Numb pt 12
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Lumberjack AU Pairing: Ryan Haywood x Reader WC: 2500+ Warnings: child death and angst
Date posted: 6 Sept 2018
His grip on your hand tightens without realising, gaze caught in the fire. The way the flames dance and log cracks beneath the glowing coals dusted with ash. Ryan doesn’t speak for what feels like an eternity. The seconds drip by and splatter against your nerves with each excited cheer of the blazing hearth. The tea nestled in you lap is cooling, but you can’t bring yourself to drink it. Something odd and unsettling aching your limbs and begging them to be still.
“I moved to Motbury a few years ago,” Ryan starts, voice soft and tripping in his throat. He doesn’t look at you, but seems to appreciate the slow circles your thumb traces against his. “Figured I’d man my own business and start again. I kinda hoped a different town would make things easier.”
“Easier?”
“Yeah.” He rolls his head to the side, watching your expression. “I was dwelling a lot where I used to live. It’s got… pretty hard. I used to have a house full, and getting used to all those empty rooms was tough. But out here… I’m still on my own, but it’s a lot easier to manage.”
You chew your lip, picking at the skin until you feel it sting. Ryan hadn’t spoken much of his family, but what you did know was that his Dad had meant a lot to him. You try to find your voice. “I’m sorry, losing a parent-”
He rejects your train of thought with a simple shake, lips pressing into a thin line. “It wasn’t just him. I lost my Dad in the Winter of 2014, my wife in Spring 2015, and daughter a few months after.”
The anguish starts first in your fingers, stretching though your palm and along your arm with a cold prickling sensation. With it your muscles seize, desperate to shake free the raw feeling that taints your body and courses through your veins. Infesting your being and stinging just beneath the skin. But you persist, clinging to the mourning that washes over Ryan as he remembers, oblivious to the cry you chew.
“I’m so sorry.” You struggle to keep from choking on the agony he hasn’t realised he’s sharing, forcing your voice to keep from sounding strangled. “That’s…”
But you can’t put your sadness into words, the feeling of someone else’s emotions burrowing into your bones making breathing hard. Clinging to his hand like it’s a lifeline that keeps you from drifting out on the sorrow he wears in his smile.
“Thank you, I appreciate it,” he replies in a tone that sounds wrong, given the circumstances. “But it’s alright. My Dad was old and fragile. He had a fall while we were working around the Grisham forest and steadily declined from there. And my wife was ill when I married her, so we were prepared for the inevitable. Got to say our goodbyes. We were lucky.”
He senses the question you don’t allow to fall from your lips, letting off a sigh and staring at your joined hands. He traces one of the silver scars cutting across your skin, thumb curving across a cluster that span like stars. Like Ryan prefers getting lost in the blemishes that bloom over your hands as opposed to dwelling in what he knows he can’t escape.
“I’m now realising that I’m kinda just throwing the ‘I had a wife’ thing on you. Kinda shoulda said something sooner, huh?”
“Don’t be silly,” you mutter. “Am I making this weird? I can let go of your hand?”
“Please don’t.”
You’re quiet for a moment, the nagging of a question becoming too much. “How old was she?”
He knows who you’re asking about, knows by the gentle tone that pools between his fingers that you’re not asking about his wife - and he sighs. “Bethany was 9.”
Another wave of feeling, tainted with anger and a deep aching pain that resonates in your chest. You don’t speak this time, but you can’t bear to leave him alone. Not with the thoughts that race through his mind and infest yours as a result. And all at once you can see it, drowning in the guilt and agony and self loathing. His fear burning your airways and clogging your nose.
The curtains are drawn. The house almost humid with the artificial heat that beats against the walls, clinging to the carpet and sticking across the windows. Ryan closes the door, soft click muffled through the darkness. A sigh sees him shrug out of his coat and kick off his shoes, straining with a relieved groan. He doesn’t notice you, an impression against the memory that haunts him now. A version of himself caught in the loop you’re only managing to glimpse.
He calls out a name, voice rippling as though the air were water. Every breath you draw never being enough as he yells louder, and waits.
“Bethany? Sweetheart?”
Nothing.
