucked it into his suit jacket. In it, he looks vaguely disgruntled but more so shocked. The surprise of the shot makes his face look softer; eyes big and lighter brown from the light coming in through the big windows. Seeing himself was weird then, and it's even weirder now.
“You kept it,” Court swallows.
“Duh,” she says. She sounds nervous though. Her bluster is a show. Her fury from earlier was too. Casually, in a way that isn't casual, she knocks her hand against his arm. “We're still family. Right?”
Court looks at her. He wants to say something important and beautiful and deep, but his throat is so tight that he can't open his mouth. He nods once, deep.
The night that Ryland is medically cleared, he dreams about the door splintering in half because of a giant brown boot kicking it in.
The sky is dark and he's simultaneously all alone, and yet Colt is right by his side, just like he's been since the day they were born. A gun gleams in the hand of the intruder and appeals to Ryland. It says, this will be very painful but much less painful than any alternative where Colt, or Claire, or Talia, or your students, or your dead mother, or the world feels it. The gun says, come on, Ryland. You already know that your time is up. Ryland feels his dream self losing all resolve. To give up your life is to fight your most basic human instinct, but this is about Colt. This is about Claire. There is no choice. There is no –
Ryland wakes up with a ragged gasp. Fear at night feels like an animal in his chest. It makes him sit up and scrub at his face. He wants the dream out of his body.
He stands on shaking legs. Claire slept in her own room tonight to prepare for the excitement of being back at school tomorrow. Ryland won't interrupt her rest because of this.
“Ryland,” Court says into the dark.
Everything feels slow at this time of night. Ryland teeters in the doorway of his own living room, unsure of whether to get closer. Courtland's shadow sits up all the way. “Ryland,” he says again. Every syllable is measured. “Is something wrong?”
“Yes,” Ryland's voice is tiny. “No. Sorry. I'm not –” his throat closes.
Court stands. A sliver of moonlight cuts across his face, from his temple down through his nose. Ryland's not concussed anymore, officially, but his eyes tell his brain this is not a real image. Maybe he is still dreaming. He slips into the room.
“You're not hurt,” Court says. It's a statement of truth. You can't be hurt, maybe. Or, I won't let you get hurt. Maybe it's reassurance for both parties.
“I don't know,” Ryland whispers.
The moonlight shows him Courtland's deeply furrowed brow. “Ry,” he matches Ryland's tone now that they're only a step away from each other. “I'm here.”
“Please help,” Ryland's voice breaks like a new day.
He doesn't know what he's asking for, but Court does. His brother steps forward and puts his arms around Ryland. Ryland gasps as he's bundled into a body that feels like an echo of long ago. His nose touches Courtland's neck. He smells like Ryland's soap and Ryland's apartment and Ryland's life now, but feels like childhood.
“It was just a dream,” Courtland murmurs. Ryland's fingers cling at his tee. “You're safe, Ry. I swear.”
Don't go, he thinks feverishly. Don't go, don't go – he's speaking it aloud by accident. Repeatedly. Obsessively. Don't go. Please.
“I'm not leaving,” Court vows. It's as if Ryland is five years old, but it works. Maybe it hasn't been long enough for either of them to forget how to be the oldest and youngest brothers.
“Cory,” Ryland sniffles.
“I know,” Court's fingers brush through the hair at the back of his head. “I know, Ryland.”
He stays out there with Courtland that night. Court offers to lay on the carpet, but Ryland just presses his side against his brother's and tucks the blanket around their shoulders. He bobbles in and out of sleep, too nervous to commit. Each time he wakes, Court is there to whisper, you're safe, Ry. Sleep. Somewhere around two, he drops off and is only stirred by Court shifting to stand hours later.
Ryland wakes up with a sharp inhale. "Don't –"
"I'm going to check on Claire,” Court says. “Then the locks. I'll be back in two minutes.”
Ryland's eyes are big. He nods slowly. "Okay."
"Okay," Court responds. He touches Ryland's arm, then stands.
Ryland waits. He holds his breath. And as promised, Courtland returns.
Getting back into their school routine isn't tricky at all. Courtland slides into their lives with suspicious ease: going from sitting stiffly at the kitchen table as Ryland juggles breakfast and tying his tie and collecting his worksheets to standing at the stove, sliding two pieces of toast onto Ryland's plate and saying sit and eat like some sort of mom.
