OC Fic : No Good Deed (1/3)
Title : No Good Deed
Author : Helen C.
Rating : PG-13
Summary : Written for chazper's Sandy is a... What? challenge. In this, Sandy is a presidential candidate.
Spoilers : This is wildly AU, so no spoilers.
Disclaimer : The characters and the universe were created and are owned by Josh Schwartz. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
AN. Many thanks to joey51 for beta'ing this, and to chazper for organizing the challenge in the first place. It was great fun to write…
No Good Deed
Helen C.
2003
No good deed ever goes unpunished.
Trey used to tell him that pretty often, and days like today, Ryan wished he listened to his brother more instead of following his instincts.
But Trey was full of shit 90% of the time, and Ryan had to make it on his own now, so he had come to Los Angeles, and he had ended up walking on the beach, because he didn't often get to see the ocean, and he had heard a call for help and spotted the kid who was drowning.
Like an idiot, he had gone to help him.
And now, here he was, shivering on a hospital bed, frozen to the bone, and if he wasn't mistaken, the guy standing at the door, holding a used briefcase and looking mightily pissed off for having been dragged out of bed this early in the morning, was a social worker.
Just grand.
And of course, the first words out of the man's mouth were going to be-
"Well, we've been looking everywhere for you."
Fucker.
Ten months on his own, only to get caught because the water was damn cold this time of the year and he hadn't been able to make a run for it before the paramedics showed up at the scene.
He just wasn't cut out to live on the streets; he didn't want to deal, didn't want to prostitute himself and couldn't get a job without papers. Which left picking pockets, stealing food here and there and digging through dumpsters when nothing else worked.
Life at home had been shitty, but Ryan had never felt as lonely as during the last months.
Maybe that was why he hadn't run; maybe he was just too tired of running, too tired of fighting.
Let Social Services do their work; if they sent him somewhere he didn't like, well, there would still be the option to run then.
For now, he was tired of fighting, tired of being alone, tired of everything.
He closed his eyes, feeling the gaze of the social worker weighing on him.
Here's your chance to do your job, he thought as he drifted off. Make my life better, if you can. Me? I give up.
*
"I'm sorry, dad," Seth said, for the tenth time in the last hour.
His father sighed, but finally stopped pacing.
The doctor, a young intern who looked terrified in the presence of the Governor (and possibly future President of the United States), repeated, "Sir, my superior will be here to talk to you any minute now."
That was about the only thing they'd been able to get out of him, aside from an eager, "Oh, don't worry, he'll be fine," when asked how Seth was doing.
Sometimes, being so widely known-Seth didn't think the word famous applied to politicians, but it was really the next best thing-was a deep inconvenience.
And it was only going to get worse, Seth thought glumly.
His father-his father, the man who watched stupid shows about meerkats with him and sucked beyond words to video games-was running for President. Seth didn't want him to lose, but if he won, they would be moving to Washington.
To the White Fucking House.
And, incidentally, under a microscope for the next four to eight years.
Seth shifted into bed, trying to avoid thinking about his future possible misery by focusing on his current, very real misery.
He was sore all over, but mostly, he was embarrassed by all the fuss.
Sure, he'd been careless and he'd swam too far and he'd almost been killed by an undercurrent, but he was fine (if a little cold, and shaken up, and yes, definitely achy from struggling against the waves.)
His father patted his hand softly. "Seth?"
"Yeah?"
For a second, he was sure his father was going to ask him if he really was all right (like he had done a gazillion times already), but instead, his father asked, "Will you be okay on your own for a few minutes?"
Seth shrugged. "Sure."
"I'll be back in a second," his father assured. "I just want to see the person who rescued you, thank him for what he did."
Seth hadn't really thought about that until now. "Sure. And hey, tell him I'd like to see him too, right?"
His father smiled and nodded. "Sure thing."
Then, he was gone, leaving Seth to pray that this wouldn't turn into a media circus. He didn't see why the son of the Governor of California almost drowning would matter to anyone but their friends and family, but he had learned long ago-with his mother's death and the constant presence of reporters for weeks after the funeral-that journalists had strange ideas about what their readers needed to know.