You should be leaving. Should be yanking your hand free of his while you sit beside the fireplace, but you can’t. Because if you pull away he’ll be on his own again. Left in the cycle you shouldn’t be seeing, but can’t bear to abandon him too. So you follow him; socks padding across the stairs he takes two at a time, his hand gliding along the banister. There’s panic in his voice now, the name being called infinitely more fragile.
“Bethany? Don't tell me you're asleep already.”
Only empty silence greets him on the landing.
Ryan raps his knuckles against the door, painted a delicate pink and littered with dinosaurs. He’s impatient, you can see it in the set of his shoulders and the way his eyebrows knit. But he’s scared, too. And as his stomach fills with knots and nerves, so too does yours.
“Bethany?”
You feel sick when he yanks open the door. And this time you call her name, too. “Bethany?”
He’ll never get a response. He bolts across the small room, taking the bundle of blankets on the bed into his arms and shaking. Her name is falling freely now, littering the sheets like his tears when she doesn't smile into his voice. Burrowing into the carpet with the sound of his wails.
“No…” It’s your voice this time, bouncing uselessly against his back while he stares at his daughter’s blank expression. “No, please.”
He glances up as though he’s heard you, face contorted in utter agony. But instead he starts bellowing. Crying out for help, pleading for the babysitter that should have been there. For the neighbours. For his wife.
With that, you can’t take it anymore. Can’t stand to see him lose himself to a scene you’re sure he’s been trapped in far too many times. And rather than sinking to your knees like his emotions will you too, you take your first step into the room. And then another. Forcing your legs to move until you’re stood above the man who’s lost everything, cradling the world in bloodsoaked hands.
Reaching out, your fingers brush through his hair, a gentle ‘shh’ falling from your lips. His sobs falter, almost surprised as the energy that makes up your being crouches to his left, arm wrapping around his waist. Your head barely anything against his shoulder. “Shh, baby. It's time to go.”
The pressure against your hand comes as a shock, and the sight of his blue eyes free from the clouds of crying anchor you back to the tavern. He smiles, creaking as he leans over to brush a tear from your cheek, expression confused and soft. “Hey, you alright there?”
You nod, clearing your throat and turning a gentle pink. “Yeah, sorry. Just… thinking.”
“Shouldn’t I be the one crying?”
You smile, though barely. “Please don’t, cus I’ll bawl my fucking eyes out. And I’m wearing makeup.”
He chuckles, not at all bothered outwardly by the memory that’s seen you close to shattering. “Oh no.”
“It’ll be a bloodbath.”
“We can’t have that,” he determines firmly, lifting up his arm and motioning. “C’mere.” You don’t hesitate, shuffling into his side and tucking your shoulder beneath his embrace. The weight of his arm is reassuring, pulling you close. “See?” He nudges your foot with his, smirking. “Hugs makes everything better.”
“Shut up,” you laugh, snuggling further into him. Ryan chuckles, warmth of his chest glowing against your cheek.
“But if I shut up how am I supposed to ask you questions?”
“Questions?”
He nods. “We’re gonna trade life stories.”
You don’t do a good job of keeping the grimace from your face, picking anxiously at your fingers. “Okay, fire away.”
“You used to work with Jeremy.”
This statement comes as a shock, and you can’t figure out how best to respond. Instead you glance at him, a swift finger needling between his ribs. “That’s not a question, asshole.”
He smiles, a little more bashful and reserved than before. “Give me some time. Jeremy actually told me an awful lot about his partner back in the city, I just want to make sure I’ve not got anything wrong.”
“He talked about me?”
“A lot,” Ryan confirms, looking a little wistful. “He was always going on about the ‘best crime fighters to ever hit the streets’.”
You laugh, defrosting a little. “Of course he fucking did, oh my god. That fuck lives and breathes his work.”
“So did you.”
Now you stop, breath stammering across your tongue. Bitter with the apprehension clotting your throat. “You could say that.”
“According to our dear detective, you were the recipient of a number of medals and honourings. Best homicide inspector the area had ever seen.”
“Is there a question involved in this at all?” Your tone is a little sharper than you intend, body stiffening in his arms.
Ryan knows he’s hit a sore spot, gentle this time. “Why did you move to Motbury?”
It’s not what you’d expected, gearing yourself up to pour your heart out, bleed your feelings over the memory of a body you’ve never truly let go. A case you couldn’t solve in time. It takes you a while to reply, the crackling of flames accompanying the hollow tone that escapes your lips and coats your interlocked hands. “I couldn’t stand to be in the city anymore. It was to empty.”
