Small Steps, chapter 2
Title : Small Steps
Author : Helen C.
Rating : PG-13
Summary : Oliver is back, and makes a mess of things again. Set in season 2.
Spoilers : Everything that's been aired up to The Rainy Day Women is fair game.
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.
Acknowledgements : Many thanks to my beta, Joey51.
Chapter 2 : The Police Station
Sandy was not a violent man by any means. He had always, even in his "wilder" days, preferred to fight with his words rather than his fists. Violence resolved nothing. In fact, it usually only worsened any given situation, instead of resolving it.
Sandy was a patient man. He was soft-spoken, he tried to find the humor in life, and he had never lost his idealism, even after all these years spent among the rich, superficial, selfish people of Newport.
Sandy was a lawyer-he talked for a living. Seth had told him once that only therapists talked more than lawyers. Ryan had corrected him; therapists listened while their patients talked, but didn't say much themselves. "No," Ryan had said. "No one speaks more than lawyers." Sandy had heard a muffled, "Except their sons, apparently." Oblivious, Seth had gone off on another tangent and the subject had been forgotten.
But above all else, Sandy was a father. One who would do anything, absolutely anything, to protect his family. Sure, he would love, and protect, and educate, and nurture. He would also die for his family if need be. And he would kill, he would beat up, he would corrupt to keep them safe.
Tonight, however, Sandy's legendary tolerance was wearing thin. His conversational skills were out the window. Tonight, he could see the appeal Ryan found in punching either things or people.
There had been two calls from Officer Peterson-the first one to tell Sandy that Ryan was being driven to the police station. Sandy had heard a brief summary of the situation then-something along the lines of, "Oliver free. Marissa threatened. Ryan phone call. Gun. Oliver dead. Ryan police station." And already, he had wanted the head of whoever had decided to set Oliver free. Hadn't they read the reports saying Oliver was more than able to manipulate people, from a perturbed young girl to the headmistress of a private school?
The second phone call had come fifteen minutes later, as Sandy was driving on the freeway. By then, Officer Peterson seemed to have realized what Sandy had known all along-that Ryan could only have killed Oliver in self-defense.
As soon as Sandy had understood that, in all likelihood, Ryan wouldn't need his professional skills, the lawyer in him had taken a backseat and the father had taken the wheel.
Sandy found himself at the police station without remembering driving there. He could find comfort in the fact that he hadn't had to rush to the hospital. At least the kids weren't hurt. That was a Good Thing.
Definitely.
On autopilot, Sandy went through the doors, headed to the front desk and said, "Ryan Atwood?"
A police officer, a woman with dark hair and tired eyes, looked at him. "Excuse me?"
Sandy gritted his teeth. He reminded himself that she probably saw frantic parents every night, that she was doing a useful job, that she was overworked and underpaid, and that screaming at her wouldn't bring him to Ryan sooner.
"An officer Peterson called me. He said that my foster son, Ryan Atwood, was here." He paused, took a breath, and used all his willpower to ask in clipped tones, rather than yell, "Where. Is. He?" Belatedly, he remembered to add, "Please."
She took her phone, asked for the officer, and after a few hours-just enough time to prepare and launch a space rocket, in Sandy's estimate-an officer approached him.
"Mister Cohen?"
"Officer Peterson?"
They shook hands, and the man guided Sandy through a sea of desks. "We're almost finished with his deposition. It fits with what Miss Cooper told us. When we're done, there'll just be a few papers to sign."
"How are they?"
"Once Miss Cooper was done with her deposition, she got sick again. We called paramedics; they took her to the hospital." Sandy must have looked worried, and Peterson hurried to add, "It's just shock. They'll give her something to sleep. Her mother is on her way to the hospital."
"Ryan?"
The man stopped walking and looked at him compassionately. "He's shocked too. Hanging on. We checked his antecedents."
Sandy called on his inner-lawyer. "His probation is over," he said.