*
Sandy peeked into the room, catching the eye of the man who was sitting near the bed, looking bored.
The man got to his feet and walked to the door without a look at the kid lying in the bed, instantly losing points in Sandy's mental evaluation. He had worked with social cases long enough to know what kind of damage workers who didn't care could do.
"Governor," the man said, shaking his hand with a firm but moist grip.
Sandy had shaken so many hands during his two campaigns for Governor and during his term that he had developed the ability to smile through the most unpleasant handshakes.
The talents required to become a politician were various and surprising.
"Mister..."
He trailed off and the man hurried to say, "Anderson. Mike Anderson."
Sandy released his hand and looked in on the kid again.
Anderson sighed. "A runaway. Sad story."
Yeah, kids don't usually run away because they're happy, Sandy thought, but he kept silent, which prompted the man to add, "Father in jail, mother missing, presumed dead-she was a junkie-and brother in jail." He shook his head. "What a family..."
"What happened to him?" Sandy asked, not taking his eyes from the kid.
"Go figure," the man replied. "He was placed into a group home, and vanished on the way back from school, a few days before Christmas."
Ten months, Sandy thought. That kid just spent ten months on the streets.
And he looks younger than Seth.
"How old?" he asked.
"Fifteen."
Sandy nodded.
Not that much younger, then.
But several pounds underweight, and with a defeated slump to his shoulders that was visible even though he was lying on his side, facing away from them.
"May I see him?" he asked.
"Why?" Anderson asked, before backpedaling. "I mean, of course, Governor."
Sandy smiled politely instead of saying what he really thought about the man's manners, and entered the room, knocking softly on the door frame.
The kid half turned on the bed and squinted at him. "Yeah?" he asked. Then, his eyes widened slightly.
"Hi," Sandy said. "I'm Sandy Cohen."
The kid nodded. "Yeah. I know who you are." He snorted softly. "Hell, who doesn't?"
"A lot of people, if some polls are to be believed," Sandy replied. "What's your name?"
Funnily enough, that was about the only information Anderson hadn't volunteered.
"Ryan Atwood." The kid extended his hand and Sandy shook it, noticing with relief that the fingers didn't feel too cold. At least, they were taking good care of him here.
"Nice to meet you."
Ryan eyed him in silence, waiting for him to speak. If he was surprised to see Sandy here, he didn't show it. He managed to give the impression that he could wait for someone to start speaking for hours, if need be.
"I came to thank you," Sandy said. "The kid you got out of the water was my son."
Ryan looked at him blankly before saying, "Figures."
Unsure what to make of that, Sandy added, "Really, thank you. If there's anything I can do..."
Ryan shook his head. "It's fine. Thanks."
He didn't meet Sandy's eyes, looking down at the floor instead.
Sandy hesitated but what could he do? He could tell Social Services not to screw up this time, but would that help? He knew how difficult it was to keep track of kids in group homes, and that was certainly where Ryan was headed.
This was why he had resigned from his job as public defendant and gone into politics; he wanted, he needed to help as many people as he could-wanted to help kids like Ryan to make a better life for themselves.
He knew how much work there was left to do.
None of which helped Ryan Atwood, fifteen-year-old runaway without a family and, probably, without a lot of hope.
Wishing he could do more, Sandy thanked Ryan again and stepped out to talk to Anderson.
*
With that encounter, the lives of three people changed.
If Seth hadn't been careless, if Ryan hadn't decided to help, if Sandy had been less of a decent man, less of a father, things would have been very different.
*
Ryan was placed in a group home in L.A.
Sandy and Seth lived in L.A. whenever Sandy's duties didn't call him to Sacramento-and he tried to make sure that he spent as much time in Los Angeles and near his son as he could.
Seth had insisted on remaining at his old school at least until the end of the campaign and knowing the kind of pressure being the Governor's son put on Seth, Sandy hadn't argued the point for long. Seth needed stability, especially now that Kirsten was gone-taken from them by a drunk driver on a rainy night, and while it had happened five years ago, the wound was still as fresh as if it had occurred yesterday.