Claire thinks it's very funny. Ryland says he doesn't want to hear what she thinks, then privately glows to himself about it. He watches when he hopes they aren't looking. He sees the way Claire jokes at him, and how intently Court listens to her, and the hesitant way they orbit each other once again. He's not, he realizes, afraid of Claire and Court going off and leaving him behind. Claire wouldn't do that to him. And he's starting to trust that Courtland wouldn't either.
It's a shame that he was recovering from a head injury for the back half of his spring break, Talia tells him when he gets to the school, but they both recognize that to be a small price to pay for still being alive.
“The better question,” she says, stirring her coffee, “is have you figured out what to do for Claire's birthday?”
Yes, this has been a great debate in the house of late. Ryland has only experienced creating birthday parties for kids in the form of facilitating cupcakes in his classroom and the occasional parent dropping by with balloons that he has to wrestle into a corner so they remain unscathed while they do science. He opened up the floor to suggestions from his family. Colt, of course, has a whole list of ideas, starting big and ending big. Jody suggests that they take her to a concert, but he knows the party aspect is important to teenagers and he wants to give that to Claire before she decides it isn't cool anymore. There's plenty of time for her to go off with her friends for her birthday, but there are only so many that he'll get to gift to her.
“How corny is a surprise party?” Ryland scribbles down a note to himself for homeroom. Field day is at the end of the week. What a joy. He peeks up at her. “Too corny, right?”
“No, I think Claire will love it just as much as she loves making fun of you for it.”
Ryland cracks a smile. “We're operating in the sweet spot, then.”
“Tell me when and where and how to help, Dr. Grace,” she says. “I am the best streamer twirler ever.”
“I have no clue what that means,” he admits, “so you're hired.”
A new, weird, but good thing: Court is there at the end of the day to pick them up from school. He's wearing a ball cap and keeping his head low, which leads Ryland to say, “are you driving a getaway car or something,” when he tosses himself into the passenger seat.
“No,” Court says. Claire copies Ryland but in the backseat. Her bookbag takes a rough tumble. “I'm just waiting.”
“You're waiting and it's shady,” Claire informs him. “You're shady.”
“I'm not,” he says.
“A little bit,” Ryland says. “But it's okay.”
“I want fast food,” Claire tells them both.
“I'm not shady,” Court defends. Ryland pats his arm, then points him in the direction of the nearest greasy food place.
They eat their burgers and fries outdoors. Ryland watches Claire use her nuggets like a spoon for her ice cream. Court's eyes keep casing the parking lot like SWAT is going to drop down and seize them all.
“You know,” Ryland starts casually, “I've noticed that you're wearing all my stuff, Court.”
Court's attention focuses with a frown. “You said I could.”
“I did,” he nods. “I did say that.” Claire's eyes get big. “But you know. You could have your own clothes. If you wanted.”
“I'm not –”
Claire slaps the table with her palms. “Shopping.” She grabs Court's arm. She starts shaking him. “Say yes. Say yes.”
Court looks at Ryland like what did you just do? Ryland hides a smile behind his hand. This time, Ryland lets Claire run about the store throwing various items of clothing at his brother.
“I don't care about clothes,” he says from under the pile he's holding. “We can just get any of these.”
“You have to try them on,” Claire pushes him towards the fitting rooms. “And then you have to show us. Like the movies.”
Ryland sits there with Claire while Court tries on jeans and shirts and sweatshirts. He comes out looking uncomfortable and tosses his hands out to the side. He turns at Claire's insistence. The two of them hold up numbers with their fingers as ratings, which makes him roll his eyes.
“The black shirt and these pants would be fine,” he tries. Claire ran off to gather more jackets and probably thought now was the best chance to appeal his case. Ryland ignores him happily. However, he is curious.
“What's your favorite color?”
“I don't have one.”
“None?” Ryland feels a little stupid asking, but mostly he wants Court to have one.
“Black,” Court says, but Ryland can tell he's just saying it to say something. Court hesitates, then goes, “maybe blue. Like the water.”
Immediately, Ryland knows he's talking about when they were kids; the pretty way light skitters across the ocean turning soft blue into white. Or even the way the sky bent itself around a cloud; the fuzzy blur of color far off where the sky and sea touched.
“Blue,” Ryland repeats. “You know, I like green.”
Court smiles sadly. “I know.”
“You do?”