"And he was arrested for stealing a car, not killing people. I know that, Mister Cohen. You have to understand…" He trailed off, studying Sandy for a moment. When the officer went on, it was in a soothing voice. Perhaps, Sandy thought, he was scared to see the rich lawyer suing his ass. "As soon as we entered the room," Peterson said, "Ryan told us he had killed Oliver Trask. We read him his rights, and we waited for reinforcements. When our colleagues arrived, we came here. By that time, Miss Cooper had somewhat recovered and she's the one who told us that Ryan had only been defending himself. Ryan himself didn't speak."
Sandy clenched his fist-he could picture the whole scene very clearly. He hated to think about what must have gone through Ryan's head.
"We didn't book him in," Peterson added. "We took Miss Cooper's deposition first, to check that it was, indeed, self-defense."
Sandy understood and nodded gratefully. By all rights, the cops could have placed Ryan under arrest, booked him in, put him in a holding cell and waited for Sandy to arrive. At that point, with Ryan's antecedents, they would have had to wait for a judge to get Ryan out. And it was Friday night. Ryan would have spent the weekend, at least, in lock up. "Thanks," Sandy said.
Peterson smiled slightly. "He's had a bad night already," he said. "We just didn't act too fast. Just in case."
Sandy nodded again.
"We'll ask him to stay in town until the case is closed," Peterson added. "We may need to see him again to ask a few more questions when he's had some time to pull himself together, but I don't think there'll be a problem. Mister Trask was holding a knife."
Sandy gulped. "A knife?"
"Yes." The man hesitated, then added, "I've seen murderers, Mister Cohen, and Ryan, from what I can tell after talking with him for a few minutes, doesn't seem like one."
Sandy thought about Ryan's propensity to put himself in danger to help others, about his uncanny ability to get either on the wrong side of people, or on the good side, but always immediately. He wondered if there was a word to name the total opposite of a murderer. "He's not."
The man nodded, even though he must have heard this kind of denegation every day, several times a day. He led Sandy to a desk at the back of the room.
Ryan was sitting on a chair, eyes downcast. He was talking to a young policeman who was asking questions and typing Ryan's answers.
Sandy took a good look at Ryan and was surprised by the sudden, violent urge to seek retribution against whoever was responsible for the situation. Oliver was already dead, but certainly, there were other people to blame-Oliver's psychiatrists or his absent parents, for example. All Sandy was asking for was five minutes with someone who had been close to the kid, so that he could yell at them and ask them what they were doing while Oliver was attacking Ryan with a knife.
Studying Ryan's body language had become habit very early in their relationship. Ryan often said more with the way he carried himself than with words.
Kirsten and he had often marveled at the difference between Seth and Ryan-one who said everything with his mouth, and seemed to move uncontrollably, and the other, who comparatively said little but whose movements were always calculated.
Ryan's body spoke volumes tonight.
Sandy had seen Ryan scared before, on several occasions-most noticeably in prison. He had seen him lost, betrayed, confused, angry, hopeful, disappointed, and sometimes all of the above at the same time.
He didn't think he had ever seen Ryan as withdrawn as right now, though.
What Ryan didn't say was often more important than what he did say. While Sandy could hear Ryan say, "We were fighting for the gun, because I was sure he was going to shoot us," he also picked up the underlying, "Am I going back to jail now?"
It was in the way Ryan was staring at the table, in the way his fists were clenched on his thighs, in the way he sat hunched over, in the way his breathing was fast, as if he had been running instead of sitting.
The young officer raised his head and saw Sandy standing there with his colleague. "Sir?"
"Sandy Cohen," he said curtly, his eyes never leaving Ryan.
Ryan finally looked up and watched Sandy briefly before looking away.
Sandy recognized the movement. He had seen it often enough at the beginning, when Ryan didn't trust anyone and was always sizing up the mood of his new guardians before speaking. He had hoped he'd never see that look again. Yet another thing he could thank Oliver for, he thought grimly.