Sandy wasn't sure he would ever recover from it-and the first press secretary on the campaign who had told him that his status as a widower would buy him sympathy points had been fired faster than he could say, "foot in the mouth."
He just hoped that her absence and his long hours didn't weigh too heavily on Seth. At least Rosa was still with them; she had been a good friend to Sandy, and good mother figure to Seth, since Kirsten's death.
Despite the craziness the campaign entailed, they had fallen into a routine, managed to create another family, even in Kirsten's absence.
He just wished his son was happier.
And then, one evening, Sandy came back home to find Ryan and Seth playing video games in the living room.
"I invited him over," Seth said just as Ryan got to his feet, eyes down, and muttered, "I'll go."
"Stay," Sandy told Ryan. "We're happy to have you."
Ryan didn't look convinced but a big part of Sandy's job was to convince people.
Ryan ended up calling the group home and saying he was eating with the Cohens.
Seth ordered pizzas.
Sandy sat with the boys and listened as they talked-or, rather, as Seth talked. About comics, about his life as the Governor's son, and, to Sandy's surprise, even about Kirsten's death. It was the first time Sandy heard Seth talk about it to a stranger-hell, he barely talked to him about it.
Ryan, meanwhile, didn't say much. A few yeses and nos, a lot of nods and shrugs and half-smiles. Sandy wondered whether the kid was just shy and introverted, or whether he had been taught to be silent. He didn't like thinking such thoughts about this kid-or any kid.
When they were done eating, Sandy offered to drive Ryan back. It took a while to convince him that there was no way Sandy would let him take a bus at this hour. "You'll be doing me a favor," he said. "I'd like to drive a little. I rarely get a chance these days."
Ryan considered the words for a moment before nodding. "Thanks."
It was hard to get a feel for the kid, Sandy discovered when they reached the group home. Every attempt at engaging a conversation had been met with a mono-syllabic reply, at best.
Once he stopped the car, Ryan made no move to get out. He just sat there, watching the house glumly.
Sandy could sympathize; the building had obviously seen better days.
"Do you like it here?" he asked out of the blue.
"It's fine," Ryan replied.
Then he seemed to steel himself, and put his hand on the door handle.
"Please, feel free to come see Seth again", Sandy said. "I think he likes you."
"Yeah," Ryan said. "It was fun. Thanks for the meal."
He was out of the car and at the door of the house before Sandy could add anything.
To his relief, Ryan did come back regularly after that. He never invited Seth over to his place, though, and Sandy couldn't help noticing that he wasn't gaining much weight, and that he sometimes wore long sleeves on hot days or moved too stiffly, too slowly.
He put all these observations in a corner of his mind, examining them when he had time, keeping a tally of everything he spotted, just in case it was needed one day.
He wasn't building a case, not exactly.
Merely making observations.
For future reference.
*
Seth didn't expect to see Ryan waiting for him when he got out of school for the day, but he knew better than to show he was surprised-because Ryan was sure to mistake that as a sign that he was bothering Seth when it couldn’t be further from the truth.
"Hey, man," he said. "What are you doing-?"
His words stayed stuck in his throat when Ryan raised his head.
Seth stared at the black eye and the bruised lips and the scratch on his jaw.
"Oh," he said, wondering if anything else was bruised.
Maybe that was why he didn't have any friends.
He just sucked when it came to these situations.
"Yeah, look, I gotta jet," Ryan said. "But I wanted to, you know, say bye."
Seth wanted to say a lot of things; hell, he always wanted to say a lot of things.
For once, though, he waited and thought it through.
This time, he had to choose his words carefully, because he thought that while Ryan didn't talk much, he heard a lot and committed every word that was said to him to memory.
Seth couldn't screw up.
Dude, you can't run away.
Look, why don't I call my dad?
Don't be stupid, what will you do?
You can't go out there on your own.
You're only fifteen.
He opened his mouth.
Ryan was looking at his shoes like they were the most fascinating thing in the world, as if he was bracing himself, or waiting for something.
Did he really want to go back to living on the streets?
