Disclaimer: The O.C. is property of Fox.
Author's Note: This has been an excpetionally difficult chapter for me, hence the longitude.


"To live is to risk dying
To hope is to risk despair."
Janet Rand

Ryan felt numb as he sat on the cold bench in a colder room of the local police station. He tried not to think about the guarding officer regarding him with eyes full of contempt from beside the door in the corner, or the sound of junkies, thugs and thieves exchanging insults with each other from the cells down the hall, or the unrelenting chain tethering his right wrist to the steel bench, or the look in Theresa's eyes as he'd been led away from her. Especially not that.

"Can you blink for me, Ryan?" asked the police station's medical officer kindly as she shone the light in his swollen eye.

Ryan squinted as he complied, the unforgiving brightness not doing anything to help his malingering headache.

"Any nausea?" the medical officer inquired on seeing Ryan flinch.

"Not really," Ryan said, his voice as detached as it had been back at Theresa's house. Home. Such a little word for something that meant so much. In the past year he'd had three. Now it looked he was going to have another place to lay his head, and if Jay had anything to do with it, for a longer time that Ryan could bear to contemplate.

The second the thought entered Ryan's mind, he had an immediate need to be sick. Pushing the medical officer clumsily to one side he doubled over, the acrid taste of vomit filling his senses as he threw up on the floor, barely missing her shoes and hitting his own. She stepped back hurriedly as Ryan retched again, bringing up the further remnants of birthday cake and Thai green curry in a putrid mess, his right hand, already swollen from his fight with Jay, twisting painfully behind him as he unconsciously pulled against the handcuffs.

For what seemed a life age, he tried to remain completely still as he waited for his stomach to settle before he allowed himself to risk breathing again. Wiping the back of his free hand slowly across his dripping nose, he scuffed his feet out of the splatter on the floor.

"Here, drink this," said the medical officer, holding out a cup of water to Ryan. Taking it gratefully, he rinsed his mouth, spitting neatly into the puddle between his feet.

"Thank you," he told the officer as he closed his eyes and leant back against the wall behind him. Grateful for the surprisingly tactful few moments to compose himself he took another drink of the water, this time letting it cool his burning throat.

"Better?" inquired the medical officer as she took the cup from him and tossed it into a trashcan.

"Yeah," Ryan nodded before adding politely, "Sorry."

"Not to worry. I've had worse, believe me," she said matter-of-factly as she shone the light in his eyes once more, "Did you hit your head, Ryan?"

"Don't think so. I'm okay."

"What about headaches?"

"Not really," Ryan lied to her easily, not wanting to be subject to scrutiny any longer, "I'm just tired."

"I want you to keep an eye out for him," she said, standing up straight and turning to the guard in the corner, "Put him in his own cell, check on him every fifteen minutes and wake him up every half a hour for the next four hours." She turned back to Ryan, "Better awake and irate than concussed and dead."

"Whatever," said Ryan, completely exhausted, just wanting it to be over, to be left alone. Today had been one of the longest of his life, right up there with his Dad's arrest. He didn't want to talk to anyone, he didn't want see anyone; his vicious thoughts of self-abomination were company enough. Despite everything he'd worked for, all he'd given up, he'd failed to change his path in life, utterly and completely. His mother was right; he was going to rot in jail and this time there was nobody to help him. Like father, like son.

"He's all yours," the officer said finally, crossing the to where her bag rested on the other side of the room, "I'm going to check on your friend Jay now, Ryan but if you feel any worse, nausea, headaches, strange smells or tastes in your mouth, just let someone know, and I'll be right there."

"Jay's not my friend," Ryan snapped venomously as the guard bent over to unshackle him from the bench.

She blinked in surprise at Ryan's sudden change in demeanor, "No, I guess he isn't."

"Sorry," Ryan apologized again, before remembering there was somebody he cared about. "What about Theresa? Have you seen her?"

"The pregnant girl? Is she your girlfriend?"

Not knowing if it was the truth any longer, he nodded slowly as the guard pulled his hands roughly behind him, either unaware or unsympathetic as Ryan winced at the twinge in his swollen right hand as it was cuffed to his left once more.

"I've seen her. She's fine. More worried about you, in fact," the medical officer said, although whether her softening tone was through compassion or pity, Ryan couldn't tell.

"Oh," Ryan replied simply, unable to stop himself thinking that Theresa's concern for his well-being was coming a good deal too late.

"Time to go," the guard said shifting Ryan firmly towards the door.

Her professional exterior firmly incorporated once more, the medical officer handed the guard an ice pack.

"For his hand. I'll get someone to clear this up," she said, nodding towards where the puddle of what was now all that remained of Ryan's birthday dinner festered in the corner.

The guard nodded and led Ryan out of the room, down through a corridor and into to another where a line of heavy cell doors looked imposingly into the small space, appearing to making it shrink further. Leading him into the first unoccupied room, the guard released Ryan's hands and handed him the ice pack.