He took two steps toward the chair Ryan was sitting on, seeing the teenager tense slightly. "Are you okay?" he asked in his most neutral voice.
The answer was automatic. "Fine."
He asked again, as if Ryan hadn't answered, "Are you okay?"
Ryan looked at him then, studied him for a long moment. Sandy felt like a new physics experiment that refused to give the expected results under that gaze. Whatever Ryan saw on Sandy’s face made him relax a notch. "Headache," he admitted.
Sandy looked at the cops. Or maybe glared. A little.
It worked.
The youngest detective got to his feet and went away, coming back a minute later with a glass of water and two Tylenols. He handed them to Ryan, who looked at the pills as if he had never seen a headache remedy before. Sandy said softly, "Ryan?"
The boy shook himself and took the proffered pills, swallowing them dry before draining the glass of water. "Thanks," he said.
Sandy took a chair next to Ryan, put a hand on his shoulder and rubbed softly. After a while, he felt Ryan relax a little.
"We're almost done here," the young cop said.
Sandy saw Ryan shiver and rub his left wrist. "Good," Sandy said neutrally. "Then why don't we finish so I can take Ryan home?"
Ryan froze, not looking at anyone. The young cop said cheerfully, "Sure." Ryan looked briefly at Sandy as if to confirm that he was, indeed, going home, before nodding and turning his attention back to the cop.
Sandy leaned back, put a hand on Ryan's arm and let them talk.
* * *
The end of the deposition and the few papers to sign took them one more hour. When it was finally done, Sandy had absorbed the fact that Ryan was still alive and kicking-well, alive and subdued, but they would just have to work on that.
He had allowed himself to relax a little-no more tragedies would strike tonight. As he led an exhausted Ryan to the car, Sandy fumbled in his pocket for his phone.
"I'll call Kirsten; tell her we're on the way," he announced.
Ryan nodded, climbed in the car and put his seatbelt on.
Sandy made his call, reassuring Kirsten, never taking his eyes off Ryan. At some point, as he was saying again that, yes, they would be there in under a half hour, he saw Ryan's fists slowly begin to unclench; now that they were out of the police station, he must have realized that no one was keeping him there.
"How is he?" Kirsten asked.
Sandy hesitated, stumped. Aside from the "still breathing" factor, and the fear that seemed to radiate from Ryan, he hadn't really considered it.
"He's in shock, I think," he said. "He answered the cop's questions, but we didn't really have time to talk."
"Drive carefully," Kirsten said after a short silence.
"Always," Sandy said. She didn't need to know that he could very well have run all the red lights between home and here when he had come, for all he remembered.
* * *
The drive home was mostly silent. Not that Sandy had expected anything else.
He was watching the road, and sneaking a few glances at Ryan from time to time.
Ryan seemed to be sleeping, his head resting on the window, and Sandy thought that sleep was about the only thing that made Ryan look his own age, instead of twenty-five.
Even after eighteen months, Ryan remained an enigma.
Oh, sure, there were obvious truths. Ryan always tried to protect those he held dear, or those he considered defenseless. He wasn't above playing dirty, but generally regretted having done so. He judged people on who they were, not what they owned or what other people thought about them. Ryan had a bit of a white-knight complex, and felt undeserving of love and attention-although Sandy felt hopeful that in this area, at least, they were making progress. Ryan hoped for the best and prepared for the worst, most times without even realizing he was doing it.
Ryan was good at evaluating people-who represented a danger to him, when was it safe to talk and when should he be quiet. Sandy knew it broke Kirsten's heart when she saw that side of Ryan, because no seventeen year old should be *that* good at reading people, that ready to protect himself.
Most of this, however, Sandy already knew or suspected after the first two weeks Ryan had spent with them. He may have learned a few other odd things-Ryan loved to give but didn't know how to gracefully accept a gift, didn't have anything against math and physics, profoundly hated the jock mentality and was a natural at video games-but on Ryan's life before he came to live with the Cohens, Sandy knew little, and on what his life was like in Fresno, virtually nothing.