Seth doubted it very much.
What did he want to hear?
"Yeah," Seth said, eventually. "Or, you know, you could come home with me. We'll put ice on your eye. It looks bad, man. No offense."
Ryan snorted. "I know." He sighed, hands deep in his pockets. "I don't know..."
Me neither.
I'm totally flying blind here.
Oh, fuck, I need Dad.
But it was a childish thought and Ryan needed him to come up with something right now.
"Come home," Seth said.
Believe me.
Trust me.
We'll find something.
Please.
"It'll be fine," he added.
I promise.
Miraculously, Ryan followed him home.
*
Ryan had no idea what he was doing here at the Cohens, when he should be hitchhiking his way out of L.A. as fast as he could.
It had been stupid to come.
Governor Cohen would only send him back to the group home. Best case scenario, he'd call Social Services and tell them what was going on, and then what?
The man was running for President and here Ryan was, in his bathroom, holding ice to his eye in a hopeless attempt at keeping it from swelling too badly.
Seth had been talking since they'd entered the house, keeping a steady stream of babble. To distract Ryan? To keep him from balking? To release his own tension? Because he didn't know what else to do?
Probably all of the above.
Seth was the only person Ryan knew outside of the group home folks (who were the problem), the teachers at school (who didn't care) and his social worker (who was nice but totally clueless).
Seth was the closest thing to a friend Ryan had made since Theresa.
He didn't want to be sent back to the group home, but he didn't want to be alone again either. He remembered how that felt.
He was petrified of having to do it again.
Yes, he should really grab his backpack and make a run for it and try to keep a low profile for the next three years.
And be scared and tired and hungry and lonely all the time.
If he was sent back, he wouldn't have any other choice but to run.
But if there was another possibility... Maybe the Governor would be able to help him get emancipated. He didn't have a criminal record. That could only work in his favor, right?
Hopefully, the Governor would be able to help.
*
When Sandy came home that night, he was met with a new (and not completely unforeseen) challenge.
Fortunately for Ryan, Sandy had always been excellent at facing challenges.
Part Two
Author : Helen C.
Rating : PG-13
Summary : Written for chazper's Sandy is a... What? challenge. In this, Sandy is a presidential candidate.
Spoilers : This is wildly AU, so no spoilers.
Disclaimer : The characters and the universe were created and are owned by Josh Schwartz. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
AN. Many thanks to joey51 for beta'ing this, and to chazper for organizing the challenge in the first place. It was great fun to write…
No Good Deed
Helen C.
2003
No good deed ever goes unpunished.
Trey used to tell him that pretty often, and days like today, Ryan wished he listened to his brother more instead of following his instincts.
But Trey was full of shit 90% of the time, and Ryan had to make it on his own now, so he had come to Los Angeles, and he had ended up walking on the beach, because he didn't often get to see the ocean, and he had heard a call for help and spotted the kid who was drowning.
Like an idiot, he had gone to help him.
And now, here he was, shivering on a hospital bed, frozen to the bone, and if he wasn't mistaken, the guy standing at the door, holding a used briefcase and looking mightily pissed off for having been dragged out of bed this early in the morning, was a social worker.
Just grand.
And of course, the first words out of the man's mouth were going to be-
"Well, we've been looking everywhere for you."
Fucker.
Ten months on his own, only to get caught because the water was damn cold this time of the year and he hadn't been able to make a run for it before the paramedics showed up at the scene.
He just wasn't cut out to live on the streets; he didn't want to deal, didn't want to prostitute himself and couldn't get a job without papers. Which left picking pockets, stealing food here and there and digging through dumpsters when nothing else worked.
Life at home had been shitty, but Ryan had never felt as lonely as during the last months.
Maybe that was why he hadn't run; maybe he was just too tired of running, too tired of fighting.
Let Social Services do their work; if they sent him somewhere he didn't like, well, there would still be the option to run then.
For now, he was tired of fighting, tired of being alone, tired of everything.
He closed his eyes, feeling the gaze of the social worker weighing on him.
