Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters of The OC. They all belong to Josh Schwartz.
A/N: This story is AU and begins after Luke carries Ryan out of the burning building.
One of the reasons I like to include Trey in many of my stories is because he's a way for me, as a writer, to give more depth and background into Ryan's past. This is something I felt was so neglected on the show. Plus, I'm also using Trey as a catalyst to push Ryan emotionally over the edge.
Please remember, this story is AU after the model home fire. Many readers keep bringing up scenarios that happened on the show even though those events haven't occurred in this story and they never will. For example, Thanksgiving, which is still a good five months away. In my story, Trey and Ryan do not hate each other. Someone mentioned that Trey was out of Ryan's life for years, but the brothers were together in the Pilot episode. I don't believe it was ever explained why. So the nice thing about fanfiction is to add to the gaps and change things up.
In my story, the brothers were once very close. And even though they may not be as close as they once were, they do share a past.
Thank you for all the feedback and support. I really appreciate it!
Chapter Eleven
"So, I guess Seth had a hard time sleeping last night," Sandy says to Ryan, exiting the freeway to head towards the California Institution for Men in Chino.
"Yeah, I guess telling him they used real spiders in the film and not CGI kind of freaked him out," Ryan says.
"But the General Spider at the end wasn't real," Sandy points out. "Was it?"
"That was animatronics," Ryan replies, appreciating how real the arachnid looked.
"How did you sleep?" Sandy asks, slipping the question in nonchalantly.
"Mmm... okay."
"Just okay?"
Sandy glances over at Ryan and notices the boy staring out the side window.
"Ryan, talk to me."
"It's just that... every time I try to turn over on my left side, I wake up," Ryan replies, keeping his voice even, not wanting to make a to-do about a couple of bruised ribs. He doesn't want to sound like he's complaining. "It's not a big deal."
"I remember a year ago I went surfing and wrenched my back," Sandy says, knowing Ryan won't ask for any help. So he's going to offer some. "Kirsten bought a body pillow for me. It gave me support on my right side, the side that I injured. It's super soft and comfortable. I think it's still in our closet. I'll tell Kirsten to put it in your bedroom."
My bedroom, Ryan thinks to himself. Not the guest room. My room.
"It should offer you some support and make it more comfortable if you turn and sleep on your side."
Ryan glances over at Sandy and offers an appreciative smile. "Thanks," Ryan states earnestly.
Sandy smiles, happy he was able to be of some help. "So, tell me about Trey. What's his story."
Ryan looks over at Sandy, slightly confused. "You already know about him."
"I've read his rap sheet. I know the trouble he's been in, but I don't know anything about him or his circumstances," Sandy says, stopping at the red light.
Sandy knows that little boys don't aspire to be drug dealers, thieves or addicts. They don't envision living a life behind bars. They dream of being an astronaut, a fireman or hitting that grand slam home run to win the World Series.
"I would very much like to know Trey's story. Do you know how he got involved in drugs?"
Ryan turns away from Sandy and stares back out the passenger side window.
"My mom," Ryan utters softly.
"Your mother?" Sandy asks, somewhat surprised, but he knows he probably shouldn't be. A car behind him honks impatiently. Sandy notices the light has turned green and slowly begins inching his way through the crowded intersection.
"After my dad was sent to prison, my mom... well... she kind of lost it," Ryan says, trying his best to explain his and Trey's living situation when they were younger. "After a few years, she decided to move us to Chino. My mom started drinking a lot, well... more than her usual... and she got involved with some men. I don't know, for some reason my mom felt she needed to have a man in her life."
Sandy takes a quick look over at Ryan. He notices the boy just staring blankly out the window, but he knows his mind is anything but a blank. He can only hope the kid will keep talking.
