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Protection

Ryan had understood Kirsten from the very beginning. He'd been intimidated by her money and awed by her elegance; but on the most basic of levels, he'd understood.

The first night, when she'd greeted him in the pool house, with her false smile, and nervous hands, he'd understood. I don't know you. You're a risk. You can stay, but not too close.

The next night, at the party, she'd surprised him sneaking the drink and with her cool, appraising look. "I want my husband to be right about you," she'd said. But he knew she thought Sandy was wrong. I don't trust you. And he'd understood.

The angry words for Seth, and the fierce glare she'd given Ryan the next morning as she'd hustled Seth out of the pool house had made him duck his head, avoid her eyes. Seth bruised, and still a little bit drunk, had confirmed her suspicions. Ryan knew he wasn't to blame, but he'd understood.

Don't mess with what is mine.

Kirsten Cohen protected what was hers. Ryan understood that. And he respected it.

xxxx

Kirsten was the last person Ryan had expected to see that afternoon in the visitor's room at the detention center. He hadn't even sorted through the mortified pleasure he felt at seeing Seth, when Kirsten came into view. He felt a rush of shame course through his body, leaving him flushed in its wake. Even though he'd never had it, and he wasn't sure why he cared, Kirsten's good opinion mattered to him in a way he didn't understand. He hunched his shoulders, hating that she was seeing him like this; the jumpsuit a visible indication of who he was – Ryan Atwood, juvenile offender.

Ryan recognized the signs of her discomfort. She held herself stiffly, twisting the rings on her fingers as she stood slightly to the side, trying to give Seth and Ryan some privacy. That she would be subjected to the crude innuendo of the other boy when she was deliberately doing something he knew she didn't want to, filled Ryan with an icy rage that had exploded when the boy actually moved toward her. That Ryan had managed to get his ass pretty much kicked before the guards broke up the fight, seemed fitting somehow. The final humiliation in his interaction with Kirsten Cohen.

In spite of himself, Ryan replayed the confrontation in his head as he sat, crouched in a corner of the lockdown cell, shaking from an adrenaline crash and a feeling of hopelessness that made his whole body ache. Repeatedly, he got stuck on Seth and Kirsten huddled together as he was dragged from the room. Both of them had been utterly taken aback by the sudden eruption of violence, the shock and confusion plain on Seth's face, as Ryan was manhandled past them.

But the image that Ryan couldn't get out of his mind was Kirsten, arms spread, her slight frame braced as she put herself between Seth and harm. Cool, perfect, gentle Kirsten Cohen had jumped, without hesitation, in between her child and danger. And Seth, backed into a corner, eyes wide, had taken for granted, accepted unthinkingly, his mother's protection.

Ryan closed his eyes wearily and rested his cheek on one of his knees. Drained, at the end of himself, physically and emotionally, Ryan allowed his mind to wander to a place he usually never would have permitted. And he wondered what that would be like – to have a mother who took care of you, instead of needing to be taken care of. Wondered what it would be like to have a parent who risked herself to protect you instead of leaving you to fend for yourself. Ryan rubbed his cheek absently against the rough fabric of his jumpsuit and pressed first one eye, then the other against his knee, blotting at the tears that had formed, too exhausted to fight them at the moment.

Ryan wondered, with a longing that felt like a hole in his chest, what it would be like to have Kirsten Cohen as a mother.

"Atwood." The door to the cell swung open.

Ryan's head came up sharply.

"Looks like this is your lucky day."

xxxx

TBC