“The long grass at the back of the house,” he recalls. “You sat out there a lot. And you would take Colt's baseball jersey all the time. And you'd cut out a bunch of pages from the national geographic to tape up in your closet.”
“I forgot about that,” Ryland is stunned.
His brother shrugs one shoulder. He doesn't speak, but his face says, I didn't.
While it is funny to inform both Colt and Court that the lesson plans they so painfully helped piece together will not be used – do they know how much time we spent on those worksheets, Colt exclaimed, make the kids sit down and learn it anyway – it is not as fun to field off – ha ha – their worry about physical activity.
“It's an egg spoon race,” Ryland says loudly. “I'm not playing tackle football. And the professionals have cleared me to do this.”
“Fuck the professionals,” Colt declares. Court shifts the pan of eggs he's cooking in a way that feels vaguely agreeable.
“The professionals are the reason why you can walk,” he points out.
“In this specific instance,” Colt says, “fuck the professionals.” Ryland huffs. He can't kick Colt, so he just flicks him. Colt barely flinches. Not satisfying in the slightest. “Court, you gotta go to make sure he's good.”
Court slides the eggs onto a plate. “I'm pretty sure that's illegal.”
“No,” Colt says, “I did field day last year, didn't I?”
“That's true,” Ryland is hesitant. “He volunteered to help out.”
“The kids fucking loved it,” Colt preens. His smile falters. “But I can't do it this year. Cor, you might have to step up.”
Court steps back from the stove to look at Colt. Ryland wonders what he sees. “I don't want to push it,” he says finally. “It's been peaceful. Keeping visibility low is smart.”
“Yeah,” Ryland swallows some disappointment. Colt glares at him. “What?”
“You want him to be there,” he accuses. That makes Court's eyes slide over to Ryland. “Don't you, Ry?”
“I never said that,” he splutters. “I actually haven't said anything. I'm just sitting here and you two are the ones freaking –”
“Ryland,” Court says. Ryland's mouth closes. “Do you want me to help?”
“I – I don't want to put you in danger,” he admits slowly.
Court's lip lifts like that's funny. “I can handle some sack races, kid.”
Ryland's brain short-circuits. “I'm grown. Fully. I'm fully grown!"
“Youngest here,” Court shrugs.
“We're twins!”
Colt leans over, grinning, “fifteen point –”
“Stop,” Ryland says loudly.
"Hey, it's seven years and fifteen point three minutes between us," Court says, as if Ryland wasn't aware.
“I am going to get hit in the head with another gun just so you guys will shut up.”
“No,” Court says simply. He hands Ryland a plate with a tiny smile. “Sign me up for the field day.”
“Okay,” Ryland looks over at Colt. He's still smiling, so he flicks him again just for good measure.
“Regretting this yet?” Ryland says cheerily.
If Courtland didn't witness Ryland down three cups of coffee this morning before putting his converse on, he might be fooled. Instead he stands here, vaguely concerned and very overwhelmed by the sheer number of kids lining up on the soccer field. He spotted Claire a little while ago, and he knows her general placement in the rows, but, well, it's a lot of children. Unfortunately teenage girls with brown hair and tomboy-ish style are in abundance at this school.
“I'll tell you when I start,” he tells Ryland. At least he isn't the only volunteer here. There are a couple of fathers moving coolers, and a few mothers pointing at clipboards and waving around bottles of sunscreen. There's also a strange gaggle of parents that keep looking over at Ryland and giggling. “Actually,” he says, frowning at their blushing cheeks, “I've started.”
“We haven't even played kickball yet,” Ryland tilts his head. “Hey, is that Talia's brother?”
Court narrows his eyes in the direction Ryland is looking. It does seem to be the same man from the hospital. He's dressed casually, so it can be assumed that he's here to help out, but Courtland hasn't lived this long off of assumptions.
“I'll go say hi,” his brother takes a step.
Court grabs his shirt collar, stopping him. “I think they need you over there,” he lies, nodding in the general direction of the chatting kids. They're not doing anything in need of help, but they are looking over and pointing and talking so Court figures it's as good a distraction as any.
Ryland refocuses. “Oh.” He goes pink for some reason. “Yeah, I'll just – be right back.”
Court watches Ryland get immersed in conversation with the children. When he's not looking, Court makes his way to Talia's brother. He steps in line with the man – Carl Jones, security personnel for the Petrova research team, yes, Courtland did his own research into him – without looking at him.