"Thank you," Ryan said reflexively, tentatively accepting it.

"This your first time?" asked the guard, his face softening for the first time as he sensed Ryan's disquiet. Despite his earlier assumptions, he could something about this kid was different.

"Hmm?"

"In lock-up? Is this your first time?"

"No," replied Ryan quietly, the consequences of obliterating his probation invading his mind, "It's not."

"You got a lawyer? Somebody you need to call?"

"No," Ryan answered again, his voice cracking involuntarily as the harsh reality of his situation well and truly hit home, "No, I don't have anybody."

"Right. Well, you just shout if you need anything."

Ryan nodded spiritlessly and without another word left the guard left the cell, shutting and locking the thick metal door behind him with an ominous succession of echoing clanks.

Too tired to survey his surroundings, Ryan took the pack and moved to the unfriendly bench that protruded from one of the equally unfriendly walls. Slipping his laceless, unpleasantly damp boots off, he pulled the thin blanket over himself and lay back on the bench, wincing as he wrapped the cold of the ice pack around his bruised and gently swelling hand.

In the dead space of the cell, the silence was almost absolute, the solitude welcoming. Although he tried not to, Ryan couldn't help but be reminded of the quietness of the poolhouse; the sounds of traffic rushing by from a distant road reminding him of the far away ocean that he could always imagine hearing as he lay awake at night at the Cohens'. The ocean, the Cohen's, the life with them he once knew; they all seemed so far away.

Seth didn't think he'd ever experienced a city like Guadalajara. Everything about it filled his senses; the baying of the traffic, the vibrancy of the lights, the groups of young men jostling through him in the street, the smell of their teenage aftershave mixing with the rich aromas hovering outside the restaurants he passed, all of it screaming for his attention. It had taken him all day and much of the night to get here, but though his body was exhausted, his mind hummed. He was headed for home.

Heading past his bike into the front door of the tiny hostel he'd found, Seth couldn't help but grin at the very thought of home. Waking up on the beach in Zihuatanejo he'd had the moment of clarity he'd been searching for when he first set out from Newport on the Summer Breeze; running away had been dumb.

The problem with being Seth Cohen was that no matter you went, Seth Cohen came along for the ride and he brought all his emotional baggage with him. The discontent that had slowly been building steadily inside him for months hadn't been left in his bedroom with Captain Oats and the letters of cowardice, but had stowed away on his voyage to Tahiti. If he couldn't work out his issues at home with his family, his girlfriend and his friends close by to help him then why the Hell had he thought he could do it by himself on a tiny island in the middle of the South Pacific? On the other hand, his epiphany had happened on a beautiful beach after spending the night with a beautiful girl. It was, Seth acknowledged, an interesting paradox. And one that could wait. Tomorrow was going to be one hell of a long day.

By the time Ryan had been awoken for the fourth time, his hand had stopped throbbing. By the sixth, his head had stopped feeling full of cotton wool. And by the time the new day guard had woken him at eight thirty, he'd stopped feeling anything at all. His sleep had been fitful and light, his mind too busy to truly surrender to rest, despite the protests of his weary body. But in-between sleeping and waking, dreams had infiltrated his thoughts; distinctly not been of the Langston Hughes variety, stretching across brief snatches of sleep, tenacious and quietly monstrous. Ryan had actually been perversely glad when he been led to an interview room, no doubt to await the patronizing and amateur psychology of a tired and cranky sargent. At least he had coffee and toast. He'd have preferred it if the coffee wasn't bitter, the toast wasn't cold and soggy, if he'd had been able to see Theresa and if the guard hadn't felt it necessary to leave his right hand cuffed to the metal rail bolted to the table top, but he was back in Kansas now and the rainbow was well and truly out of sight.

Twenty minutes later Ryan's good mood had dissipated and his self-loathing had increased almost as much as his need to pee. He realized now that when he'd anticipated that he'd be subjected to amateur psychology, he'd been overly optimistic; the dynamic Officer Yorke sitting opposite from him now would need a college course in order to think that creatively. Instead, he favored the blunt and obvious form of questioning, favored by reluctant third generation cops the world over. So far Ryan had indifferently deflected his questions on his criminal record, the nature of his relationship with Theresa and the small matter of the hundreds of pirated CDs and DVDs that had been seized from the house. Just to piss him off, Ryan hadn't made direct eye contact once and was incessantly sliding his cuffed hand back and forth along the rail, creating a faint and distinctly irritating high pitched whine. Now, Yorke was re-reading through the case file open on the table in front of him, trying to gather the few unimaginative thoughts he had in order to find a new line of questioning. He didn't seem to be succeeding. If it weren't for the fact that Ryan knew his future was monumentally screwed, he'd have almost considered it entertaining.

His next approach apparently decided upon, Yorke leaned back in his chair and took another slip of his coffee, "You live with Kirsten and Sanford Cohen, correct?" he asked casually.

"No," Ryan said levelly, looking up at Yorke for the first time and abruptly bringing his rail scratching to a halt.

