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riptide_asylumTitle: New Years Eve, 1974
Rating: PG
Summary: Those first months back, apart, were the hardest. All the things they couldn't know were happening...
Nick stoked the fire in the trash can and took another pull from the bottle of Mad Dog being passed around. It burned going down and Nick savored the ache before handing the bag to McFadden.
The invitation had been unexpectedly welcome: a couple guys from his and C--from the unit--had called his mom's and asked if Nick was doing anything to see in the New Year. His mom had had to bounce a biscotti off his thick skull to get him to the phone but eventually Nick agreed to the impromptu reunion. Eight o'clock at The Lake Breeze, a shitty dive bar off 13th and Lakeshore, straddling the border between SouthSide and the financial district. Nick had gotten off the El at Michigan and walked from there, huddled deep in his Army jacket, the book weighing heavily in the left front pocket, the pebbled leather of the cover unreadable through thick wool gloves.
Bates had told Nick to bring something to burn, something that needed getting out of him, getting away from this strange, loud Stateside life they'd all returned to. So he had. It hadn't taken long to decide at all, and Nick found himself looking forward to seeing some of the guys again, talking over old times, seeing how they were doing. So when he arrived at their table at the Breeze and found them all wearing one or more of Chicago's ladies of the evening, he was more than a little taken aback.
"Got one for you too, Nicky boy!" Tolland, eyes already glassy, had shoved a little blonde his way and Nick had spent the first round keeping her chipped-polish fingernails off his person.
Things had gone downhill fast from there.
After they were thrown out of the Breezes, they'd started shit in a couple more places, and Nick found the blond on his arm had at some point been replaced with a lanky redhead who might've been his mom's age. Tolland and McFadden had gotten into it with some long-haired dealer types hanging round outside the Skylark, and Nick, Bates and the others had left 'em to it, piling into the back of a yellow cab with their ladyfriends and heading out.
Nick had supposed it was okay. It wasn't the same four walls he'd been staring at since he'd been given his walking papers. His mom's third-story walkup was fine for someone who didn't give a shit what was going on outside. In some ways, the invitation had been a relief, an excuse to let loose with guys who'd walked the same scorched patch of Hell, and Nick had found himself having a good time right up until he got out of the cab.
Cody's Public House.
Cody's.
Everything came crashing down around him and Nick had never felt so sober in his life. Memories fought to break free from their moorings, fought to find and devour him. Second Lieutenant Cody Allen. The sweet, fragile college boy that hellhole had done its best to destroy.
"Ryder! Ryder! What's happening? You tripping, man? You take something?" McFadden waved a hand in Nick's face and the next thing Nick knew he had his old Army buddy up against the rough brick wall outside, hands locked around his throat as Robinson and Bates whaled on him, trying to break through.
From there, their little bunch dwindled to just the three of them, standing round this burning oil can in an alley somewhere near 110th street, not saying a damn thing. Just drinking and watching things burn.
Nick fingered the book in his pocket. He'd put everything he had into those entries. Every smile, every touch, every golden moment Cody'd brought him, every time that kid had reminded him why they had to both get out alive, Nick had faithfully transcribed, bearing down so hard with whatever he was writing with, most of the pages had holes somewhere. Some from joy, some from heartbreak. And then...and then it was over, just like that. A couple of letters from the home command, a transport flight too noisy to hear yourself think, too crowded to say what he was thinking, then a firm, if nervous handshake, and--
Nick accepted the bag gladly, taking a long, deep swallow, feeling the world start to spin, his stomach already too sour.
Just like that, Cody was gone.
Robinson thumped him on the back, hard. Their eyes met and Nick looked away, quickly. The journal had found its way into his hand, hovering over the flames. Holes in so many of those pages.
Nick opened his fingers and let go.
---
Cody couldn't believe Byron knew all the people currently crowding into their two-bedroom beachfront apartment, but after the first hour he stopped caring. It took him another hour to figure out someone had spiked his drink.
Later, he'd blame his roommate; but when confronted, Byron would simply shrug his shoulders and ask, "Whadda you care? You had a good time, didn'tcha?"
Compared to what, Cody thought silently. Compared to Nam? Compared to being shot at by people whose names and faces all blended together in his nightmares? Compared to watching guys he'd trusted with his life reduced to a fine red rain for taking one wrong step, making one false move.
Yeah then, Cody thought, I guess it was a swell time compared to that.
But to Byron he would say nothing.
Meanwhile, back at the party, Cody fought his way free of a sea of hands, all grabbing at him, all wanting something, some part of him that wasn't his to give. A spider with his sister's head crawled up one gleaming brass leg of the coffee table and headed for the popcorn. Cody made it to the hallway before the voices started.
Pitbull's first, screaming in agony as shrapnel took him in the leg. Then Whitaker, the last sound he ever made, a gurgling hiss that reduced Cody to tears, left him lurching weak and nauseous towards the bathroom. He didn't make it.
