Disclaimer: As ever, I own nothing in the sane, rational, waking world that has anything to do with "The OC." In my other world, hey, all bets are off. I'll have my demons talk to your demons.

Oh, and a mega-disclaimer: If any reader out there is a Neta, an Aryan Brother, a member of the Black Guerilla Family, the Mexican Mafia or the Texas Syndicate or is a relative or close friend of any of the above, I just want to make it perfectly clear that this is fiction. And it's PapaAtwood who called y'all assholes. I'm sure you are all lovely people. Please leave me alone. Seriously. Please.

A completely random one-shot.

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Father of the Year

After eight years in Corcoran, John knew better than to be absent when a new cellmate is introduced. He'd made plenty of mistakes in his first few years. This was one he would not repeat. He would not come back to find his bunk invaded, his locker cleaned out, his few belongings pawed over by some stupid little punk trying to prove his thug-worthiness and hoping to do it through bullying John's meager possessions. Nope—not a chance. John was going to be there and the newcomer was going to have to either deal with him directly, or leave him the fuck alone.

Prison. Everything was such a pissing contest. He'd finally settled into a fairly comfortable co-existence with Fowler that had taken the better part of a year to establish. It had taken just about that long to get to a point where he could sleep soundly in the bunk four feet below the mentally retarded and violently unstable serial rapist. But he had. And he'd continued to do so for almost six months. Six months of the soundest sleep he'd ever had—and that included his life before Corcoran. So, he was disappointed to see his old cellmate's score busted way the hell back up after his last run-in with Perez.

Perez and Fowler were a couple of pit bulls. A couple of mentally deranged pit bulls, at that. There was no way that both of them could survive long living on the same block. Fortunately or unfortunately, Fowler had gotten the best of Perez in the last go-around. So, Perez was awarded with an unscheduled trip into the outside world where he was currently under the knife at Mercy Hospital in Bakersfield getting his spleen removed, or he was handcuffed to a hospital bed recovering, or he was dead. Fowler was in solitary, waiting to find out what happened to Perez. Then, he'd be getting a new roommate of his own over in III-A or in one of the 4s, depending on the outcome.

And John. John is sitting up in his bunk, a foot off the floor, his twice-folded pillow providing a minimum of support against the small of his back and waiting to see who he'll be sharing the 10'x 12' metal box he's been calling his home for the last five years. Ever since he'd gotten enough points shaved off his own classification score to earn him an upgrade to III-C—after he'd learned to control his anger, or at least to keep his own fighting to a minimum. It had taken him more than two years before he'd finally realized that he'd reached the point where a state of constant aggression was not a fundamental requirement to his continued survival.

The two years he'd spent lashing out at any and everyone who looked at him too long, made a threatening gesture, or muttered something in his general direction had established him as a tough target. He'd proven himself capable of defending himself. More importantly, he'd somehow miraculously managed not to piss anyone off—or, at least, managed not to piss off the wrong person. Because, nobody was holding a deadly grudge against him. No one was waiting to dig a shiv into his unsuspecting back. There was no Perez to his Fowler.

The initial fighting was necessary. It was understood and expected. And he'd been fortunate that none of it had gotten personal. In the eight years he'd been in the prison, John had managed to collect a few good friends who'd watch his back, just as he would theirs. He'd also managed to stay away from the unwanted attention of the gangs—the Neta, the AB, the BGF, La eMe, the TS and all the other acronyms that substituted for the complete and unmitigated assholes that made up their ranks. For eight years, he'd been thankfully left alone.

Of course, it helped that his crime was respectable enough. He was a violent offender, but he didn't kill any old ladies. He didn't rape any small children. Those were definite plusses. And, when it got right down to it, no one was looking for a challenge. Not with over 200 men in the dorm. Not with over 1000 men in the general population of III-C, alone. There were plenty of scared little kids to pick from. Plenty of weaker men. He'd made sure that getting a piece of John Atwood's ass just wasn't worth the hassle.

Finally, John hears the unmistakable sound of boots coming down the hallway. He doesn't look up as the screws enter with the third man. The one who will be locked in with him every night. He remains motionless, pretending to read the book he holds in front of him. Waits for the order.

"Stand the fuck up, Atwood."