Sandy had grown better at guessing when it was okay to push Ryan to talk and when he should back off, and until now, the back off signs had never disappeared where Ryan's past was concerned.
Things had been more relaxed since Ryan had come back from Chino in the fall. He seemed more certain of his place with them than he had been before.
A teenage pregnancy was always a nightmare for all concerned. No one ever said so, but everyone knew that some people just kicked their children out when it happened. Sandy had the feeling that the fact that the Cohens hadn't turned their backs on Ryan had confirmed what the kid already suspected; that no matter how bad things were, he was part of the family for the long haul. No matter what Julie Cooper or Caleb "He-Who-Is-An-Ass" Nichol said, Ryan was a Cohen, by choice if not by blood.
Ryan had been more relaxed around them, and it didn't feel like such a chore anymore to make him participate in family conversations.
In a way, it was lucky that…*this* had happened now, instead of one year ago. If it had to happen at all, at least Ryan now knew he could turn to them-knew it in his heart, not only in his head.
"Pull over," Ryan said suddenly, his voice strained.
Sandy, startled out of his reverie, took a moment to process. "What?"
"Pull over!" Ryan yelled.
Sandy did so, and Ryan rushed out of the car, leaned a hand on the trunk and was violently sick. Sandy turned the key in the ignition, silencing the car, and tried not to grimace at the sounds of retching coming from outside.
He stayed where he was, pondering his options, as he so often did with Ryan whenever there was a crisis-even now.
A sick Seth wanted attention and pity. A sick Ryan wanted to be left the hell alone, thank-you-very-much. Sandy and Kirsten had always respected that side of him, at first because they were afraid Ryan would balk at too much attention, then because it had just become a Ryan trait.
This time, Sandy hesitated, torn again between the need to help and the wish to respect whatever boundaries Ryan set.
He watched Ryan in the rearview mirror, and made a decision when he saw him straighten up and waver. Sandy got out of the car, joined Ryan and put an arm around his shoulders to steady him. "Okay?"
Ryan nodded, eyes closed.
"Ryan…"
"Is there water in the car?"
"Oh. I think so." Sandy had to look for a while, but finally found a half-full bottle under the driver's seat. He automatically smelled it before handing it to Ryan, to make sure it hadn't gone stale; who knew when the bottle had been open? Sandy certainly didn't remember.
Ryan showed a brief smile. "Of all the things to worry about tonight," he said at Sandy's inquisitive look.
Sandy shrugged. "Yeah, well, you know the relationship we townspeople have with bottled water."
Ryan drank and leaned on the back door, closing his eyes.
"Are you okay?"
"Why do I have a feeling I'm going to hear that a lot in the next few days?"
Sandy smiled. "You know the relationship we Cohens have with the spoken words."
Ryan's smile widened.
"And you didn't answer."
"I don't know," Ryan said, his smile fading. He left the car's support and went to his seat. "Can we go?"
Sandy sighed. "Yeah."
Only ten minutes later, as they were pulling up in front of the house, Sandy decided he needed to say something. Ryan had closed his eyes again, and Sandy wondered briefly what he was seeing behind those closed eyelids.
"Ryan?"
Ryan turned to him, opening his eyes with effort.
Sandy wondered if he should wait, unsure how much Ryan would be able to process tonight. But he supposed that he could always repeat it tomorrow. In fact, he could repeat it as often as needed.
"I just wanted to say, you're not going to have to deal with this alone. We're here."
Something flashed in Ryan's eyes then was gone, too quickly for Sandy to interpret. "Yeah," he said.
"Now, I think the lady of the manor wants to see you." Sandy stepped out, and waited for Ryan to join him. "I think you should be prepared for a bone-crushing hug."
Sandy was rewarded by a small smile at that. Encouraged, he added, "You know the relationship we Cohens have with physical displays of affection."
