Edited version of a story I wrote awhile ago.

A/N: A very short, "Pilot" inspired fanfic. Gives some insight into Ryan's violent past, and his initial distrust of the Cohens. Might be kind of AU. It takes place at some point during or around "The Pilot."

Rating: PG-13 for disturbing elements, allusion to sexual abuse, possibly some language.

Helped

By: Molly

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

Ryan drops his leather jacket on the bed, sighs, thinks about it, picks it up, and neatly lays it atop a large wooden dresser. He can't get too comfortable here. It's only a weekend thing.

He shivers, standing in the middle of the room in his flimsy cotton wife beater, the uniform of the tough and silent. When he was eight he'd purchased his first pack of wife-beaters. They came in sets of threes, and felt thin and soft under his hands, but once he slid it over his head, he felt pure power. He'd worn them every day that summer, marveling at how cool and old he looked, hanging out with Trey and his friends, smoking cigarettes and swearing. Now, in the middle of this unfamiliar room, he feels eight years old, a little boy trapped in the body of a teenager, the body of a man. He doesn't belong and it is more than the way he didn't belong in Chino; he's a lower class now, scum, the guy who serves them food on their silver platters, the guy who parks their cars and rings them up at the Buy-n-Bag. He is not one of them.

Ryan yawns and scratches his shoulder, trying not to think about Trey. Trey who gave him his first beer, his first hit of marijuana, who set him up with the first girl he'd ever had sex with because he'd been too shy to approach her. And as much as Trey could be a bastard, there was still that kinship of brotherhood that makes Ryan whisper his name softly as he stared at all the things they could never have together.

The wallpaper hypnotizes Ryan as he feels his body shaking slightly. He doesn't belong here. He always knew he was too smart for Chino, knew when he finished his math tests with thirty minutes to spare while kids who were either too dumb or too scared to look dumb by trying and failing to do long division shot him dirty looks and drew dirty pictures on their papers. He knew he was different when he crawled into the neighbor's tree house to read, and not Playboy or Penthouse. He curled up in the corner after all the other kids went home to dinner and Trey went out for beer and lost himself in broken spinned Dickens, or Hardy Boys' mysteries with half the pages missing.

But Newport isn't like that. His differences aren't things he can cover up by putting on a wife beater and talking tough. They aren't differences that he can cover up by putting on a tux and playing the part of some bored rich kid. He's poor. He's trash. Ryan feels the poor cling to his body. He can't escape it. He can't put on rich clothes or ride around in his lawyer's fancy car and be one of them. He's an outsider.

Ryan swallows, looks at the clock, wondering when he'll have to repay their kindness. It's never long. It's nine o'clock. He sits on the bed- sheets a blinding white- and waits for the catch.

Ten minutes later he hears a doorknob turn and stands up, knowing what will happen. It always does. Nothing is free, especially when they think you're too poor to know you're being cheated. Ryan knows. He's smart. But he also knows that he won't last long without a roof over his head.

"Ryan."

It's Sandy, just like Ryan knew it would be. He turns and looks at the man, his tie loose, and his smile eager. Ryan bites his lip, stands up, and reminds himself not to cry. They don't like that.

Ryan keeps his eyes closed as his fingers grope to pull down the zipper of his dusty jeans. He knows he's twitching and scared down there and he doesn't want to see that. He doesn't want to see the look of lust on Sandy's face or see him lick his lips. They always lick their lips, he thinks, like you're what they've been looking for all their life, when all they want is a free fuck. You're nothing to them.

Sandy gasps audibly. A sharp intake of a breath, Ryan's name whispered quietly.

Ryan fights with the tears, but one breaks through his steel barricade and pops out from his still closed eye, trailing down his cheek.

"Just do it," he hisses through clenched teeth, his face contorting into a painful grimace.

"Ryan.."

"Just get it over with!" Ryan yells, and it's as if the whole room is vibrating around him. He tenses, waiting for the hands to touch him, rough probably, slow and sloppy and violating. Violent when they grab him down there, staking their claims, letting him know that he was their property, he was theirs to use at their whim. They would leave him alone afterwards, numb and cold and scared.

He's used to it by now.

"Zip up your pants, Ryan. Please." Sandy's voice cracks.

Ryan's so surprised his eyes fly open. He almost relaxes, but catches himself and remembers that he can't let his guard down. It could be a trap. It could be anything. Still, slowly, his fingers fumble and he pulls up the zipper.

Sandy looks at him with shame and anger and sadness. His blue eyes are watery, and it's clear to Ryan that he is on the verge of sobs.

"Ryan..please..I don't want.." Sandy makes a sour face and swallows heavily. "I just want to help you."

"I've been helped before," Ryan replies, husky voice low and shaky.

And he'd been helped before. He'd been helped by his fifth grade science teacher who saw his bruises and offered him a window to climb into whenever home got "too rough." He'd taken him up on that offer one night; naïve about the intentions that lay underneath what Ryan considered a friendly gesture. Those last shreds of trust escaped that night, when he felt a warm and much larger body slide into bed beside him and start playing with his hair. And the next morning in science class it was as if nothing ever happened. Ryan moved on, found some safer windows and used them until his welcome wore away; he found some not-so-safe windows, and ended up at his science teacher's house again. The next day in science class, he didn't even glance in Ryan's direction.

"I'm not like that," Sandy says quietly.

Ryan buries his face in his hands; he doesn't want to look at Sandy. He doesn't want to look at him and see the lie in his eyes. He wants to believe what he says is the truth. But so many people told him that they weren't like the others, and more often than not, they were full of shit. What made his luck change so much that he could find gold among garbage, a man who actually cared about the kid with poor clinging to his skin?

"I've been where you've been," Sandy whispers, trying to look Ryan in the eye, but he keeps jerking his head away, not wanting to meet that steady gaze. "It's hard to trust." He pauses, makes a choking sound. "I'm not going to hurt you. I want to help you." A sharp intake of breath. "Not like the others, like me. I help people. My son thinks I do it too much. Trying to be the hero all the time." Sandy sounds frustrated. "I want to help you, Ryan. You could be so much more. You shouldn't have to be afraid."

"I'm not afraid," Ryan growls, his face leaving his hands. Can't Sandy see that he'd wearing his tough wife beater and his torn jeans? Can't he see that Chino boys can't be afraid?

Sandy's arms are around him before Ryan knows what to do. Only this touch isn't violating, it's warm and it's awkward, and it's emotional, somehow.

He hears a quiet sob escaping the lips of the older man, and Ryan has to wonder what demons this man has been battling. Ryan leans into this foreign embrace, this hug, and closes his eyes. Maybe this one cares.

Ryan needs him to care.

His face is buried into this guy's shoulder, this guy that he's known for less than a day, and he's sobbing like a baby, and the guy's crying gentle tears but not making much sound.

And Ryan thinks maybe he's found his best shot at really being helped.

finis