“Sierra,” Carl says.
“You've got five seconds to tell me what you're doing here.”
“Funny, I was going to say the same thing to you. You are still a wanted asset,” he says, as if Court doesn't know that. “Tangling yourself further in the lives of these people isn't smart.”
“Pissing me off isn't smart,” Court says flatly.
Carl laughs. “There are much more terrifying things in the world than whatever you could do to me, Sierra.” He looks at Court. “I'm trying to help him. If you don't want to listen, that's fine. But if you care about that guy over there, you'll at least consider what I'm telling you.”
Court looks at Ryland. He's kneeling in front of a boy and helping him tie his shoes. Another kid is talking excitedly, bouncing on his toes and doing all these huge sport-esque arm motions. Ryland is nodding and beaming – his real smile, not that coffee-induced nightmare from earlier – and offering them high-fives.
Don't go, Ryland begged him. Begged. Clung to his arm and begged. And Colt – we die either way. Come home to us.
Courtland is tired of running from them. He's tired of watching from far away.
“Unless you're here for the event,” Court says, “Get the fuck out of here.”
Carl exhales, but he turns to leave. Over his shoulder comes, “don't say I didn't warn you, man.”
Courtland only starts truly regretting field day when the kids start spraying one another with water guns. Ryland is somewhere back flat in the wet grass wheezing, drenched because Claire led her entire homeroom in an attack against him. Court is trying to avoid the mud and fill everyone's water back up as quickly as he can when a thunder of children approach him.
“Are you Dr. Grace's brother?”
Court blinks. He is realizing too late that they didn't come up with the story for who he was. Is he a friend that looks suspiciously similar to Ryland? Is he Claire's guardian? Who is he supposed to be in this new life? “Uh – no. No, Colt isn't here today.”
“Not Colt,” the boy says. Court recognizes him as the one from this morning with the big hand motions. “Colt's the best! I mean the other brother.”
Real flattering, he thinks before what the kid says actually registers. The other brother. “I …I am. Yes.”
“What's your name?” The boy snaps. It's a really exaggerated motion, as if he's seen adults on TV do it. “Cliff or something?”
“No, his name is Chris,” says the quieter one.
“Chase?”
“I'm Court,” he interrupts. “My name is Court.”
The loud kid squints. “Cliff is better.” He points. “Can you shoot that?” What a question. Court looks down at the water gun in his hand. “I wanna team up against Dr. Grace. Mr. Colt and I did it before.”
Courtland doesn't mention the fact that Ryland probably doesn't need to be teamed up against right now. He's a little caught on these children knowing who he is. “Sure,” he hands a refilled gun to the quiet kid. “But he's in charge.”
The quiet kid beams.
“Whatever,” he sticks out his hand. “I'm Evan, and this is Marco, and we're gonna take Dr. Grace down, Cliff!”
Later, laying in the mud next to Ryland – Evan and Marco completely turned on him and he figured he'd surrender instead of waging a war on thirteen year olds – he looks at his brother. Ryland's glasses are nowhere to be found. His cheeks are bright red. His hair is soaked. He's smiling like this is the best day of his life.
“I thought you hated field day,” Court says.
“I love the kids."
Court pauses, then says, very, very carefully, “they know who I am?”
Ryland looks over. He's got a funny look on his face. “Of course they do.” He looks back up at the blue sky. “I've always had two brothers. Dead or alive or CIA operatives – it didn't matter. That never changed.”
Court swallows. He's suddenly very grateful for the water on his face. They lay there for a little longer. The shriek of happy children echoes from the distance.
Ryland sits up with a groan. Then he stands. Then he offers Court a hand. Court squints against the sun and looks at it, unconvinced.
“Come on,” Ryland says. “We've got to get Claire back for this somehow, don't we?”
Courtland grins, and clasps their hands together.
“When should I tell him?” Colt asks, nervously tipping his glass around.
Courtland sighs. “Probably not for the next forty-eight hours.”
Ryland is standing on the couch with pink and green streamers. Talia stands on the carpet behind him, holding a hand to his back for stability and pointing up. He's teetering and stretching, and while he is the clumsiest, he's also the tallest and lankiest of them all. The only person for the job.
“Please don't fall, Ryland,” Talia says for about the seventh time.
“I'm not gonna fall,” he says, then wobbles dangerously. Court twitches. Talia reprimands him as he gets his balance back and holds up his hands in triumph. “See – didn't fall!”
