ext_12731 (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
ivorychopsticks.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
crack_van2005-09-11 12:58 pm
ivorychopsticks.livejournal.com) wrote in crack_van2005-09-11 12:58 pm
The Tell by cianconnell (PG)
Fandom: THE OC
Pairing: Gen. Ryan. Trey. Rosa. (Maybe Ryan/cigarettes)
Author on LJ:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
cianconnell
Why this must be read:
This story captures one of the things that made me fall in love with this show--the sense of displacement and fear and bravado that characterized S1 Ryan Atwood. Cianconnell gets into Ryan's head, showing his muddle as he tried to make sense of his place in the Cohen family. The author also does a nice job of filling out backstory and paints a very real picture of Ryan's life as younger brother to Trey. By using a POV switch to a tertiary character at the end of the story, Cianconnell gives us perspective, lets us see Ryan as he can't see himself. Again, I've chosen a story with not a lot of overall plot, but one that fleshes out characters in a real and sympathetic manner.
Except—except at dinner that night, she’d caught his eye, and frowned disapprovingly. Ryan’d swallowed hard and felt the blood rush to his face. His heart accelerated in wild anticipation of what he assumed would be the dire repercussions of going back on his word—yet again. When he’d finally regained some of his composure, he realized that Sandy was still talking animatedly about the Cohens’ Thanksgiving fiasco, ribbing Seth about his “trouble with the ladies,” and trying to engage Ryan in the banter.
So, Ryan knew he’d been busted, but not turned in to Sandy. Which made no sense. No sense at all. Unless his next slip-up would also be his last. When he got back to the pool house, he realized with annoyance that he was trembling just a little—his hands were shaking ever so slightly as he opened the closet door, lifted the plastic and checked the jacket pocket. But, the pack of Marlboros was right where he’d left it. So, his intuition was right. She’d picked up on his tell, but hadn’t found them yet. Hadn’t yet turned him in. Not that he could smoke them anymore, anyway. Because, he couldn’t. Not if she knew. So, he’d tossed them the next morning, and he hadn’t bought another pack. Not yet. Not that he hadn’t wanted to. Not that there weren’t times he hadn’t fucking needed to—like tonight. Tonight, he needed nothing more than he needed a fucking smoke.
The Tell.
Pairing: Gen. Ryan. Trey. Rosa. (Maybe Ryan/cigarettes)
Author on LJ:
cianconnellWhy this must be read:
This story captures one of the things that made me fall in love with this show--the sense of displacement and fear and bravado that characterized S1 Ryan Atwood. Cianconnell gets into Ryan's head, showing his muddle as he tried to make sense of his place in the Cohen family. The author also does a nice job of filling out backstory and paints a very real picture of Ryan's life as younger brother to Trey. By using a POV switch to a tertiary character at the end of the story, Cianconnell gives us perspective, lets us see Ryan as he can't see himself. Again, I've chosen a story with not a lot of overall plot, but one that fleshes out characters in a real and sympathetic manner.
Except—except at dinner that night, she’d caught his eye, and frowned disapprovingly. Ryan’d swallowed hard and felt the blood rush to his face. His heart accelerated in wild anticipation of what he assumed would be the dire repercussions of going back on his word—yet again. When he’d finally regained some of his composure, he realized that Sandy was still talking animatedly about the Cohens’ Thanksgiving fiasco, ribbing Seth about his “trouble with the ladies,” and trying to engage Ryan in the banter.
So, Ryan knew he’d been busted, but not turned in to Sandy. Which made no sense. No sense at all. Unless his next slip-up would also be his last. When he got back to the pool house, he realized with annoyance that he was trembling just a little—his hands were shaking ever so slightly as he opened the closet door, lifted the plastic and checked the jacket pocket. But, the pack of Marlboros was right where he’d left it. So, his intuition was right. She’d picked up on his tell, but hadn’t found them yet. Hadn’t yet turned him in. Not that he could smoke them anymore, anyway. Because, he couldn’t. Not if she knew. So, he’d tossed them the next morning, and he hadn’t bought another pack. Not yet. Not that he hadn’t wanted to. Not that there weren’t times he hadn’t fucking needed to—like tonight. Tonight, he needed nothing more than he needed a fucking smoke.
The Tell.