"No?" Yorke repeated redundantly, his interest peaking at Ryan's change in demeanor. No doubt re-enacting some episode of The Shield in his head, Yorke picked up the file and flipped at the edges with his fingers.

"No," Ryan clarified, pissed at himself for having let his guard down, "I don't live with them anymore."

"They're listed as your legal guardians."

"I moved out."

"You moved out?"

"It's complicated."

"That's a shocker," Yorke quipped, his flippant tone annoying Ryan more with each passing moment. If Yorke noticed or cared Ryan's irritation, he wasn't letting on, "Was it your choice?"

"What?"

"To move out. Was it your choice? Because a kid with your history living with folks with that lifestyle, I can imagine-"

"- No, you can't," Ryan interrupted him sharply. Monumentally screwed or not, he'd be damned if was going to sit here and listen to this kind of crap.

"I beg your pardon?" Yorke asked, ceasing momentarily from his incessant file flicking.

"You can't imagine. I don't care what you've read, or what anybody else has said to you; you don't know anything about them, about me, so just shut up."

"Mind your manners."

"Or you'll do what?" snapped Ryan, with absolutely no intention of doing anything of the sort, "There's nothing you could do that would make me feel any worse than I do already, so just charge me and get it over with."

"Well, you see Ryan that's the tricky part. Your girlfriend is insisting you had nothing to do with it. But then your friend Jay says you masterminded the whole operation, used contacts you made through your brother, which opens a whole other can of worms."

"Trey?!" Ryan asked incredulously, finding it hard to comprehend that Jay could sink that low. He couldn't remember ever feeling more stupid; after so many years living with an idiots, users, thugs and petty criminals, he should have spotted this shyster a mile off.

"I take it you're denying Jay's accusation?"

"Look," said Ryan, trying to get a hold on his temper, "Whatever you believe I did, believe this- Trey had nothing to do with it. I haven't even seen him since last year."

"I know, I checked. But all that means is you haven't seen him for a year."

"I haven't."

"What about talking on the phone?"

"I haven't done much of that either."

"Really?"

"Really. Chrismuk- Christmas, that's it," Ryan corrected himself quickly, "He doesn't even know I'm back in Chino. He'd probably kill me if he did."

"Uh-huh."

Despite the gravity of his situation, Ryan couldn't help but smile inwardly a little at the thought of his eldest brother. As weird as things were between them right now, and as brashly as Ryan suspected Trey would kick off if he knew how badly Ryan's new life had twisted off course, he still missed him. More than he ever thought that he could. He was only a year from turning eighteen, which meant he could expect to spend some time in the near future behind the bars of a jail proper, not just in the testosterone lined hallways of the local juvenile detention center. It would be nice if he got to see a friendly face, even if it was the butt-ugly visage of his brother's. Perhaps they could fix things between them. And if they could just get Eddie on the inside, then the old gang would be truly reunited. And Ryan, Arturo and Trey could collectively beat the crap out of him for having laid a finger on Theresa.

Theresa. Christ.

Suddenly all Ryan could think of was the fallen expression on her face as he'd had been arrested; guilty, lonely, broken. His heart ached at the very memory of it. As bad things looked for him right now, Ryan knew that were a hundred thousand times worse for her. And the baby, his daughter. A life tainted before it had even begun. Even his mother hadn't been able to manage that one.

"You okay kid?"

Ryan looked up at Officer Yorke, surprised to see a genuine look of concern on the man's face, "I'm sorry?"

"I asked if you were alright. You spaced out on me."

"I don't know," Ryan replied dumbly, feeling the room spin. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath in attempt to bring it back to focus.

"You're pale. Put your head between knees."

"I'm okay," Ryan lied, as he heard Officer Yorke stand up and move over to the door.

"Do you know how bad a missed concussion turned nasty is for my résumé? I said put your head between knees."

Reluctantly complying, Ryan listened as Yorke asked the guard outside to fetch the on call medical officer.

"I don't need a doctor," he said as the fog in his head began to clear once more. Ryan looked up briefly at the kind-faced man stood in the doorway and recognized for the first time that he wasn't the only person who had been misjudged recently.

"Kid-" Yorke said kindly, his voice genuine in its concern.

"- I'll be alright, really," Ryan insisted, sitting up once more and leaning back in his chair.

"Ryan-"

"Please. I'm fine."

Yorke stood on the threshold, torn between what he had been told was right and what he knew to be right. Ryan looked over at the man, saw him thinking it over. There were so many choices to be made, it was all too easy to get it wrong.

His course decided upon, Ryan made his decision and looked Officer Yorke squarely in the eye.

"I need to make a phonecall."

Silently, slowly, Yorke in understanding. "Okay, Ryan."

"Thank you," Ryan murmured quietly. He leaned forward in his chair, resting his head on the table, cradled in the nook of his arm. This time he would get it right.

Feedback, more than ever would be appreciated. This story will be finished before Christmas.