"One of my mom's boyfriends... I can't remember his name... was into drugs," Ryan continues, his voice steady and emotionless. "Trey was just starting his sophomore year in high school and she..." Ryan glances down at his lap and starts fiddling with the gauze wrapped around his right hand. "My mom had Trey deal drugs for her stupid boyfriend. I remember Trey didn't want to do it at first, but then he realized he had to," Ryan says, glancing over at Sandy, "you know... in order to keep the peace."
Sandy stops at another red light and runs his hand over his face.
To keep the peace, Sandy laments to himself. In other words, to keep from being a human punching bag.
Sandy tries to shake off the thought, wondering how many times both Trey and Ryan had to endure being on the receiving end of a stinging slap or punishing fist. And the notion of sending one's child to do something so dangerous and also illegal just boggles his mind, but it's not the first time he's encountered it. He's seen parents use their own children in illegal or unethical activities too many times, and it's the children who always suffer.
"I was hanging out with Theresa a lot," Ryan says, holding onto maybe the only positive thing in his life when he lived in Chino. "And then..."
"And then, what?" Sandy asks, noticing the light has turned green and finds himself relieved no one is honking at him.
"My brother got busted."
Sandy sighs, knowing that couldn't have gone well.
"Trey spent six months in juvie and came out very angry."
"Did Trey ever inform the cops or his Public Defender that his mother had put him up to it? That she had forced him into dealing drugs?" Sandy asks, knowing that the kid would have probably gotten parole and a slap on the wrist. Less time for a teenager to stew behind bars and get angry at the world.
"No," Ryan replies. "I had asked him once why he didn't rat our mother out along with her good-for-nothing boyfriend and he said that, if he did, he was afraid I would have been taken away and placed in a group home." Ryan glances over at Sandy and offers a small smile. "He felt I was better off at home because I could go over to Theresa's whenever I needed to... well, you know... get away."
Escape...
"Your brother was very young," Sandy acknowledges as he turns into the California Institution for Men and heads towards the visitor's parking lot. "It sounds like he tried to do what he could for you. He tried his best."
"Yeah, he did try but... Trey didn't have it easy."
Neither of us did...
Ryan takes in the stark landscape as Sandy drives past row upon row of nondescript buildings. He glances out the side window and sees a tall guard tower in the distance and an American flag perched high over a barbed wire fence. Two lone palm trees add a touch of greenery to the prison ambiance.
"Trey should be starting rehab and I do know they offer high school GED courses here at the prison," Sandy says as he pulls into a parking spot and turns off the ignition. "I know they also offer vocational programs like basic welding and masonry." Sandy turns and faces Ryan. "They even offer a deep sea diving class."
Ryan cocks an eyebrow in disbelief. "Deep sea diving?"
"Honest to god, it's true," Sandy says, holding his right hand up as if taking a vow. "What I'm trying to say, Ryan, is that your brother's life isn't over. Not by a long shot. There are people and programs in place to help guys like Trey, but it's up to him to start making smart choices. He'll probably be up for parole in a year. How he chooses to spend this time behind bars is up to him. He can squander his time away or strive to make changes so he'll have a chance at a better future."
Ryan smiles with appreciation. He knows Sandy can become impassioned when it comes to helping people. Ryan wonders how he got so lucky.
"Well, we're here," Sandy states as he and Ryan get out of the car. "Do you still want to visit your brother?"
Ryan looks out at the Welcome Center and believes it's the only building that actually looks "welcoming".
"Yeah, I do," Ryan replies.
"All right, then," Sandy says, placing his hand on Ryan's shoulder as they start walking towards the entrance to the prison. "Let's go visit Trey."
"Are they home yet?" Seth asks, walking into the kitchen with his shoulders slumped.
Kirsten frowns at her son. He's been moping around the house, all because she and Sandy refused to let him tag along with Ryan to visit his brother.
"They've only been gone an hour," Kirsten says, leafing through a cookbook and wondering if she could make something for dinner. Maybe something that doesn't require the use of the stove or oven. "You could start cleaning the pool. That would keep you busy."