Chapter 3
Author : Helen C.
Rating : PG-13
Summary : Oliver is back, and makes a mess of things again. Set in season 2.
Spoilers : Everything that's been aired up to The Rainy Day Women is fair game.
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.
Acknowledgements : Many thanks to my beta, Joey51.
Chapter 2 : The Police Station
Sandy was not a violent man by any means. He had always, even in his "wilder" days, preferred to fight with his words rather than his fists. Violence resolved nothing. In fact, it usually only worsened any given situation, instead of resolving it.
Sandy was a patient man. He was soft-spoken, he tried to find the humor in life, and he had never lost his idealism, even after all these years spent among the rich, superficial, selfish people of Newport.
Sandy was a lawyer-he talked for a living. Seth had told him once that only therapists talked more than lawyers. Ryan had corrected him; therapists listened while their patients talked, but didn't say much themselves. "No," Ryan had said. "No one speaks more than lawyers." Sandy had heard a muffled, "Except their sons, apparently." Oblivious, Seth had gone off on another tangent and the subject had been forgotten.
But above all else, Sandy was a father. One who would do anything, absolutely anything, to protect his family. Sure, he would love, and protect, and educate, and nurture. He would also die for his family if need be. And he would kill, he would beat up, he would corrupt to keep them safe.
Tonight, however, Sandy's legendary tolerance was wearing thin. His conversational skills were out the window. Tonight, he could see the appeal Ryan found in punching either things or people.
There had been two calls from Officer Peterson-the first one to tell Sandy that Ryan was being driven to the police station. Sandy had heard a brief summary of the situation then-something along the lines of, "Oliver free. Marissa threatened. Ryan phone call. Gun. Oliver dead. Ryan police station." And already, he had wanted the head of whoever had decided to set Oliver free. Hadn't they read the reports saying Oliver was more than able to manipulate people, from a perturbed young girl to the headmistress of a private school?
The second phone call had come fifteen minutes later, as Sandy was driving on the freeway. By then, Officer Peterson seemed to have realized what Sandy had known all along-that Ryan could only have killed Oliver in self-defense.
As soon as Sandy had understood that, in all likelihood, Ryan wouldn't need his professional skills, the lawyer in him had taken a backseat and the father had taken the wheel.
Sandy found himself at the police station without remembering driving there. He could find comfort in the fact that he hadn't had to rush to the hospital. At least the kids weren't hurt. That was a Good Thing.
Definitely.
On autopilot, Sandy went through the doors, headed to the front desk and said, "Ryan Atwood?"
A police officer, a woman with dark hair and tired eyes, looked at him. "Excuse me?"
Sandy gritted his teeth. He reminded himself that she probably saw frantic parents every night, that she was doing a useful job, that she was overworked and underpaid, and that screaming at her wouldn't bring him to Ryan sooner.
"An officer Peterson called me. He said that my foster son, Ryan Atwood, was here." He paused, took a breath, and used all his willpower to ask in clipped tones, rather than yell, "Where. Is. He?" Belatedly, he remembered to add, "Please."
She took her phone, asked for the officer, and after a few hours-just enough time to prepare and launch a space rocket, in Sandy's estimate-an officer approached him.
"Mister Cohen?"
"Officer Peterson?"
They shook hands, and the man guided Sandy through a sea of desks. "We're almost finished with his deposition. It fits with what Miss Cooper told us. When we're done, there'll just be a few papers to sign."
"How are they?"
"Once Miss Cooper was done with her deposition, she got sick again. We called paramedics; they took her to the hospital." Sandy must have looked worried, and Peterson hurried to add, "It's just shock. They'll give her something to sleep. Her mother is on her way to the hospital."
"Ryan?"
The man stopped walking and looked at him compassionately. "He's shocked too. Hanging on. We checked his antecedents."
Sandy called on his inner-lawyer. "His probation is over," he said.
