Disclaimer: I don't own any of this. Several lines of dialogue and two scenes were taken directly from the episode The Gamble. As far as I'm concerned, the long-sleeved jumpsuit and Safe-T shoes belong to Maud.

Summary: Missing scene(s) from The Gamble. What exactly happened between Ryan's fight in juvenile hall and the moment when Sandy found him, safe and sound, back in the Cohen house?

Author's notes: I can't begin to give enough credit to Maud, my amazing (and very demanding, but in a good way!) beta, for her brilliant, always insightful and very patient help with this story. Thanks also to AKA, who offered some great advice and lots of encouragement. And, of course, thank you to the regular posters in the Ryan thread at TWoP. For better or worse, this story never would have happened without them.

Chapter 1

The shoes came without laces in juvenile hall. Not for the first time, Ryan wondered what it would take for a kid locked up in juvie to hang himself with his own shoelaces. He knew that kids outside, kids in the real world or in places like Newport, sometimes killed themselves over the smallest injustices—broken hearts or bad grades or divorced parents or relentless teasing at school. Ryan didn't begrudge them their personal tragedies. But he also knew that it would take more than years of being beaten and neglected by his own family to drive him to kill himself with his own shoelaces. What it would actually take wasn't a question he was about to consider, especially not now.

Ryan realized he was staring at his shoes again, and glanced back at the book in his hands. His concentration was blown. He'd barely been able to form a complete thought in three days. It didn't help that in this bleak, windowless recreation room, where the folding chairs were bent from being kicked too many times and the one sofa was so dirty it felt moist, the noises came from all sides, like an assault. The television was turned up too loud, and the other boys were alternately cheering and swearing at the game. Ryan sat to the side, alone, as far as he could get away from the television without drawing attention to himself as someone who refused to join. They were watching basketball, two teams that Ryan didn't recognize. He wasn't much of a sports fan.

Ryan swept a hand over his eyes and blinked tiredly. The overly loud TV was doing nothing for nerves that were already frayed from too little sleep and too much thinking. He looked down at the book, trying one more time to focus on the words, and turned a page. The words didn't match up with what he'd just read, so he flipped back a page, flipped forward, and sighed. This copy of Huckleberry Finn, borrowed from the makeshift library that consisted of exactly one bookcase in the back of the rec room, wasn't just missing the cover. Pages 34-42 had been ripped out too. He got up to return the book to the so-called library and try to find something to read that hadn't been destroyed.

"Atwood. Clemmins. Martinez. Ruiz."

Ryan paused at his name and turned his head toward the guard standing at the doorway, a clipboard in his hand. When he saw three other boys get up and approach the guard, he followed, tucking the book under his arm.

"You've all got visitors. Report to the family center in 5 minutes."

Ryan wanted to ask who would be visiting him, but none of the other boys spoke up, and the guard left without another word. He returned the book to the library, then waited for the three other boys to leave before he followed behind them to the family center, where all visits—even if no family was involved, he thought bitterly—took place.

As he walked past gates and cages where kids mingled in small groups and everyone avoided eye contact, Ryan tried to figure out who would visit him. He'd been locked up for three days, and his only visitor had been Mr. Cohen. It was too soon for another meeting with his lawyer, and certainly none of Ryan's family would be visiting him. Ryan wasn't sure that he wanted to see anybody, or rather that he wanted anybody to see him, like this. But his curiosity was more compelling than his shame, and anyway, he would jump at any excuse to break away from the rest of the kids, even for a few minutes.

He was cautious as he walked into the family center, and when he swept the area with his eyes he saw, in the corner, the boy who had attacked him that morning in the cafeteria. The other boy didn't seem to notice him, and Ryan took a seat in the middle of the room at the only table available. He glanced to his right, and felt his stomach twist painfully when he saw Seth Cohen.

Ryan forced his face to remain impassive even as he felt his heart racing and his throat closing up, making it difficult to breathe. When Seth waved, Ryan was barely able to pick up an arm and wave back. Mrs. Cohen was with him. Ryan wanted to get up and leave, walk out before they could sit with him and ask him questions. He wanted to push back from the table and run. He was tired and hungry and pissed off and he could not face them right now.

Seth walked over to the table while Mrs. Cohen signed them in, and Ryan
looked away just as he sat down.

"Hey," Seth said. Ryan looked back over his shoulder, at the other kids with their families. "What happened to your neck?"

Ryan shrugged and glanced the other way, feeling exposed and hating it.

"Nothing."

"You okay?"

Ryan nearly laughed at the question. He was about as far from okay as he'd ever been.

"Great."

Mrs. Cohen was standing behind him now, refusing to sit with him. She didn't say hello, didn't so much as nod in his direction. He didn't need to look at her to feel her apprehension. She didn't want to be there, not visiting this kid who had caused nothing but trouble for her family. He swung his eyes to her, back to Seth, to his hands, to the table. He didn't know where to look or what was expected of him. Why they were even here.

"So I'm sorry the plan didn't work," Seth said. "I thought I had it figured out. I thought you were safe. I was wrong."

Ryan was barely listening to the words. The last time he'd seen Seth he'd been beaten and terrified and full of a terrible shame and guilt for what he'd done to the Cohens. Ryan hadn't even been able to look at Seth then. Now Seth was talking about blame and forgiveness and Ryan couldn't begin to process any of it. His head was buzzing, and he could feel Mrs. Cohen still standing behind him.