"You told me I could take a day off," Seth states, reminding his mother he's taking a vacation day. "I'm still recovering from cleaning out the garage."
"And you did a splendid job," Kirsten says, putting her arm around her son's sagging shoulders. "Since you're taking a break from chores, you can go play one of your video games."
"I guess..." Seth sighs, ambling slowly out of the kitchen into the family room. "It would be a lot more fun though, with Ryan."
Ryan jumps slightly when the solid steel door shuts behind him. The loud noise echoing down the stark, cement corridor sends chills up his spine. He follows Sandy down the hall to Security. Ryan notices an overweight guard sitting behind the desk looking bored. He sees another guard standing behind the metal detector looking like he could be a linebacker for the Oakland Raiders. Even though his brother is in Minimum Security, Ryan sees that security is anything but "minimum".
"I'll need you to empty your pockets," the guard behind the desk states. "Keys, cell phones... dump it all in here."
Ryan shoves his hands in his pockets, but he comes up with nothing but an old gum wrapper. Sandy puts his keys and cell phone in the plastic box, then takes out his wallet. He's done this before.
"You'll also need to take your belts off," the guard states in a monotonous tone of voice. "You'll get them back when you pass through the metal detector."
Ryan flinches slightly at the sound of leather whipping through belt loops as Sandy quickly removes his belt. With his nerves slightly frazzled, Ryan wipes the perspiration off his brow with his gauze-covered right hand and fumbles nervously to remove his own belt.
"I need to see photo IDs."
Ryan takes his wallet out of his back pocket and produces his Chino High School ID from last year. He sets it on the desktop next to Sandy's driver's license.
Sandy looks at Ryan's ID picture and frowns. He notes the boy's black eye and swollen upper lip. No smile. It reminds Sandy more of a mug shot than a school ID.
The guard raises an eyebrow, comparing the teenager in the photo to the teenager standing in front of him, but says nothing. He hands the ID back to Ryan and instructs the boy to walk through the metal detector.
Ryan lets out a long sigh and tries to calm himself as he prepares to walk through the metal detector. He knows with his luck it will probably go off. Then he'll be whisked away to a back room by some gargantuan browbeater to endure the indignity of a strip search.
"Come on, kid. We don't got all day," the guard states impatiently.
Ryan looks over at Sandy and sees him nod, urging him to go forward; the warmth in the man's eyes reassuring him everything will be alright. Ryan walks through the metal detector and breathes a sigh of relief when it doesn't go off.
Maybe my luck is changing...
"Spread your legs and hold your arms out at your sides," the guard orders as he begins running the metal detector wand over Ryan's body.
Ryan watches as the guard meticulously scans every inch of his body with the wand. He then winces slightly when the guard begins patting him down with his hands. Ryan wonders if he should tell the guard his rib cage is bruised but quickly decides against it. He knows from experience it's best to say nothing.
"You okay kid?" the guard asks as he hands Ryan his belt.
Ryan looks warily at the guard, wondering to himself if it's a trick question.
"I'm fine," Ryan replies softly, trying to steady his shaky hands as he struggles to put his belt back on. He knows Sandy is with him. If anything should happen, Sandy would know what to do.
"Your brother's in the courtyard," the linebacker guard states as he walks Sandy and Ryan down yet another long corridor. "Visitation is one hour."
Ryan steps out into the prison courtyard and squints his eyes against the bright sun. He notices some inmates in orange jumpsuits, courtesy of the California DOC, playing basketball even though the temperature is creeping up into the nineties. He searches for his brother and finally spots him sitting at a picnic table nestled in the shade.
"Ryan, you made it," Trey says, happy to see his younger brother as he stands up from the picnic table. "And you must be Mr. Cohen."
"Sandy... please, call me Sandy," Sandy states with a gracious smile as he shakes the young man's hand.
Trey sits back down on the bench across from Ryan and reaches for a cigarette.