Here's your chance to do your job, he thought as he drifted off. Make my life better, if you can. Me? I give up.
*
"I'm sorry, dad," Seth said, for the tenth time in the last hour.
His father sighed, but finally stopped pacing.
The doctor, a young intern who looked terrified in the presence of the Governor (and possibly future President of the United States), repeated, "Sir, my superior will be here to talk to you any minute now."
That was about the only thing they'd been able to get out of him, aside from an eager, "Oh, don't worry, he'll be fine," when asked how Seth was doing.
Sometimes, being so widely known-Seth didn't think the word famous applied to politicians, but it was really the next best thing-was a deep inconvenience.
And it was only going to get worse, Seth thought glumly.
His father-his father, the man who watched stupid shows about meerkats with him and sucked beyond words to video games-was running for President. Seth didn't want him to lose, but if he won, they would be moving to Washington.
To the White Fucking House.
And, incidentally, under a microscope for the next four to eight years.
Seth shifted into bed, trying to avoid thinking about his future possible misery by focusing on his current, very real misery.
He was sore all over, but mostly, he was embarrassed by all the fuss.
Sure, he'd been careless and he'd swam too far and he'd almost been killed by an undercurrent, but he was fine (if a little cold, and shaken up, and yes, definitely achy from struggling against the waves.)
His father patted his hand softly. "Seth?"
"Yeah?"
For a second, he was sure his father was going to ask him if he really was all right (like he had done a gazillion times already), but instead, his father asked, "Will you be okay on your own for a few minutes?"
Seth shrugged. "Sure."
"I'll be back in a second," his father assured. "I just want to see the person who rescued you, thank him for what he did."
Seth hadn't really thought about that until now. "Sure. And hey, tell him I'd like to see him too, right?"
His father smiled and nodded. "Sure thing."
Then, he was gone, leaving Seth to pray that this wouldn't turn into a media circus. He didn't see why the son of the Governor of California almost drowning would matter to anyone but their friends and family, but he had learned long ago-with his mother's death and the constant presence of reporters for weeks after the funeral-that journalists had strange ideas about what their readers needed to know.
*
Sandy peeked into the room, catching the eye of the man who was sitting near the bed, looking bored.
The man got to his feet and walked to the door without a look at the kid lying in the bed, instantly losing points in Sandy's mental evaluation. He had worked with social cases long enough to know what kind of damage workers who didn't care could do.
"Governor," the man said, shaking his hand with a firm but moist grip.
Sandy had shaken so many hands during his two campaigns for Governor and during his term that he had developed the ability to smile through the most unpleasant handshakes.
The talents required to become a politician were various and surprising.
"Mister..."
He trailed off and the man hurried to say, "Anderson. Mike Anderson."
Sandy released his hand and looked in on the kid again.
Anderson sighed. "A runaway. Sad story."
Yeah, kids don't usually run away because they're happy, Sandy thought, but he kept silent, which prompted the man to add, "Father in jail, mother missing, presumed dead-she was a junkie-and brother in jail." He shook his head. "What a family..."
"What happened to him?" Sandy asked, not taking his eyes from the kid.
"Go figure," the man replied. "He was placed into a group home, and vanished on the way back from school, a few days before Christmas."
Ten months, Sandy thought. That kid just spent ten months on the streets.
And he looks younger than Seth.
"How old?" he asked.
"Fifteen."
Sandy nodded.
Not that much younger, then.
But several pounds underweight, and with a defeated slump to his shoulders that was visible even though he was lying on his side, facing away from them.
"May I see him?" he asked.
"Why?" Anderson asked, before backpedaling. "I mean, of course, Governor."
Sandy smiled politely instead of saying what he really thought about the man's manners, and entered the room, knocking softly on the door frame.
The kid half turned on the bed and squinted at him. "Yeah?" he asked. Then, his eyes widened slightly.
"Hi," Sandy said. "I'm Sandy Cohen."
The kid nodded. "Yeah. I know who you are." He snorted softly. "Hell, who doesn't?"
"A lot of people, if some polls are to be believed," Sandy replied. "What's your name?"