His grip on you tightens. “I thought you lived with your friends? The ones that are moving down?”
“That was… after.”
“After?”
You sigh reluctantly, fidgeting with your fingers. Shifting, Ryan dives into your jumper pocket, plucking out the stones he’s seen you turn over too many times to count, dropping them into the palm of the numb hand you hold out. Once the smooth surfaces touches skin the negativity ebbs, just enough to manage. “Thanks…”
“You’re welcome.”
“So.” Folding the small stones over and over, you can’t bring yourself to share the glance you’re certain he’s casting across your expression. “Where do you want me to start?”
“Wherever you’re comfortable, Y/N. You really don’t have to tell me.”
“No, no it’s okay. When I was younger I actually lived around Grisham forest, too.”
“No kidding!” He’s grinning, like a kid finding out that his best friends loves dinosaurs as much as he does.
“Yeah, I lived there with my Granddad back when we were on speaking terms. Once I was old enough to get my degree I moved to the city and started working my way up. Trevor and Alfredo lived in my apartment complex, and I met Lauren through mutual friends. Jeremy… Jeremy and I became fast friends. Our desks were next to each other and we had the same drive. Ended up being partners, which was fantastic. Got a few good years in working at the top before everything happened.”
Ryan doesn’t interrupt, letting you continue at your own pace.
“I always had a problem with getting too invested in my work. Late nights at the office, even later surrounded by files at home. It started bothering the people I lived with, but at that point solving crimes and saving lives was all that mattered to me. To Jeremy and I. Then we got caught up in this really tough situation, and we were certain we’d got the asshole, but… we were too focused. Ended up getting tunnel vision and missing out on key information that was sitting right in front of us. I-”
You hum in irritation, trying to follow the soft movement of Ryan’s thumb as it rubs circles into your side.
“I refused to see something so fucking important because I was so desperate to solve the damn case. And it got someone killed. My ignorance and obsession was paid for with someone else’s life. Jeremy and I got the guy in the end, but it shook us up. He got transferred a month after begging the higher ups, and I stayed behind. Couldn’t really face anymore files, and eventually I couldn’t manage being alone. Trevor and Alfredo moved in, and we decided to move away from the city. Start again, just like you I guess.”
“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs, pulling you tighter against his chest and resting his cheek against your head. The gentle rocking is soothing, his free hand cupping your face. “That’s-”
“Life,” you finish, muffled in his plaid shirt, tears threatening to brim over. “That’s life.”
“Why didn’t you go and stay with your Granddad?”
“He died a few years ago and I hated him,” you reply, unfazed.
“That’s… not the response I expected,” Ryan chuckles, pulling away slightly and peering down at the small smile decorating your lips.
You shrug, reaching up to brush free the lock of hair that falls into his eyes. “He was a nasty man.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah,” you laugh, “bastard was constantly cursing people who rocked up on the property. Missionaries, girl scouts...” You snigger, the pair of you comfortably settling back into a lazy embrace. “Squirrels.”
“You’re kidding?”
“Not at all, he was a real piece of work.”
“What an asshole,” Ryan chuckles.
“You’re telling me. I’m much happier with the friends I’ve got now. Lucky, too. You know what they love?”
His face clouds. “Errm… food?”
“Ghost stories. But also food. Probably more so food. But I want to hear a ghost story.”
“The Widow of the Woods?”
“Unless you’ve got more?”
Ryan smiles, rubbing your foot with his. “I’ve got plenty, but we’ll start with the one you won’t shut up about.”
“I’ve asked, what, like twice?” your fingers hook into his ribs, and he yelps out a laugh, squirming into your side.
“Okay, okay. I give! The Widow of the Woods, I get it. Jeez, you’re a wicked person.”
“I prefer ‘witchy woman’.” You punctuate the words with a wave of your hand, of which Ryan gabs and forces back down with a playful eyeroll.
“Of course you do. But I can see it, you’re definitely a fucking witch.”
“If only you knew - wait. Excuse me? Are you insulting-”
“So,” Ryan starts loudly, shuffling up in his seat to cut off your sentence. “The Widow of the Woods.”