"Oh... um... Trey, if you could... please don't smoke," Sandy says.
"What? Why?" Trey asks, somewhat annoyed. "I'm outside for Christ's sake. I can't smoke inside anymore. Some sorta clean air law..."
"Ryan is still recovering from smoke inhalation from the fire," Sandy explains calmly. "He really can't breath in any second-hand smoke."
"Oh yeah... that's right. Sorry, Ry... I wasn't thinkin'," Trey says as he places the cigarette behind his ear. He'll smoke it later.
"And for what it's worth, you may want to think about quitting altogether," Sandy says.
"Why? I'm already in drug rehab," Trey says. "I like to come out here for an occasional smoke."
"They've just passed legislation that will outlaw smoking even outdoors in California prisons," Sandy says, breaking the bad news as gently as he can. "The law will take affect a year from now."
"Are you fuckin' serious?"
"I'm afraid so," Sandy says, wincing slightly at the foul language. "But if it's any consolation, the law will apply to everyone, including the people who work here."
"Great. So the guards will be piss ass irritable as well as the inmates," Trey scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief. "What the hell are they thinkin'?"
"The State wants to save money on prisoner health care costs," Sandy explains.
"Oh, yeah? Well, good for them," Trey states. "All I can see are tempers flaring, possible riots and, of course, the rise of a lucrative black market."
Trey glances over at Ryan and sees a slight hint of panic emerge across the boy's bruised face.
"Oh, don't worry kid," Trey says. "I ain't gonna do anything stupid. At least I hope not."
"Well, I'll give you two some privacy," Sandy says. "Ryan, I'll be sitting right over there if you need me."
Ryan smiles and nods at Sandy, then turns his attention over to Trey.
"So, how are you? Are you doing okay?" Ryan asks.
"Yeah, I'm doin' just peachy," Trey replies. "I got a roof over my head, three squares a day, and twice a week I get to attend group therapy with my fellow junkies and listen to some over-educated, pompous asshole of a shrink urge us to talk about our sorry plight."
"So, in other words, you're miserable."
Trey lets out a short chuckle, then runs his hand over his face to wipe away the mid-afternoon sweat. He's through talking about himself. He's here for at least another year, maybe longer. He wants to know about his brother.
"So the assholes who did that to you," Trey says, nodding at the bruises on his brother's face. "Are they gettin' punished?"
"Yeah, they are," Ryan replies, still somewhat surprised there was any retribution. He recalls the Sheriff's visit yesterday and still finds himself amazed that anything was done on his behalf. Ryan discreetly pinches himself to make sure he's not dreaming then remembers the letter Sheriff Hicks gave him. He knows he should probably read it.
I'll read it tonight...
"So your lawyer, Mr. Cohen, he's okay?" Trey asks, crossing his arms on the table and leaning in towards Ryan. "I mean, he ain't tryin' to mess with ya, is he? 'Cuz if I find out he's messin' with ya, I swear to god, I'll kill him."
"No, Sandy's not like that," Ryan says, reassuring his brother.
"He's one of the good guys, huh?" Trey says with a hint of skepticism in his voice. "Well, like some people say, maybe everything happens for a reason."
"What do you mean?"
"What I mean is if you weren't hangin' out with me..."
"I didn't want to go home," Ryan interrupts. "Mom was working and AJ was at the house."
"Well, at least I know I rank a notch above AJ," Trey says, his voice laced with a touch of sarcasm.
"That's not what I meant," Ryan says quietly, lowering his head.
"As I was sayin', if I didn't force you into stealin' that car with me, you would've never met Mr. Cohen."
Ryan stares down at the picnic table, thinking about how things have turned out.
I got Sandy Cohen as my Public Defender and my brother ended up with some apathetic, stupid buffoon.
Ryan picks up a small, thick twig laying next to him on the bench and begins scraping the top of the table with the sharp end.
"Mom left," Ryan says softly. "She went to Vegas."