“How will he take it?”
Court looks at his brother. Colt's drumming at the kitchen table anxiously. He understands, in a distant way, that Colt and Ryland's relationship was recently strained and that they're working their way out of it. He knows it was about the injury, and he knows it was about the recovery, both things that Court wasn't around for, and therefore doesn't have a right to have any opinion on. But Colt knew all of this, and came to him anyway.
An exercise in trust? A want to push the blame of his decision off onto someone else? A desperate pull for an older brother? Court can't say for sure.
He wishes, like with most things in his life now, that he had more time. More time with this version of Colt. More time with the Colt from twenty years ago. He wants to understand this profession that his little brother has dedicated his body to. He wants to know how Colt loves it so he can love it too; so he can give advice that ensures his happiness. The same goes for Ryland. He wants to understand the draw he has with children and their terribly vulnerable hearts and minds. He wants to know what it was that first sparked something inside of him. What was it that told him this is what you need to do?
“I can't be sure,” he says honestly. “But Ryland loves you. If you need to go back to making films, he's not going to hate you.”
Colt's mouth twists self-deprecatingly. “You didn't see him before.” He falters. “You didn't see me when it all went to shit.”
Court swallows that truth.
“And,” Colt continues, quieter, like he's admitting some great fault, “I'm afraid.” Court looks at him. “What if I don't have it anymore? Everything I thought I knew was just – erased the second I hit the ground. Everything. How could I possibly be of any help to Jody now? How could I be trusted with an entire crew of people to keep safe?”
“Maybe that's the reason,” Court offers.
“What?”
“Something went wrong,” he explains. “Whatever it was, it doesn't matter. What matters is that it went wrong, and now you know things can go wrong.”
“I knew before,” Colt huffs.
“Sure,” Court says easily. “But the first time I got shot, I already knew that being shot wasn't ideal. After having a bullet inside of me, I had to figure out how to stop it from happening.”
Colt doesn't respond immediately. Court's brows furrow. “What?”
“I don't like to think about you being shot,” he says.
Oh. Yeah, that's probably fair. “Me either, if that helps.”
Colt smiles weakly. Court smiles back. Ryland finally makes it down from the couch. Talia is praising his crooked streamer placement and ripping open a package of balloons.
“What if,” Colt starts, “I don't know why it happened?”
“Then you need to go and find out.” He nods towards Ryland. “He'll understand.”
“And it's for Jody,” Colt adds, like a lovesick fool. Court wants to make fun of him so badly. He resists but only just.
“And it's for Jody,” he says.
Colt squints at him. “You like Jody, don't you?” He blinks. “Because don't think that since you came back from the dead and everything that I'm gonna let you –”
“Colt,” Court says, “Jody is great.” A slow smile crosses Colt's face. “She likes you, you're happy, both of you are alive. That's good enough for me.”
“Cool,” he says, shifting slightly in his seat. “Cool. Good. Because, you know, Jo kinda thinks you're freaky, so –”
“What?”
“First impressions,” he rolls a wrist. “You did kill someone in my hallway.”
“I'm –” Court pinches the bridge of his nose. “You know what, Colt, let's stop talking now.”
Colt gives a thumbs up.
It comes at a perfect time because Talia throws another package of balloons at Colt's face with the command to help or die. Colt complains, but it's clearly all for show as he immediately gets competitive with Ryland for how many balloons he can blow up. When Ryland loses, he blames it on his concussion, and Court has to inform him that he was tackled to the ground during field day and he was completely fine afterwards, so the word concussion can stop coming from his mouth. Ryland boos him. Colt cheers, then pops a balloon right in Court's ear.
It's a miracle that they get the place all decorated by five when the first of Claire's friends start showing up.
Bailey and her mother bring two plates of cookies and a purple shopping bag. Bailey's mother hugs Ryland, then kisses her daughter goodbye. Layla's uncle drops her off and she seems spooked by the number of adults in the room, so she sort of plasters herself to Bailey. Dale comes with an armful of wrapped gifts. Court chuckles to himself, recognizing the flush high on his cheeks. It seems Ryland catches it too, because he narrows his eyes at the boy when he passes by.
Of course, it doesn't matter, because the real kid they have to worry about shows up right after. Olivia is carrying her present and her mom is carrying a glass bake pan. Ryland hugs them both.