"And he was arrested for stealing a car, not killing people. I know that, Mister Cohen. You have to understand…" He trailed off, studying Sandy for a moment. When the officer went on, it was in a soothing voice. Perhaps, Sandy thought, he was scared to see the rich lawyer suing his ass. "As soon as we entered the room," Peterson said, "Ryan told us he had killed Oliver Trask. We read him his rights, and we waited for reinforcements. When our colleagues arrived, we came here. By that time, Miss Cooper had somewhat recovered and she's the one who told us that Ryan had only been defending himself. Ryan himself didn't speak."
Sandy clenched his fist-he could picture the whole scene very clearly. He hated to think about what must have gone through Ryan's head.
"We didn't book him in," Peterson added. "We took Miss Cooper's deposition first, to check that it was, indeed, self-defense."
Sandy understood and nodded gratefully. By all rights, the cops could have placed Ryan under arrest, booked him in, put him in a holding cell and waited for Sandy to arrive. At that point, with Ryan's antecedents, they would have had to wait for a judge to get Ryan out. And it was Friday night. Ryan would have spent the weekend, at least, in lock up. "Thanks," Sandy said.
Peterson smiled slightly. "He's had a bad night already," he said. "We just didn't act too fast. Just in case."
Sandy nodded again.
"We'll ask him to stay in town until the case is closed," Peterson added. "We may need to see him again to ask a few more questions when he's had some time to pull himself together, but I don't think there'll be a problem. Mister Trask was holding a knife."
Sandy gulped. "A knife?"
"Yes." The man hesitated, then added, "I've seen murderers, Mister Cohen, and Ryan, from what I can tell after talking with him for a few minutes, doesn't seem like one."
Sandy thought about Ryan's propensity to put himself in danger to help others, about his uncanny ability to get either on the wrong side of people, or on the good side, but always immediately. He wondered if there was a word to name the total opposite of a murderer. "He's not."
The man nodded, even though he must have heard this kind of denegation every day, several times a day. He led Sandy to a desk at the back of the room.
Ryan was sitting on a chair, eyes downcast. He was talking to a young policeman who was asking questions and typing Ryan's answers.
Sandy took a good look at Ryan and was surprised by the sudden, violent urge to seek retribution against whoever was responsible for the situation. Oliver was already dead, but certainly, there were other people to blame-Oliver's psychiatrists or his absent parents, for example. All Sandy was asking for was five minutes with someone who had been close to the kid, so that he could yell at them and ask them what they were doing while Oliver was attacking Ryan with a knife.
Studying Ryan's body language had become habit very early in their relationship. Ryan often said more with the way he carried himself than with words.
Kirsten and he had often marveled at the difference between Seth and Ryan-one who said everything with his mouth, and seemed to move uncontrollably, and the other, who comparatively said little but whose movements were always calculated.
Ryan's body spoke volumes tonight.
Sandy had seen Ryan scared before, on several occasions-most noticeably in prison. He had seen him lost, betrayed, confused, angry, hopeful, disappointed, and sometimes all of the above at the same time.
He didn't think he had ever seen Ryan as withdrawn as right now, though.
What Ryan didn't say was often more important than what he did say. While Sandy could hear Ryan say, "We were fighting for the gun, because I was sure he was going to shoot us," he also picked up the underlying, "Am I going back to jail now?"
It was in the way Ryan was staring at the table, in the way his fists were clenched on his thighs, in the way he sat hunched over, in the way his breathing was fast, as if he had been running instead of sitting.
The young officer raised his head and saw Sandy standing there with his colleague. "Sir?"
"Sandy Cohen," he said curtly, his eyes never leaving Ryan.
Ryan finally looked up and watched Sandy briefly before looking away.
Sandy recognized the movement. He had seen it often enough at the beginning, when Ryan didn't trust anyone and was always sizing up the mood of his new guardians before speaking. He had hoped he'd never see that look again. Yet another thing he could thank Oliver for, he thought grimly.