John pretends to finish the sentence he's not reading, before carefully closing the book, swinging his legs off the bed and standing. For the first time, he looks at the screws. O'Malley and Collins. Sees the kid standing between them. And he is a kid—a short, young, Mexican kid—complete with a pathetic attempt at a soul patch that resulted in little more than a dozen or so inch-long wisps of dark and fuzzy hair pathetically clinging to the cleft of his chin. John immediately scans the kid's exposed skin for the telltale tattoos. He sees no 13's. Nothing that can be mistaken for an Aztec symbol. No S's or T's. His initial gut feeling tells him the kid's not a member of the Mexican Mafia or the Texas Syndicate. He'll have to wait until shower time to know for certain.

"You know the drill, grab the wall."

John slowly walks over to the three-foot wide exposed wall between the bunk and the metal toilet, spreads his arms and legs, and presses his hands against the cool concrete about a foot above and away from each shoulder. Collins does a cursory search, running his fingers around the inside of his collar, down over his arms and chest, in the waistband of his jeans, down the outside and then the inside of each pant leg, then inspects each sock, each shoe and his groin. After the search is done, John remains in position as the screws inspect the contents of his locker, Fowler's old locker and both beds.

"Okay." Collins finally says. John lets his arms drop and slowly turns.

"H22814, meet H24004—Atwood, this is Gutierrez. Atwood, play nice."

He appreciates Collins' warning. It shows—or it's designed to show Gutierrez that the guard respects him. Respects that he has a propensity for violence. It's a subtle push towards the recognition of John as the alpha in the room. Not that he thinks he needs the help. Because he could definitely take this kid. After eight years in a maximum security prison—there's no question, he could take this kid.

The screws turn and leave the new cellmates alone. Gutierrez puts his small bundle of belongings on the top bunk—immediately acquiescing that he won't be challenging John for his bed.

"Ramon—Ray." He says, holding out his hand.

John regards him for several seconds in silence. Just long enough to make the kid uncomfortable—and to make him wonder if he's going to return the greeting. He doesn't take Gutierrez's hand, but finally nods curtly. "Atwood."

Gutierrez slowly walks around the small room, nodding as he takes it all in. He stops at the 6"x6" metal square that's hanging above the sink and serves as a glassless mirror. He notes the various pictures stuck between the metal and the wall.

"These your kids?" He leans over and inspects the pictures. John doesn't respond.

He watches impassively as Gutierrez looks at his boys in various stages of growing up. Gutierrez leans forward a bit as his eyes go first to the two wallet-sized school photos that had been taken the year John was convicted. They then scan upwards to the picture of the boys from a few years later. The picture that John had gotten in the divorce—pretty much the only thing he'd gotten in the divorce.

He'd told Dawn that he would sign the papers, he'd give her everything—in exchange for a visit from the boys, a picture and her agreement to accept the charges for his phone calls on Christmas and the boys' birthdays. She'd reluctantly agreed and the Atwoods had spent their very last day together as a family in the prison's visiting room on a cold and rainy Saturday in March. Ryan was 12. Trey was almost 16.

Dawn had stopped taking his phone calls a year later and he'd had absolutely no contact with his family until he'd received the third photograph. The one he's sure Dawn sent out of spite. The one that included a third figure—a man who had a comfortable arm around both of his boys. Ryan and the man were holding yellow hardhats and wearing white t-shirts and jeans stained with the dirt of a long day's work. Trey's dark shirt and jeans were noticeably cleaner. Trey must have just said something funny, because the two boys' heads were turned slightly towards each other, their eyes locked. Trey was laughing—and Ryan had the slightest hint of a smile that was on the verge of breaking through.

On the back of the picture, Dawn had written "My family." John's first impulse when the picture arrived was to rip it into a million pieces. Instead, he'd put it in the copy of the book he had on loan from the prison library and did not pick it up again for three days. When he'd finally looked at the photograph again, he realized it was not something he could destroy. Those were his boys, true, and he could never be comfortable with the thought of another man raising them. But, John recognized that it was his own damn fault that he was out of the picture—out of that picture. And, the boys looked so damned happy. So, if Dawn had found someone who made the boys happy—well, he guessed he could live with it.

"This is your kid?" Gutierrez plucks the most recent picture from where it's jutting out of the top of the metal plate. "I know this kid." He turns the picture towards John and points. "Name's Trey, right?"

John's about to tear Gutierrez a new one for touching the photograph when he hears his older son's name. His heart quickens, but he deliberately pauses before he speaks—makes sure that there's nothing in his voice to give away any emotion he might be feeling. "You know Trey?"

"Yeah, I served with him in Chino."