Olivia chatters to him – lots of questions about whether Claire knows about the surprise, what she's been up to today, and when they can next see each other outside of school – and Ryland bobbles his head through the whole conversation with this adoring little look on his face. Under his breath, Court goes, fuck you, Dale, which makes Colt look at him in concern.
Yes, Court has done research into Olivia, so what. If Claire is going to have a crush, the winner of the presidential award, holder of a 4.0 GPA and frequent attendee of the summer science collective is not a bad choice to make.
“Okay, okay!” Ryland says, raising one hand. Everyone looks at him. He brings it down with a giddy smile. “This is awesome. Thank you guys for coming. Claire is going to be stoked to see you.”
Dale's hand shoots up.
“Yes, Dale?”
“Are we gonna have to hide?”
“Of course,” Ryland says, “and we all get to jump out and surprise her.”
Dale points at Courtland. “Even that guy?”
“Especially that guy,” Ryland grins. Court puts up a middle finger. He doesn't see it because he's busy checking his chiming phone. “Oh! Okay, they're pulling in. Lights off – everyone hide!”
It's a scramble for hiding spots. Ryland positions himself by the door. Talia hits the lights. Court crouches by the gift table. Colt snickers at this, the only person exempt from hiding, but Court ignores him. Behind the door, they can hear Jody's voice.
“ – sleeping, so after dinner we'll bake the cake, if you like?”
“Okay,” Claire sounds happy.
The lock wiggles. The door opens slowly. Claire appears in the hall light, everyone screams. She jumps, but after a heartbeat, her eyes shine with delight. There's so much noise and so much movement but Court can still see the way she, in her excitement and joy, scans the room, looking for someone.
Ryland pokes his head out from behind the door. Claire sees him and immediately jumps at him. He bundles her up, lifting her just a bit. Like this they look like two halves of a healed heart.
“I can't believe he thought he couldn't do this,” Colt murmurs.
Court doesn't respond. He never had a doubt.
Ryland nearly cries three different times during the party just watching Claire be herself, but he pulls it together. Come on, you big baby, Talia teased, pushing him into the kitchen, get the candles.
She's heaven-sent: setting up all the kids for presents while Ryland pretends to look for the lighter so he can wipe his eyes. It's just a lot. Claire and the full, warm apartment, and Colt's smile and Courtland. Ryland feels like he's stepped out of his life into a dream. He wants to go find his younger self – that broken, angry, hurting kid, so desperate to prove he's worth loving – and tell him to just wait. You lost so fucking much, but wait, because it is coming back to you tenfold.
Jody pokes her head into the doorway. “Ready?”
“No,” Ryland admits, voice wobbly.
She cooes and steps in all the way. Her arms curl around him. He stoops into her embrace. When she pulls back, she pokes his cheek.
“Boop – come on now, no more tears.” she smiles. “Your kid is looking for you.”
She turns but Ryland says, "Jody?"
"Hm?" She turns back.
"Thank you." He squeezes the candles nervously. "You didn't have to come back for us, but I'm glad that you did,"
"Oh Ryland," her smile is kind. "I'm glad I came back too."
Claire gets a load of art supplies. New sketchbooks. Matching jewelry with Olivia. But her face when she opens up the record player is the best gift of all. She hugs Colt. She hugs Ryland. And then she turns and hugs Courtland for a very, very long time.
“No, yeah,” Ryland says into the phone tucked between his shoulder and ear. “I'm glad you're having a good time. I feel like I'd you weren't having a good time in Australia, there'd be an issue.”
“Ry,” Colt is exasperated. “I'm working. I'm not throwing ragers up here. That's Ryder's job.”
Ryland snorts. “I know.” He kicks his desk chair in and tosses his backpack on. “But I mean, you're having a good time being back on set and stuff, yeah?”
“Fuck yes. I missed it. And being out of the driver's seat isn't all that bad. Jody got me a megaphone.”
“I'm sure she regrets that.”
“Among other things.”
“So things are going well, then?” Ryland raises an eyebrow. “And don't lie to me. If I call Jody and I find out you're pissing her off –”
“Jesus – why are you on her side already? Nothing has even happened!”
“I have to make sure you're treating my sister well,” Ryland says. He goes to turn the lights off, then he remembers the papers he needs to grade. Darn. “I know you're an idiot –”
“ – hey!”
