Disclaimer: Sure, I was a bully at school,and I stole the other kids toys. On the other hand, the Warner Brothers Daddy, and Josh Schwartz Daddy (etc.)are all bigger than my Daddy, so they can have their toys back when I'm done.

And for all the stiff-ass lawyers out there? I don't own any part of the plots, characters, etc. of the O.C. In this way, any additional legal loopholes are jumped throught. HAH!

Ahem.

OK, it's my first OC fic. Please be nice, and leave me a review!

Just my take on how Ryan's dad could have been. After all, SOMEONE (or something) made Ryan that quiet...

Chapter 1 – Ill-timed Favours

"Don't worry, Kirsten, I'll go." Ryan offered, "It's no bother."

She shot him a grateful look. "Thanks, Ryan. It's just, with Dad coming, and Seth and Sandy out the house…"

"It's OK, really." He smiled. "It's nice to be able to help. Have you got a list?"

"Yes…" she fished in her hand bag. "Here you go. And here's some money to buy it, and… we still haven't worked out what food you like, Ryan, so if you see anything that you want, go for it, okay, honey?"

He smiled and nodded, knowing full well that there was no way in hell he was ever going to take her up on her offer. "Thanks." He ducked his head, and she smiled, putting one hand to his cheek, steering his head up so he looked at her.

"We need to get that self esteem up." She smiled, gently, and he shrugged, smiled, and gestured to the list.

"I should, er… get going." He muttered, and she released him.

"Ok – but you make sure that you're back soon, or I'm sending out a search party for you." He smiled politely. "Just remember that, Ryan. You always come back to us when there's something bad going on with you, no matter what, got it?" His smile was grateful now. No politeness. It was strange how Kirsten Cohen managed to make everything into a "feel-better" moment. Stranger still how she managed to pull it off, every single time.

In the supermarket, he grabbed a trolley, and got going with the food shopping. He was half way down the list, searching for semi-skimmed milk, when a finger tapped him on the shoulder.

"Well, if it isn't my boy." Ryan frowned, and turned. What he saw shocked him.

"You're… you're out of p-prison." He stammered, unable to process it. Why wasn't he told? Why weren't Kirsten and Sandy told? Why was this man allowed near him, again, after everything… after everything he'd forced Ryan and his brother through?

"Talkative, as ever, aren't you, son?" Scott Atwood was the sort of man who people ran away from on principle. He certainly terrified his son.

"H-How long?" Ryan stuttered out.

"For good." Atwood smirked, deliberately misunderstanding his son.

"Since w-when, though?"

"'Bout three weeks ago. Got permission to see my youngest boy, though." Scott smirked again, and picked something out of the trolley. "Coleman's mustard mayonnaise." He read off, solemnly, then looked up at Ryan, with a cruel, mischievous glint in his eyes. "Well, Trey said you'd gone up in the world… you must really be something, if rich people like this," he waved the expensive mayonnaise, "are keeping you just for that."

Ryan flushed, picking up on his father's meaning. He desperately wanted to just abandon the trolley, and run, run as far away from his dad as he could get, allow his body to indulge in the flight instinct that he only gave into when faced with one person.

His own father.

More than running away from him, though, he wanted to be violently sick. How did his dad do that? How did he manage to look at Ryan, no matter what was happening in his son's life, and play on his biggest fears, exploit his biggest weaknesses?

How had he known that that was what kept Ryan away at night, worrying? What was it that the Cohen's wanted from him, after all this was done?

He was brought back to earth, sweating and staring sickly at his father, by the crash of broken glass. There was mayonnaise all over the floor, and Scott just winked cruelly at his son.

"Butterfingers." He shrugged, and clapped him on the shoulder. "See you later, son." He said, jovially, and only Ryan caught the hidden meaning. To Ryan, it meant watch your back, sucker.

And as he dealt with the hovering sales assistant, 'Jean', or something, her badge said – who let him off paying for the mustard, because, as she said, later "He really ought to be at home, running a fever like that. No wonder the poor boy dropped the thing – he could hardly see straight!" – he couldn't help but worry about when his father was going to attack next.

When he got back with the groceries, the house was empty. Kirsten had left a note for him,

Honey,

Sorry, I got called away, business emergency. Help yourself to whatever you want out of the fridge, and the groceries you've bought. Hopefully there's something there that you like!

Love, Kirsten.