Funnily enough, that was about the only information Anderson hadn't volunteered.
"Ryan Atwood." The kid extended his hand and Sandy shook it, noticing with relief that the fingers didn't feel too cold. At least, they were taking good care of him here.
"Nice to meet you."
Ryan eyed him in silence, waiting for him to speak. If he was surprised to see Sandy here, he didn't show it. He managed to give the impression that he could wait for someone to start speaking for hours, if need be.
"I came to thank you," Sandy said. "The kid you got out of the water was my son."
Ryan looked at him blankly before saying, "Figures."
Unsure what to make of that, Sandy added, "Really, thank you. If there's anything I can do..."
Ryan shook his head. "It's fine. Thanks."
He didn't meet Sandy's eyes, looking down at the floor instead.
Sandy hesitated but what could he do? He could tell Social Services not to screw up this time, but would that help? He knew how difficult it was to keep track of kids in group homes, and that was certainly where Ryan was headed.
This was why he had resigned from his job as public defendant and gone into politics; he wanted, he needed to help as many people as he could-wanted to help kids like Ryan to make a better life for themselves.
He knew how much work there was left to do.
None of which helped Ryan Atwood, fifteen-year-old runaway without a family and, probably, without a lot of hope.
Wishing he could do more, Sandy thanked Ryan again and stepped out to talk to Anderson.
*
With that encounter, the lives of three people changed.
If Seth hadn't been careless, if Ryan hadn't decided to help, if Sandy had been less of a decent man, less of a father, things would have been very different.
*
Ryan was placed in a group home in L.A.
Sandy and Seth lived in L.A. whenever Sandy's duties didn't call him to Sacramento-and he tried to make sure that he spent as much time in Los Angeles and near his son as he could.
Seth had insisted on remaining at his old school at least until the end of the campaign and knowing the kind of pressure being the Governor's son put on Seth, Sandy hadn't argued the point for long. Seth needed stability, especially now that Kirsten was gone-taken from them by a drunk driver on a rainy night, and while it had happened five years ago, the wound was still as fresh as if it had occurred yesterday.
Sandy wasn't sure he would ever recover from it-and the first press secretary on the campaign who had told him that his status as a widower would buy him sympathy points had been fired faster than he could say, "foot in the mouth."
He just hoped that her absence and his long hours didn't weigh too heavily on Seth. At least Rosa was still with them; she had been a good friend to Sandy, and good mother figure to Seth, since Kirsten's death.
Despite the craziness the campaign entailed, they had fallen into a routine, managed to create another family, even in Kirsten's absence.
He just wished his son was happier.
And then, one evening, Sandy came back home to find Ryan and Seth playing video games in the living room.
"I invited him over," Seth said just as Ryan got to his feet, eyes down, and muttered, "I'll go."
"Stay," Sandy told Ryan. "We're happy to have you."
Ryan didn't look convinced but a big part of Sandy's job was to convince people.
Ryan ended up calling the group home and saying he was eating with the Cohens.
Seth ordered pizzas.
Sandy sat with the boys and listened as they talked-or, rather, as Seth talked. About comics, about his life as the Governor's son, and, to Sandy's surprise, even about Kirsten's death. It was the first time Sandy heard Seth talk about it to a stranger-hell, he barely talked to him about it.
Ryan, meanwhile, didn't say much. A few yeses and nos, a lot of nods and shrugs and half-smiles. Sandy wondered whether the kid was just shy and introverted, or whether he had been taught to be silent. He didn't like thinking such thoughts about this kid-or any kid.
When they were done eating, Sandy offered to drive Ryan back. It took a while to convince him that there was no way Sandy would let him take a bus at this hour. "You'll be doing me a favor," he said. "I'd like to drive a little. I rarely get a chance these days."
Ryan considered the words for a moment before nodding. "Thanks."
It was hard to get a feel for the kid, Sandy discovered when they reached the group home. Every attempt at engaging a conversation had been met with a mono-syllabic reply, at best.
Once he stopped the car, Ryan made no move to get out. He just sat there, watching the house glumly.
Sandy could sympathize; the building had obviously seen better days.