He took two steps toward the chair Ryan was sitting on, seeing the teenager tense slightly. "Are you okay?" he asked in his most neutral voice.
The answer was automatic. "Fine."
He asked again, as if Ryan hadn't answered, "Are you okay?"
Ryan looked at him then, studied him for a long moment. Sandy felt like a new physics experiment that refused to give the expected results under that gaze. Whatever Ryan saw on Sandy’s face made him relax a notch. "Headache," he admitted.
Sandy looked at the cops. Or maybe glared. A little.
It worked.
The youngest detective got to his feet and went away, coming back a minute later with a glass of water and two Tylenols. He handed them to Ryan, who looked at the pills as if he had never seen a headache remedy before. Sandy said softly, "Ryan?"
The boy shook himself and took the proffered pills, swallowing them dry before draining the glass of water. "Thanks," he said.
Sandy took a chair next to Ryan, put a hand on his shoulder and rubbed softly. After a while, he felt Ryan relax a little.
"We're almost done here," the young cop said.
Sandy saw Ryan shiver and rub his left wrist. "Good," Sandy said neutrally. "Then why don't we finish so I can take Ryan home?"
Ryan froze, not looking at anyone. The young cop said cheerfully, "Sure." Ryan looked briefly at Sandy as if to confirm that he was, indeed, going home, before nodding and turning his attention back to the cop.
Sandy leaned back, put a hand on Ryan's arm and let them talk.
* * *
The end of the deposition and the few papers to sign took them one more hour. When it was finally done, Sandy had absorbed the fact that Ryan was still alive and kicking-well, alive and subdued, but they would just have to work on that.
He had allowed himself to relax a little-no more tragedies would strike tonight. As he led an exhausted Ryan to the car, Sandy fumbled in his pocket for his phone.
"I'll call Kirsten; tell her we're on the way," he announced.
Ryan nodded, climbed in the car and put his seatbelt on.
Sandy made his call, reassuring Kirsten, never taking his eyes off Ryan. At some point, as he was saying again that, yes, they would be there in under a half hour, he saw Ryan's fists slowly begin to unclench; now that they were out of the police station, he must have realized that no one was keeping him there.
"How is he?" Kirsten asked.
Sandy hesitated, stumped. Aside from the "still breathing" factor, and the fear that seemed to radiate from Ryan, he hadn't really considered it.
"He's in shock, I think," he said. "He answered the cop's questions, but we didn't really have time to talk."
"Drive carefully," Kirsten said after a short silence.
"Always," Sandy said. She didn't need to know that he could very well have run all the red lights between home and here when he had come, for all he remembered.
* * *
The drive home was mostly silent. Not that Sandy had expected anything else.
He was watching the road, and sneaking a few glances at Ryan from time to time.
Ryan seemed to be sleeping, his head resting on the window, and Sandy thought that sleep was about the only thing that made Ryan look his own age, instead of twenty-five.
Even after eighteen months, Ryan remained an enigma.
Oh, sure, there were obvious truths. Ryan always tried to protect those he held dear, or those he considered defenseless. He wasn't above playing dirty, but generally regretted having done so. He judged people on who they were, not what they owned or what other people thought about them. Ryan had a bit of a white-knight complex, and felt undeserving of love and attention-although Sandy felt hopeful that in this area, at least, they were making progress. Ryan hoped for the best and prepared for the worst, most times without even realizing he was doing it.
Ryan was good at evaluating people-who represented a danger to him, when was it safe to talk and when should he be quiet. Sandy knew it broke Kirsten's heart when she saw that side of Ryan, because no seventeen year old should be *that* good at reading people, that ready to protect himself.
Most of this, however, Sandy already knew or suspected after the first two weeks Ryan had spent with them. He may have learned a few other odd things-Ryan loved to give but didn't know how to gracefully accept a gift, didn't have anything against math and physics, profoundly hated the jock mentality and was a natural at video games-but on Ryan's life before he came to live with the Cohens, Sandy knew little, and on what his life was like in Fresno, virtually nothing.