Right outside, his father appeared over his left shoulder and said very distinctly, "Do me proud, Cody, or die trying."
Cody sagged against the wall, clawing at his father's phantom, pleading to make it stop. A pair of red high-heeled sandals veered around him, cautious, weirded-out footsteps that paused only briefly before stalking away across the thick, rust-colored carpet.
"Nick," Cody murmured, begging. "Nick, buddy. Please." He swayed on his feet. "You gotta help me." The room expanded to infinity, then folded back in on itself, claustrophobic as a coffin. From there, things got a little hazy, until a bright light bore down on him like a beacon.
"Mr. Allen? Mr. Allen, can you hear me? Mr. Allen, can you hear the sound of my voice?"
Cody came to himself with a start. Hospital walls, clean mint green matching the lighter tiles of the floor, and a redhead in a nurse's outfit, shining a penlight in his eyes. Cody jerked back. "Stop that," he muttered. "Where's Nick?"
"Nick? Nick who? Is he your next of kin? A brother, maybe?" The redhead frowned and took a step back, reaching for the clipboard on the counter. Miriam, her nametag read.
"Yeah," Cody latched onto the idea gratefully. "My brother. Nick. Nick Ryder. Is he here?"
Miriam's pen paused just milimeters from the carbon-triplicate form. "Nick R--so your half-brother, right?"
Cody stared. "My brother. Nick."
The pen rolled over the soft pages of the form. "D'you have his number, Mr. Allen? We can give him a call, get him to come down here." Miriam's green eyes were keen and understanding somehow. Cody stumbled over the words, failing to explain until she held up a hand. "Okay. Let's get Nick later. Right now, Mr. Allen, I'm a little more worried about you. Do you know why you're here?"
Cody frowned. "Something happen at the party?"
"When your friends dropped you off, they said you'd turned violent, started punching the walls."
Do me proud, Cody, or die trying.
Cody looked down at his hands lying curled in his lap, bloodied and broken like birds fallen from the sky, feathers matted with gore. He looked up at the nurse in confusion. "My friends?"
Miriam put down her pen and brushed a wing of red hair back from her face. "They dropped you off here, Cody, a couple hours ago. D'you remember any of that?" She reached a hand out toward his face and Cody flinched. She dropped her hand back down to her side.
"Cody...d'you remember eating or drinking anything that tasted funny? Someone give you anything like a pill, a pipe maybe?"
Cody swallowed hard, his gaze still on his bloodied hands, the ones he still couldn't feel. "I want Nick," he said softly. "I wanna go home."
Rating: PG
Summary: Those first months back, apart, were the hardest. All the things they couldn't know were happening...
Nick stoked the fire in the trash can and took another pull from the bottle of Mad Dog being passed around. It burned going down and Nick savored the ache before handing the bag to McFadden.
The invitation had been unexpectedly welcome: a couple guys from his and C--from the unit--had called his mom's and asked if Nick was doing anything to see in the New Year. His mom had had to bounce a biscotti off his thick skull to get him to the phone but eventually Nick agreed to the impromptu reunion. Eight o'clock at The Lake Breeze, a shitty dive bar off 13th and Lakeshore, straddling the border between SouthSide and the financial district. Nick had gotten off the El at Michigan and walked from there, huddled deep in his Army jacket, the book weighing heavily in the left front pocket, the pebbled leather of the cover unreadable through thick wool gloves.
Bates had told Nick to bring something to burn, something that needed getting out of him, getting away from this strange, loud Stateside life they'd all returned to. So he had. It hadn't taken long to decide at all, and Nick found himself looking forward to seeing some of the guys again, talking over old times, seeing how they were doing. So when he arrived at their table at the Breeze and found them all wearing one or more of Chicago's ladies of the evening, he was more than a little taken aback.
"Got one for you too, Nicky boy!" Tolland, eyes already glassy, had shoved a little blonde his way and Nick had spent the first round keeping her chipped-polish fingernails off his person.
Things had gone downhill fast from there.
After they were thrown out of the Breezes, they'd started shit in a couple more places, and Nick found the blond on his arm had at some point been replaced with a lanky redhead who might've been his mom's age. Tolland and McFadden had gotten into it with some long-haired dealer types hanging round outside the Skylark, and Nick, Bates and the others had left 'em to it, piling into the back of a yellow cab with their ladyfriends and heading out.
Nick had supposed it was okay. It wasn't the same four walls he'd been staring at since he'd been given his walking papers. His mom's third-story walkup was fine for someone who didn't give a shit what was going on outside. In some ways, the invitation had been a relief, an excuse to let loose with guys who'd walked the same scorched patch of Hell, and Nick had found himself having a good time right up until he got out of the cab.
Cody's Public House.
Cody's.
Everything came crashing down around him and Nick had never felt so sober in his life. Memories fought to break free from their moorings, fought to find and devour him. Second Lieutenant Cody Allen. The sweet, fragile college boy that hellhole had done its best to destroy.