"Do you like it here?" he asked out of the blue.
"It's fine," Ryan replied.
Then he seemed to steel himself, and put his hand on the door handle.
"Please, feel free to come see Seth again", Sandy said. "I think he likes you."
"Yeah," Ryan said. "It was fun. Thanks for the meal."
He was out of the car and at the door of the house before Sandy could add anything.
To his relief, Ryan did come back regularly after that. He never invited Seth over to his place, though, and Sandy couldn't help noticing that he wasn't gaining much weight, and that he sometimes wore long sleeves on hot days or moved too stiffly, too slowly.
He put all these observations in a corner of his mind, examining them when he had time, keeping a tally of everything he spotted, just in case it was needed one day.
He wasn't building a case, not exactly.
Merely making observations.
For future reference.
*
Seth didn't expect to see Ryan waiting for him when he got out of school for the day, but he knew better than to show he was surprised-because Ryan was sure to mistake that as a sign that he was bothering Seth when it couldn’t be further from the truth.
"Hey, man," he said. "What are you doing-?"
His words stayed stuck in his throat when Ryan raised his head.
Seth stared at the black eye and the bruised lips and the scratch on his jaw.
"Oh," he said, wondering if anything else was bruised.
Maybe that was why he didn't have any friends.
He just sucked when it came to these situations.
"Yeah, look, I gotta jet," Ryan said. "But I wanted to, you know, say bye."
Seth wanted to say a lot of things; hell, he always wanted to say a lot of things.
For once, though, he waited and thought it through.
This time, he had to choose his words carefully, because he thought that while Ryan didn't talk much, he heard a lot and committed every word that was said to him to memory.
Seth couldn't screw up.
Dude, you can't run away.
Look, why don't I call my dad?
Don't be stupid, what will you do?
You can't go out there on your own.
You're only fifteen.
He opened his mouth.
Ryan was looking at his shoes like they were the most fascinating thing in the world, as if he was bracing himself, or waiting for something.
Did he really want to go back to living on the streets?
Seth doubted it very much.
What did he want to hear?
"Yeah," Seth said, eventually. "Or, you know, you could come home with me. We'll put ice on your eye. It looks bad, man. No offense."
Ryan snorted. "I know." He sighed, hands deep in his pockets. "I don't know..."
Me neither.
I'm totally flying blind here.
Oh, fuck, I need Dad.
But it was a childish thought and Ryan needed him to come up with something right now.
"Come home," Seth said.
Believe me.
Trust me.
We'll find something.
Please.
"It'll be fine," he added.
I promise.
Miraculously, Ryan followed him home.
*
Ryan had no idea what he was doing here at the Cohens, when he should be hitchhiking his way out of L.A. as fast as he could.
It had been stupid to come.
Governor Cohen would only send him back to the group home. Best case scenario, he'd call Social Services and tell them what was going on, and then what?
The man was running for President and here Ryan was, in his bathroom, holding ice to his eye in a hopeless attempt at keeping it from swelling too badly.
Seth had been talking since they'd entered the house, keeping a steady stream of babble. To distract Ryan? To keep him from balking? To release his own tension? Because he didn't know what else to do?
Probably all of the above.
Seth was the only person Ryan knew outside of the group home folks (who were the problem), the teachers at school (who didn't care) and his social worker (who was nice but totally clueless).
Seth was the closest thing to a friend Ryan had made since Theresa.
He didn't want to be sent back to the group home, but he didn't want to be alone again either. He remembered how that felt.
He was petrified of having to do it again.
Yes, he should really grab his backpack and make a run for it and try to keep a low profile for the next three years.
And be scared and tired and hungry and lonely all the time.
If he was sent back, he wouldn't have any other choice but to run.
But if there was another possibility... Maybe the Governor would be able to help him get emancipated. He didn't have a criminal record. That could only work in his favor, right?
Hopefully, the Governor would be able to help.
*
When Sandy came home that night, he was met with a new (and not completely unforeseen) challenge.
Fortunately for Ryan, Sandy had always been excellent at facing challenges.
Part Two