Despite the letter, since meeting his dad, the empty house seemed a threat. An abandonment – Kirsten had promised, hadn't she? She'd promised he could come back to them when something bad happened – suddenly Ryan felt very much like the child he'd never been allowed to be, desperate for the comfort he'd never had – solitude now seemed a terrifying prospect. He could never be sure that he was fully alone, he could never know when his dad was going to pop up. Swallowing, and reminding himself that he was too old to be afraid of being alone, that he had the Cohens now – who wanted nothing back, nothing in return, they weren't going to turn around with their hands outstretched, and say 'well, where's the money you owe us' for everything, down to the toilet paper he used, they weren't going to beat on him for an accident, they were NOT LIKE HIS PARENTS, dammit! – he put the groceries away.

The pool house, however, was an entirely different thing. He didn't want to go in there. All of a sudden, his sanctuary, which he had prized for it's solitude, had turned into a place to avoid. He didn't want solitude. He wanted comfort.

And he had no idea how to explain this to anyone. With a sharp, surprising feeling of dread, he realised he was going to have to weather this one alone, like he always did, simply because he always did.

Mentally he weighed pros against cons.

Of course, telling the Cohens about his dad was ludicrous. He had no right to inflict Scott Atwood on anyone, especially not people who had taken him in the way the Cohens had – without wanting anything in return, without wanting anything – he just couldn't do it. On the other hand, if he told no one, he was screwed. Scott would have his son back if he wanted him, and that was that. Scott got what he wanted, especially where it concerned his family. Ryan choked down the throttling memories, stood with his hand on the door knob to the pool house.

With a deep breath, he swung the door open.

Scott wasn't sat on the bed, as he'd half expected him to be. Instead, the shower was running.

"H-hallo?" he called, haltingly. "Who's there?"

The shower stopped running. Ryan's blood froze. The door to the bathroom oiled open, and revealed…

Seth, dripping wet, wearing a towel around his waist.

"Oh, hey man." He greeted his brother cheerfully. "I wasn't expecting you back so soon. I found Mom's note, and I guessed you'd be shopping for a while longer. It takes me forever. Sorry I'm here, and all, Rosa's upstairs cleaning, and, you know..." He grinned."Hey, are you OK?" he added, concerned, after examining Ryan for a brief moment. "You don't look so good…"

"What?" Ryan asked, absently. He focussed, and realised what Seth's question must have been. "Oh, n-no, I'm fine." He shrugged. "Just had a bit of a sc-scare."

"Must have been pretty bad." Seth frowned. "To have you stuttering, and all. What rattled you so bad, dude? I mean, what's shattered the famous Ryan Atwood calm?"

It was on the tip of Ryan's tongue. He so badly wanted to say "My sexually and physically abusive father is going to be popping by sometime soon, it's got me a little worried," but he knew he'd never dare.

"Oh, nearly hit someone's dog." He lied, fluidly. "Hey, it was a nice dog!" he said, when Seth raised an eyebrow in amusement. "And it looked a bit like that spaniel thing of Julie Cooper's."

"Oh, now it makes sense. You don't mess with Julie Cooper's things." Seth looked sympathetic. "Oh, hey, she wasn't actually there was she, dude? Cos, if she was, maybe you should think about having, like, you know, counselling."

"No, she wasn't." Ryan shrugged.

"Oh. OK. And, man, that thing's not a spaniel. It's a retriever."

"Seth, retrievers are golden or black. You don't get red retrievers, and that thing is definitely red."

"Maybe it's special?" Seth defended himself, weakly, and Ryan hit him half-heartedly with a pillow, glad for the distraction of company.

Even if company was a half naked, motor-mouthed Seth.

What did you think? Worth continuing? (or at least, worth posting?) Was it trash? Were there spelling mistakes? Do you have a burning urge to tell me that you DO, in fact, get red retrievers? In short, would somebody SAY SOMETHING about this story? Please? I really do value an comments, despite my flippancy, praise or constrictuve criticism. Flames, as already stated somewhere, show a lack of creativity and a mean, unkind disposition, and are so worthless, they don't even value an emotional reaction. In the words of the old saying- if you have nothing nice to say, shut up. But anyone else, if you've seen a plot hole, or a typo, or bad grammar, please tell me. I would love to know, and it shows exactly the opposite disposition to a flamer if you do. It shows you've taken time and care to read someone else's work,and you're helping someone get better.So please... make a loser happy...

You know the best way to tell me, is to leave a review.It takes NO TIME AT ALL, trust me. I've done it...

Really - review or no - thanks.

And apologies for my little, impromptu rant.