Disclaimer: Do not owe even a tiny bit of it.

Author's note: I swear to God guys, I'm tying to make headway with Best. It's just…well…I don't know. I know, I know, that's not an excuse. I'm sorry.

Thanks for all the reviews of Windex. I owe some personal stalking, in the form of thanks, to some of you. I'm sure most of you are sick of waiting for an update of Best and I want to say thanks for not completely cutting me off and ignoring me.

This is a small missing scene from The Aftermath, already posted on my LJ. Inspired and beta'd, until I got a hold of it, by one of the Original Kings of OC fandom, the mighty maud.

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The Aftermath

missing juvie scene

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"...with red lights flashing time to retire..."
Sublime: April 19th 1992 Miami

One, two, three, four…wait…hold on… five.

Five fucking police cars.

Shit.

He's honored, in a way.

All this, just for him.

One police car, one he could escape from, if he still wanted to, which maybe he does and maybe, from previous experience, he knew all along he shouldn't. But it's so hard not to run when people are chasing you.

And two cars, if it was only two police cars, he could probably weave and zigzag his way to freedom.

But five, five cop cars means he's screwed.

He puts his palms up and his head down and forces himself to remain calm by counting each and every single second before he's tackled to the ground, his cheek scraping against the hard surface of Jimmy Cooper's boat.

He doesn't fight or struggle.

What's the use?

Who here wants to or is willing to listen to him?

When a massive mountain of a cop with a partially hidden tattoo slaps silver bullet handcuffs on him, Ryan mutters under his breath, "Was the sixth car out of gas?" Because it's already killing him to be restrained physically and all he has left under his own control are his words and nobody, nobody gets to take those away from him.

As he's hauled to his feet, wrists first, he blinks straight ahead, stares blankly into the night sky, memorizes the cop's badge number, and dwells on the washed-out color of the beige leather upholstery as he's forced, hand over his head, into the police cruiser.

But the one thing he doesn't do is make eye contact with Seth or Summer or Marissa.

Because as much as this overplayed dance hurts his soul, he can still handle it. He can fucking surf his way through another taxpayers' all expense-paid tour across the streets of Newport and to lock-up.

Ryan can cope with that.

What he can't deal with is seeing his friends, these friends, watching him being taken away like a criminal.

And he's reminded of how dirty juvie makes him feel, long before he even gets there.

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One, two, three, four….eight guards wearing red shirts and standing like statues at the chained gate, wishing heartfelt greetings of welcome and take your shoes off motherfuckers, wouldn't want you committing suicide and fucking up our paperwork and by the way, your crack whore mothers all hope you wore clean underwear.

He zombies through the motions and pretends he's not intimidated by the fact that he's the only blond-haired, blue-eyed, white boy in tonight's round-up.

Tells himself that this is cake and old hat and 'been there, done that, got the postcard to prove it'.

Make-believes that some guy wearing a latex glove, sticking a finger up his ass, probing for contraband, is a perfectly natural way to spend a Wednesday night.

The communal shower he's forced into is freezing but his face is bright red, hot like a poker, sizzling with embarrassment and frustration.

Continues burning, long after he's out of the shower, with scorching humiliation.

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One blue jumpsuit.

Scratchy and worn.

Clean, but reeking of generic detergent and a familiar canvas feel that rubs against his skin, clings to his legs, irritates his neck, and instantly reminds him of the time, two years ago, when Trey mocked him into a stolen car and first caused him to come to this place.

And he's so scared, maybe because this time he knows what to expect, and he just wants to go home and crawl into bed.

"Atwood."

His identity is reduced to a last name and that's that and that's, actually, in fact, what makes it all easier.

He recalls now, how to disassociate, how to hide, how to blend, how to chameleon.

How to stop feeling.

It all comes flowing back, in a whirlwind of blinding, pissed-off anger and terrified instincts of survival.

He remembers that in order to endure this place, he has to leave "Ryan" behind.

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One, two…six assholes in matching blue jumpsuits, just like his own, a rainbow coalition of Society's failures, all trying to bait him, calling him names, like "white trash" and "faggot" and "pendejo".

He keeps his head up, eyes straight ahead, his jaw locked in indifference, because nothing matters.

Or so it didn't, once upon a time.

So he was able once to convince himself.

You'd think, with practice, that outlasting this place would get easier.

But never in his oh-so-pathetic life has he had as much to lose than at this moment.

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Seven jittery kids in line ahead of him.

One complimentary phone call.

Three tense rings before Seth answers, breathless and frantic.

One naïve vow.

"Dad's already on his way, man, I swear. Jesus, Ryan. My dad will take care of this, ok? He'll fix this, I promise. I promise, Ryan."

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One issued blanket, a strange mixture of approximate colors, almost brown, not quite green.

He can't believe this is happening.

He can't believe he's here, back, in this place.

His stomach is churning, his throat is burning and behind his eyes, he can feel tears trying to sear a path to the surface.

How could Trey do this to him, put him here?

He doesn't have a father, he doesn't have a mother, and now his brother has betrayed him.

His fucking family.

One, two, five…ten years before, ten years before right now, before he was in this place, ten years and one city ago, all of them, every member of his fucking family, held his hand and called him "Ry".

And promised to protect him forever.

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Two stern warnings to get up, "Atwood", and get your worthless ass in gear and your lawyer is here and you get ten minutes.

Got it, kid?

No bullshit or then the real fun will begin.

At the Cohens', he'd already be having a bagel, and a cup of premium coffee and be in clean clothes.

But here, in this place, it's the same old same old, of scratchy blue and tired yellowing- white and plastic flip and worn out flop and by the time he gets inside the small fishbowl of a room and sees Sandy, he no longer has to pretend about anything because reality and acceptance are already seeping their toxins into his skin.

And the last thing he needs to hear is the first thing he does.

"I see the jumpsuit still fits."

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The End.