"Served—" There's a momentary disconnect, when John is improbably thinking fast-food. It's fleeting—it's right before the phantom sucker-punch to the gut takes all the wind out of him.

"Yeah, he's in Chino. You know, The California Institute for Men." Gutierrez spits out the words. "Nice name for such a fucking hellhole—you don't know where your own kid's at?"

John resumes his impassive stare, but he sees that his initial reaction has registered. He's just lost some ground to the young punk. Gutierrez's demeanor is noticeably cockier than it had been just a moment before.

"Trey's kind of a little bitch, ya' know." John clenches his jaw tight and wills his hands to remain at his side—to not ball into fists. He can't hit Gutierrez. Not when the kid still has information to give.

"That right?"

"Yeah. He don't really know when to keep his mouth quiet, ya' know? Like sometimes it's better just to shut the fuck up—Trey don't do that so much—"

"Never did."

"He owed a friend of mine some money when he got busted, ya' know—a lot of money. Me and a couple of the guys had to—uh—talk to him a couple of times, ya' know. Like about the payment. You know how that goes, Jefe. Nothing personal—right?"

John knows that Gutierrez is sizing him up—testing him—seeing how he'll react. So he doesn't, except to raise an eyebrow and force himself to act like he isn't the least bit surprised and disappointed that his high-spirited, wisecracking older son is serving time and getting his ass kicked by the likes of the little shit standing in front of him.

"Right." He waits a minute, before throwing out like he doesn't even care if it elicits a response, "So, what'd he do now?"

"Aw, you know Trey—he's into cars." Gutierrez shrugs and looks back down at the picture. "That's the brother—Brian?"

"Ryan."

"Ryan, yeah."

"You know him, too?"

"Naw, Jefe. He's still a kid, right? They sent him to juvie when they got busted." And, with that, what was left of John's heart shatters on the cold concrete slab of the cell's floor. There is no way he could possibly keep from showing his disappointment—or his grief, however fleetingly.

Gutierrez is not one to miss it. He smiles briefly and waits a few seconds, before falsely offering to put John at ease. "He's out, man. He's out—I know he's out, 'cause he's the one that settled Trey's score, ya' know—he delivered something sweet—sweet, as in six grand sweet—and just like that, we didn't have a problem with Trey no more. Ryan's the hero, Jefe. He came through—he wouldn't let a brother down—not even if they were gonna pound the crap outta him on account of Trey's being such a dumb little bitch."

Jesus. Is all John can think for several seconds. Jesus. Then, what the fuck has Dawn done to them? He never should have believed for one second that Dawn would do right by them—that she'd somehow see them both to manhood without messing them up, but good. Not that Trey would take much to mess up. He was always the kind of kid who could go either way. A smart, funny, wise-ass of a kid—who was also impulsive and reckless. But, Ryan? How the hell did she mess up so badly with Ryan? He was always a good kid. An earnest kid. Always trying to make everyone happy—trying so damned hard to be everything to everyone at all times. How the hell did she manage to fuck up Ryan? John's insides are a mess of impossibly complex knots as he fights the sudden urge to puke.

"At least you got a picture, ya' know. Your old lady sent you a picture. My baby's mama ain't gonna be sending me no picture of my hijo. I can tell you that much."

John extends an arm and waits. Gutierrez finally places the picture in his outstretched hand.

"I'll see you around, Jefe." He gives John a smart salute, then leaves the cell for the commotion of the dorm's common area.

John waits until he's gone, then slowly resumes his position on his bunk. He feels like he's aged a decade in the mere minutes since Gutierrez first entered the cell. He looks down at the picture he's still holding. The picture of his boys. The image he's been carrying in his head and in his heart for the last two years. The lie. Dawn's lie. Slowly, he lets the paralyzing waves of shock and sorrow succumb to the more comfortable and familiar feelings of disgust and anger.

He resolves in that moment that he'll have McGraw and Litsky work Gutierrez over sometime soon. Tomorrow, even. The sooner the better. He'll have them do it when he's at the shop, with 50 witnesses ready and able to provide him with an alibi if it proves necessary. He'll teach the little shit that there are repercussions to messing with an Atwood. Because, while there's not much John can do as a father from a 10'x12' metal box—this, he can do.

The End

To Anne: Thanks for pointing out that if you misspell something in a Google-search, you will most likely get confirmation that you're right—even when you're not. Yeah, Spanish is so not my strong-suit!