"Well, good for her."
"I'm worried about her," Ryan says.
"Well don't be," Trey says. "She ain't worth it."
"What's going to happen to her when she runs out of money?" Ryan asks, looking up at his brother.
"Who the hell cares."
"I saw this segment on 60 Minutes..."
"You watch 60 Minutes?" Trey interrupts. "I would think most kids your age would be playin' video games.
Ryan rolls his eyes then continues. "It featured a segment on what happens to people in Vegas when they lose everything. Many become homeless and they end up living in these underground tunnels beneath the city. It's filthy and disgusting..."
"Your point?" Trey asks, unmoved by the information.
"What if Mom ends up homeless there," Ryan says, trying to make his point. "She's an alcoholic. She'd be surrounded by drug addicts and thieves. She would be in danger."
"Let's back up a bit," Trey states, making a counter-clockwise circling motion in the air with his index finger. He's relieved he doesn't possess the empathy his little brother seems to have. It certainly saves him a hell of a lot of grief. "Remember dear old Dad?"
Ryan glances back down at the picnic table and begins carving lines again with the sharp twig.
"He was an asshole when he drank. And after he lost his job, he drank even more," Trey continues. "I would hide you in our bedroom closet and cover you with our dirty clothes in hope that Dad wouldn't find you."
Ryan etches another line into the tabletop as he recalls hiding in his bedroom closet. He was five, maybe six years old. His brother covering him with clothes, warning him not to say a word.
"Keep your mouth shut, Ry... Don't make a sound."
Ryan remembers hearing the screams as his father's fists hit flesh and broke bone. And the crying. His mother's earsplitting cries pleading for mercy; the promises of doing better. She would make him happy if only he would stop.
It didn't matter...
He'd make just a slight whimper...
Don't make a sound...
Tucked deep in the corner of the closet, he would try to make himself as small as possible... willing himself to become invisible. He remembers staring at the sliver of light that would shine through the gap in the closet door. He would stare and listen...
His father would beat his mother. Then he would turn his rage onto his brother.
Don't make a sound...
But he couldn't help himself. He trembled with fear and started to cry. He then watched in horror as the sliver of light disappeared. Someone was standing... lurking in front of the closet. The door was pushed open. His hiding place was found.
"Gotcha!"
"Mom stopped being a 'mom' to us long ago," Trey says.
"She was abused," Ryan says, his voice shaking after thinking about the past.
"Yes, she was," Trey agrees. "And so were we. She's our mother, Ry. She was supposed to protect us."
"I know, but..."
"No buts!" Trey says, clearly aggravated. "She had options. She could have gone to a shelter for abused women and brought us with her. She could've had him arrested... gotten a restraining order. But, she did nothing to protect us. She did fuckin' nothing!"
Ryan hears his brother's words. He knows his mother should have protected them but...
"Do you remember when I got out of juvie?" Trey asks. "I was sixteen. I didn't rat Mom out and what did she do? She threw me out of the house."
Trey takes the cigarette he had nestled behind his ear and begins flipping it around between his fingers. "Hmm... let's see... didn't she throw you out of the house? See a pattern there, kiddo?"
Ryan lowers his head as he remembers the day his brother returned home from juvie. He didn't understand why his mother wanted Trey out of the house. He was so young. Where would he go?
"Our mother can rot in those damn tunnels as far as I'm concerned," Trey says.
"Trey, I still..."
"How many times did you go home at night and find Mom passed out on the bathroom floor, laying in her own vomit?" Trey asks.
Trey observes his brother recoil slightly. He knows he's hit a nerve.
"And what did you do, huh?" Trey asks. "I know what you did. You cleaned her up and helped her sorry ass into bed."
Ryan lets go of the sharp twig and just stares blankly down at his haphazard carvings.
"And it's what, fuckin' one in the morning?" Trey continues, not caring if he's upsetting his brother. The kid needs to face the truth. "You'd go back into the bathroom to breathe in the god awful stench and clean up the mess. And for what? Huh?"
