A/N: I know this is short but it's been something that's been nagging at me since season 5. All usual disclaimers apply--enjoy!

Anonymous

Ryan drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and glanced from the newspaper clutched in his free hand to the salmon colored exterior of the Coral Way United Methodist Church. He checked his watch again—twenty five after seven. If he was going, he had to go now. He'd already missed any cookie-and-punch social aspect.

But that was fine with him. He wasn't going to socialize. He was going to...

Well.

Why was he going? He'd been wrestling with that question all day. Who would know if he showed or not? Unless of course Horatio was waiting inside with a head tilt and smirk as if to say, "Nice to see you, Mr. Wolfe." Ryan smiled at that, although he seriously doubted it. More often than not, Ryan found himself doubting that Horatio Caine even existed outside the world of CSI. What did he do when he went home? Play video games? Watch Jeopardy? Curl up with a cup of hot cocoa and read poetry? Where did he even live? The Grove? Coral Gables? In a moderately condemned one-bedroom off in Miami Beach? Ryan shook his head—he couldn't see Horatio living in the same kind of realty hell as he did.

Not that this train of thought was going to get him out of the car. In fact, he realized with another glance at his watch, he'd already wasted another two minutes sitting there deliberating about an off-the-clock Horatio. With a heavy sigh and a rub of his eyes, Ryan stepped out of the car and locked it behind him. He looked down at the newspaper again and managed a smile.

He didn't get the newspaper—couldn't afford it and never had time to read it—but today he'd received a special delivery. It was only the classifieds, open to the meeting section with this particular meeting circled in purple pen. He would've been completely mystified if not for the message scrawled in the margin. What have you got to lose?

Thank you, Natalia. Her loopy, feminine writing would have give her away even if she didn't double back to cross her t's. As much as he hated to admit it, she was right. He'd already lost almost everything else that matter to him—his job, the respect of his friends and co-workers, any savings he might have had...

Maybe the website was right. Maybe he did have a problem.

The neon lights were bright as he stepped into the church's youth room. The walls were covered with inspirational photos of whales and dogs on mountains saying things like Accomplish! and Achieve! It looked like a guidance counselor's thought of the pre-teens who must come here for youth group and bible study every week. Sitting around talking about how much Jesus loves them, especially in this difficult transition period; reading from Scripture, planning bake sales and Friday night dances. Ryan took a seat in the back with a shudder, thinking that all of a sudden, this meeting seemed somehow a far more pleasant alternative.

Like everywhere else in Miami, the room was made up of about 90 percent Latinos. Three black guys scattered throughout the group and one other white guy in a polo shirt toward the front. There were only two women, sitting next to one another, holding hands. As he suspected, he'd passed a table of grocery store cookies and a large drum of what he assumed was bad, decaf coffee on the way in.

At the front of the room was a middle-aged man in a colorful shirt. His large hand absently stroked his goatee before moving over what was left of his dark hair. At seven-thirty on the nose, he clapped his hands to quiet whatever conversational din had sprung up.

Ryan had only planned on listening the first time, deciding if these crazies were worth coming back for more. But the more he sat and listened—to how Angel, the former six-figure CPA had lost his house, his wife, and his kids over a string of horse races; to Cherie who had been clean for two years—her girlfriend Tina the one to thank for finding her at the hospital, both legs broken by an angry Cuban collection agent—the more he realized that he wasn't surrounded by crazy people.

These were people just like him, who started out having fun, liking the risk and, as Natalia had so helpfully pointed out, ended up losing everything. They'd just gotten in over their heads—like him. He leaned forward with interest as Mark talked about losing his son's college fund in an effort to keep their house. Three guesses as to how well that turned out.

There were polite applause after each story; occasionally the leader would hand out little chips as they walked back to their seats. After Mark had been seated, the leader took the podium once more. "I know we have a few newcomers tonight," his dark eyes fell directly on Ryan. "Do any of you feel comfortable coming up and sharing with us?"

When he looked back, Ryan wouldn't know why he got out of his seat, just that he did and almost without realizing it, found himself standing behind the podium. His palms left clammy imprints on the surface before he moved them to grip the sides. He cleared his throat and looked out at the group, finding serene, open faces, warm, understanding eyes. "Hi," he managed quietly, clearing his throat again. "I'm Ryan."

And there they were, sitting on the tip of his tongue—words he never thought he'd have to say.

"I'm Ryan," he began again, stronger this time, "and I have a gambling problem."

A/N: I thought Ryan needed a little piece about the beginnings of his recovery. I was glad when they actually followed up on his gambling issues and mentioned him having a sponsor and all of that. And plus, I hardly ever write serious and I NEVER write Ryan. So...yay for new fanfic journeys.