“ – and she has never been wrong ever, so,” he finishes. He pulls out the drawer where the papers are. It's an unreasonably large stack. Colt chuckles.
“You're not wrong about that, Ry.”
“Of course,” he shuts the drawer. “Just like her, I'm hardly ever wrong either.” His classroom door opens. A redheaded woman he doesn't recognize stands there in a black coat. He puts the phone to his chest. “Uh – hi, are you looking for someone?”
“Are you Dr. Ryland Grace?” She has a German accent.
“Yes,” Ryland is hesitant. He shifts his weight, then cracks a smile. “Unless he did something bad, then I have no clue who that is.”
She doesn't seem to find him funny. She steps forward and holds out a folder. “Is this yours?”
He tips forward and reads an analysis of water based assumptions and recalibrations of expectations for evolutionary models. Oh. Yikes.
He brings the phone back up to his ear. Colt is talking, but – “hey, I'm gonna need to call you back later.”
“What? Okay. Hey, you're still coming to visit this summer, right? To see the set?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he says distractedly. “We'll talk about it later.”
Colt makes a disapproving noise, but says, “alright then. Don't work too hard, Ry. See you later.”
“You wrote this, correct?”
“I'm not –” he starts, then stops. He points at it. “That was a long time ago –”
“So long that you don't stand by it anymore?”
Ryland doesn't want to lie, so he just – “who are you, if I can ask?” If this is upper management, then there might be a problem. Or maybe it's one of the parents from the PTO that doesn't believe in science. God, he hates those wackjobs. You would think as the world got scarier and scarier, people would cling to facts and figures, but no.
“My name is Eva Stratt,” she says, “I'm with the Petrova taskforce.”
“The Petrova –” Ryland breathes. Pieces start flying together in his head. “Ah. The paper. You think I can help you.”
“I know you can help me,” she corrects.
“No one – I wrote that and no one agreed with what I had to say,” he says, stepping back and around clumsily. “They fired me –”
“I know why they fired you,” Eva tilts her head. She lifts the paper a fraction. “This was not the reason.”
Ryland winces. “Look.” He holds up a hand. She glances around the classroom curiously. “I'm not the person you're looking for. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but maybe there's someone else that can –”
“Every scholar that I have talked to has mentioned your name,” she says. Ryland's eyes widen. “The points you are making in this paper are written by the man that I need to talk to. If you have him buried, dig him up. I need him to study the Pretrova samples we have, and I need him to tell me what they are made of.”
“I'm sorry,” Ryland inches towards the door. “Really, I am, I'm just –”
“Dr. Grace.”
Ryland freezes.
She steps forward to stand between him and the door. She doesn't raise her shoulders or her chin or glare – she doesn't need to. Her words are enough. “I left something out in my introduction. My name is Eva Stratt. I'm a part of the Pretrova taskforce. I'm also the sole reason why your brother is not dead or in the pit of the CIA.” Ryland inhales sharply. “Now, would you like to reconsider my offer, or should I keep looking?”
Ryland feels numb. His mouth might be open, he doesn't know. His heart is running a million miles away. Court. Court. Oh God, Court.
“I –” Ryland swallows. His voice comes out as a whisper. “Are you threatening him?”
“No,” she says. But she is. She is. “I'm just telling you information. The conclusions you draw are your own.”
He is going to agree. He's going to speak and agree and she'll leave and he'll shake apart into a million little pieces. He'll do anything to save his brother. Anything at all.
“Ryland?”
Ryland looks up. Over Stratt's head stands his older brother. His brows are furrowed. Ryland should have been in the car ages ago. He can see his brother's eyes assess the room, the woman standing in it, the way Ryland is acting, agitated and squirrely. He can see the new press of Stratt's lips; maybe threatening Courtland is easy when the man isn't at her back. There are a million ways this could get worse.
“Yes,” he breathes. “Yes, I'll take a look at the samples. End of the school year, yes?”
Eva's frown deepens. “Now would be –”
“End of the school year sounds great,” Ryland sounds a little manic. Court's eyes are narrowing. He steps around Eva and behind his brother. “It's been great talking to you. Time to go now, Six.”
Court's head whips to him. All alarms are ringing. “Six?”
But Ryland doesn't stop moving, pulling his brother out and away from the woman as fast as they can go. He's not sure what he's signed himself up for, but at the very least he's bought Courtland some time.
That's all he needs. Time.