Trey leans in closer to his brother, so close he can feel the kid's breath.
"You wake up the next day to a hard, stinging slap to the face and Mom's glarin' down at you... screamin' at you, all because you forgot to pick her up a pack of goddamn cigarettes!" Trey wails, trying to keep his voice down. "Jesus Christ, Ry! Here I thought you were the smart one. But sometimes, I swear to god, you can be a goddamn fuckin' idiot!"
Trey looks hard at his younger brother and waits. He waits for a reaction. Something... anything, but he gets nothing. By now, Trey would have expected his brother to tell him to "shut the hell up!" accompanied with a well-deserved punch to his face.
"Ry, what is it? What's goin' on?" Trey asks with concern.
Ryan shrugs his shoulders and retreats slightly.
"There's somethin' more going on with you and it's not about Mom," Trey discerns. He knows from past experience that anything regarding "Dawn" would result in an animated argument. But his brother is anything but animated. He's retreated. "Talk to me, Ry."
"Two minutes, Atwood!" a guard warns.
"Shit!" Trey says, exasperated. "Ryan, is this about the jerks who hurt you?"
Ryan shakes his head "no".
"We don't got much time. Talk to me," Trey pleads as he watches his brother struggle with some sort of demon. "Is it about AJ?" Trey asks. "Cuz you never gave a rat's ass about that lowlife."
Trey watches as his brother shrugs away that scenario. He's starting to run out of ideas.
"Wait a minute... that group home you were in when Mom went into rehab," Trey says, recalling how he had asked Child Services if his brother could live with him. They wouldn't allow it. He had a criminal record. "There was a nickname on the streets for that place, somethin' like 'Motel Hell'."
Trey lets out an exasperated sigh. He looks over at the impatient guard who in turn points to his watch.
"All right, listen to me. You need to talk to Sandy," Trey states firmly, wanting to get his point across.
"I don't want to burden him," Ryan says softly. "I'm already a burden..."
"You're not a burden," Trey says. "He's your legal guardian as well as your lawyer. You got the best of both worlds there, kid. I say, milk it."
"Ryan, visitation time is up," Sandy says, unhappy to break the news. "We need to go."
Ryan abruptly stands up and begins walking away, only to be stopped by his brother.
Trey places his arms around Ryan, leans down and whispers in his brother's ear, "Talk to Sandy. Whatever it is, he can help. Trust him, kid... You need to trust him."
Trey releases his grip and looks into his brother's wary eyes. "Talk to Sandy. He's one of the good guys, right? That's what you told me, so talk to him. If you don't do it for yourself, do it for me."
Ryan offers his brother a small smile but finds himself unable to promise anything.
"Take good care of my brother," Trey tells Sandy as he watches Ryan walk away.
"I will," Sandy assures the young man.
Sandy scurries to catch up with Ryan and places his hand upon the boy's shoulder. He's suddenly taken aback when Ryan shrugs his hand off his shoulder, not wanting to be touched.
Something happened, Sandy thinks to himself, having observed the intense conversation from a few yards away, but was unable to hear all that was said over the din of the basketball game. Sandy becomes concerned with the boy's sudden change in demeanor. When they were walking into the prison just a little over an hour ago, Ryan seemed completely comfortable with Sandy having his hand on his shoulder.
Sandy looks back at Trey and watches as the young man lights up his cigarette; slowly drawing the nicotine into his lungs, then steadily exhaling the smoke through his nostrils.
Sandy runs his hand through his thick hair then quickly catches up to Ryan again. He notices the teenager walking briskly with his head down and his shoulders hunched over; his hands jammed firmly into his pants pockets.
It's going to be a very long, silent drive home, Sandy thinks to himself, knowing the boy won't talk to him right away. He's going to need time to think; organize his thoughts.
But I believe we may both be in for a very long night...