"Ryder! Ryder! What's happening? You tripping, man? You take something?" McFadden waved a hand in Nick's face and the next thing Nick knew he had his old Army buddy up against the rough brick wall outside, hands locked around his throat as Robinson and Bates whaled on him, trying to break through.
From there, their little bunch dwindled to just the three of them, standing round this burning oil can in an alley somewhere near 110th street, not saying a damn thing. Just drinking and watching things burn.
Nick fingered the book in his pocket. He'd put everything he had into those entries. Every smile, every touch, every golden moment Cody'd brought him, every time that kid had reminded him why they had to both get out alive, Nick had faithfully transcribed, bearing down so hard with whatever he was writing with, most of the pages had holes somewhere. Some from joy, some from heartbreak. And then...and then it was over, just like that. A couple of letters from the home command, a transport flight too noisy to hear yourself think, too crowded to say what he was thinking, then a firm, if nervous handshake, and--
Nick accepted the bag gladly, taking a long, deep swallow, feeling the world start to spin, his stomach already too sour.
Just like that, Cody was gone.
Robinson thumped him on the back, hard. Their eyes met and Nick looked away, quickly. The journal had found its way into his hand, hovering over the flames. Holes in so many of those pages.
Nick opened his fingers and let go.
---
Cody couldn't believe Byron knew all the people currently crowding into their two-bedroom beachfront apartment, but after the first hour he stopped caring. It took him another hour to figure out someone had spiked his drink.
Later, he'd blame his roommate; but when confronted, Byron would simply shrug his shoulders and ask, "Whadda you care? You had a good time, didn'tcha?"
Compared to what, Cody thought silently. Compared to Nam? Compared to being shot at by people whose names and faces all blended together in his nightmares? Compared to watching guys he'd trusted with his life reduced to a fine red rain for taking one wrong step, making one false move.
Yeah then, Cody thought, I guess it was a swell time compared to that.
But to Byron he would say nothing.
Meanwhile, back at the party, Cody fought his way free of a sea of hands, all grabbing at him, all wanting something, some part of him that wasn't his to give. A spider with his sister's head crawled up one gleaming brass leg of the coffee table and headed for the popcorn. Cody made it to the hallway before the voices started.
Pitbull's first, screaming in agony as shrapnel took him in the leg. Then Whitaker, the last sound he ever made, a gurgling hiss that reduced Cody to tears, left him lurching weak and nauseous towards the bathroom. He didn't make it.
Right outside, his father appeared over his left shoulder and said very distinctly, "Do me proud, Cody, or die trying."
Cody sagged against the wall, clawing at his father's phantom, pleading to make it stop. A pair of red high-heeled sandals veered around him, cautious, weirded-out footsteps that paused only briefly before stalking away across the thick, rust-colored carpet.
"Nick," Cody murmured, begging. "Nick, buddy. Please." He swayed on his feet. "You gotta help me." The room expanded to infinity, then folded back in on itself, claustrophobic as a coffin. From there, things got a little hazy, until a bright light bore down on him like a beacon.
"Mr. Allen? Mr. Allen, can you hear me? Mr. Allen, can you hear the sound of my voice?"
Cody came to himself with a start. Hospital walls, clean mint green matching the lighter tiles of the floor, and a redhead in a nurse's outfit, shining a penlight in his eyes. Cody jerked back. "Stop that," he muttered. "Where's Nick?"
"Nick? Nick who? Is he your next of kin? A brother, maybe?" The redhead frowned and took a step back, reaching for the clipboard on the counter. Miriam, her nametag read.
"Yeah," Cody latched onto the idea gratefully. "My brother. Nick. Nick Ryder. Is he here?"
Miriam's pen paused just milimeters from the carbon-triplicate form. "Nick R--so your half-brother, right?"
Cody stared. "My brother. Nick."
The pen rolled over the soft pages of the form. "D'you have his number, Mr. Allen? We can give him a call, get him to come down here." Miriam's green eyes were keen and understanding somehow. Cody stumbled over the words, failing to explain until she held up a hand. "Okay. Let's get Nick later. Right now, Mr. Allen, I'm a little more worried about you. Do you know why you're here?"
Cody frowned. "Something happen at the party?"
"When your friends dropped you off, they said you'd turned violent, started punching the walls."
Do me proud, Cody, or die trying.
Cody looked down at his hands lying curled in his lap, bloodied and broken like birds fallen from the sky, feathers matted with gore. He looked up at the nurse in confusion. "My friends?"
Miriam put down her pen and brushed a wing of red hair back from her face. "They dropped you off here, Cody, a couple hours ago. D'you remember any of that?" She reached a hand out toward his face and Cody flinched. She dropped her hand back down to her side.
"Cody...d'you remember eating or drinking anything that tasted funny? Someone give you anything like a pill, a pipe maybe?"
Cody swallowed hard, his gaze still on his bloodied hands, the ones he still couldn't feel. "I want Nick," he said softly. "I wanna go home."