Sandy had grown better at guessing when it was okay to push Ryan to talk and when he should back off, and until now, the back off signs had never disappeared where Ryan's past was concerned.
Things had been more relaxed since Ryan had come back from Chino in the fall. He seemed more certain of his place with them than he had been before.
A teenage pregnancy was always a nightmare for all concerned. No one ever said so, but everyone knew that some people just kicked their children out when it happened. Sandy had the feeling that the fact that the Cohens hadn't turned their backs on Ryan had confirmed what the kid already suspected; that no matter how bad things were, he was part of the family for the long haul. No matter what Julie Cooper or Caleb "He-Who-Is-An-Ass" Nichol said, Ryan was a Cohen, by choice if not by blood.
Ryan had been more relaxed around them, and it didn't feel like such a chore anymore to make him participate in family conversations.
In a way, it was lucky that…*this* had happened now, instead of one year ago. If it had to happen at all, at least Ryan now knew he could turn to them-knew it in his heart, not only in his head.
"Pull over," Ryan said suddenly, his voice strained.
Sandy, startled out of his reverie, took a moment to process. "What?"
"Pull over!" Ryan yelled.
Sandy did so, and Ryan rushed out of the car, leaned a hand on the trunk and was violently sick. Sandy turned the key in the ignition, silencing the car, and tried not to grimace at the sounds of retching coming from outside.
He stayed where he was, pondering his options, as he so often did with Ryan whenever there was a crisis-even now.
A sick Seth wanted attention and pity. A sick Ryan wanted to be left the hell alone, thank-you-very-much. Sandy and Kirsten had always respected that side of him, at first because they were afraid Ryan would balk at too much attention, then because it had just become a Ryan trait.
This time, Sandy hesitated, torn again between the need to help and the wish to respect whatever boundaries Ryan set.
He watched Ryan in the rearview mirror, and made a decision when he saw him straighten up and waver. Sandy got out of the car, joined Ryan and put an arm around his shoulders to steady him. "Okay?"
Ryan nodded, eyes closed.
"Ryan…"
"Is there water in the car?"
"Oh. I think so." Sandy had to look for a while, but finally found a half-full bottle under the driver's seat. He automatically smelled it before handing it to Ryan, to make sure it hadn't gone stale; who knew when the bottle had been open? Sandy certainly didn't remember.
Ryan showed a brief smile. "Of all the things to worry about tonight," he said at Sandy's inquisitive look.
Sandy shrugged. "Yeah, well, you know the relationship we townspeople have with bottled water."
Ryan drank and leaned on the back door, closing his eyes.
"Are you okay?"
"Why do I have a feeling I'm going to hear that a lot in the next few days?"
Sandy smiled. "You know the relationship we Cohens have with the spoken words."
Ryan's smile widened.
"And you didn't answer."
"I don't know," Ryan said, his smile fading. He left the car's support and went to his seat. "Can we go?"
Sandy sighed. "Yeah."
Only ten minutes later, as they were pulling up in front of the house, Sandy decided he needed to say something. Ryan had closed his eyes again, and Sandy wondered briefly what he was seeing behind those closed eyelids.
"Ryan?"
Ryan turned to him, opening his eyes with effort.
Sandy wondered if he should wait, unsure how much Ryan would be able to process tonight. But he supposed that he could always repeat it tomorrow. In fact, he could repeat it as often as needed.
"I just wanted to say, you're not going to have to deal with this alone. We're here."
Something flashed in Ryan's eyes then was gone, too quickly for Sandy to interpret. "Yeah," he said.
"Now, I think the lady of the manor wants to see you." Sandy stepped out, and waited for Ryan to join him. "I think you should be prepared for a bone-crushing hug."
Sandy was rewarded by a small smile at that. Encouraged, he added, "You know the relationship we Cohens have with physical displays of affection."
Chapter 3