"Hey, what's the matter, huh? Give me a smile."

It was the boy from the cafeteria, the one with the fork. Ryan saw him from the corner of his eye, saw that he was watching Mrs. Cohen. He felt his legs tense under the table. He took a deep breath, held it, turned back to Seth. Seth was saying something about Marissa now, but Ryan couldn't concentrate on that. He saw Seth stumbling, searching for words, anything to say to break up the tension.

"You got a nice swerve on you, lady. You fine."

This wasn't going to stop.

"Hey. Leave her alone," Ryan called out. He didn't look back. He didn't want to start anything. But he couldn't let it go.

"Ryan, it's okay," Mrs. Cohen said from behind him. She seemed confident, in control. He wasn't.

"You jokin'? Is this your little honey?" Ryan could hear the other boy approaching now, walking behind him. "C'mere, bitch, I wanna get a good look at you."

"Seth, let's go. Now." Mrs. Cohen. She was worried. This was wrong.

"Uh, guard." Seth was confused. Ryan focused, felt his shoulders tense.

"I only need like two minutes."

"Leave her alone," Ryan said, a warning.

"Seth. Now." Mrs. Cohen was panicked now, or close to it.

"What you gonna do about it?"

Ryan bolted, no thought, no plan. On instinct he led with his shoulder, pinning the other boy to the wall with his body. He held him there for just a second before he lost the upper hand. Ryan was shoved to the floor, scrambling for balance, to get his hands up to fight, kicking to get away. The other boy was on top and they were flying at each other and nothing else mattered. He could hear people yelling, hear his own grunts as fists landed on his face, his chest, his stomach, and it didn't matter.

Then the guards were there, pulling them apart, and Ryan struggled, fought the thick arms over his chest. He wasn't done, not even close to it. He lunged at the other boy, his arms flailing as he tried to make contact, desperate to hit anything. He felt his feet lifted off the ground and he kicked. The room was a blur of colors and shapes and sounds that didn't make any sense and all he wanted was something to get in his way so he could kick or hit or just run at it, but there was nothing left.

So finally he gave in. And when they dragged him past Seth and Mrs. Cohen, where they were huddled at the edge of the family center, he looked away, terrified that they would see the raw emotion on his face.

+++++

As soon as they were out of the family center the guard pushed Ryan against a wall, one arm pressed into the small of his back and the other against the back of his neck, holding him still while the gates slid shut. Ryan planted his hands on the wall on either side of his body, pushing back to try to gain some leverage against the guard. His chest felt constricted as he panted and he closed his eyes briefly, pressing his cheek and forehead into the concrete. When he opened his eyes again, to his left he could see the other boy, still struggling against the guard, in the same position as Ryan several feet away. A new guard came up behind Ryan and pulled his arms back, clicking the handcuffs in place, and Ryan calmed himself immediately. It was out of his hands now. He was breathing hard and his heart was pumping so fast he could feel it in his chest and he was shaking all over. But he was in control. A guard yanked on his arms so he stumbled backwards, and then led him down the hall without a word. As they walked past the other boy, he glared at Ryan and moved his head as though to spit or yell, but was quickly shoved back against the wall. Ryan stared at his feet as they walked on.

He could still feel the thrill and rage of the fight, boiling just below the surface and throbbing at his temples and in his fists. But he held himself very still as they walked, thinking only of breathing and of the floor that needed to be mopped and the way the handcuffs felt cool and heavy around his wrists. They turned two corners and stopped halfway down an empty hall, where the guard pushed him into a room with a soft shove on the back. The handcuffs were removed, and then Ryan heard the door lock behind him.

The room was off-white and clean, but the walls were faded and bore the marks of years of abuse—scuff marks on the floors, undoubtedly from kids who had been forced to stay there, and sections of wall that clearly had been patched up and repaired from kicks or punches. It was empty inside, save for a security camera near the door and a bench that jutted out from one wall. Ryan went straight to the bench, where he sat with his legs folded to his chest and his back pressed into a corner.

It was too bright in there, with fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. He folded himself away from the camera. He tried not to think about it, the people watching him.

Ryan thought he'd never been so tired in his life. He wasn't entirely sure when he'd last had a full night's sleep. Certainly not since being brought back to juvie. He balled his hands into fists and rubbed at dry, itchy eyes. He wanted nothing more than to drop his head into his hands and sleep, just forget about this day—or hell, this life—for a few hours. But there was the adrenaline still racing through him from the fight, and that electric buzz from the ceiling and the red light from the camera blinking at him, watching.

His face hurt and his ribs ached and he had a headache that throbbed behind his eyes. He was tired and his legs and arms felt like dead weight, too heavy to lift. But between the aches and the exhaustion he couldn't think straight, and that was a good thing.

He rubbed his eyes again and when he lowered his hands to cross them over his knees, he saw that he was still shaking. He'd thought that if he could huddle in the corner, make himself small again, rest his legs and close his eyes, maybe he could get his body back under control. It wasn't working. Not yet. He lowered his head to his hands and let his eyelids slide shut, but when his body jumped beneath his skin and his thoughts continued to cartwheel around his head, he gave up on trying to sleep and stared down at his feet instead. At the shoes with no laces. Ryan lifted his head and without even thinking banged it once, hard against the wall behind him. He saw stars flash at the edge of his vision and his eyes watered.

It felt good. So when an image of Seth—innocent Seth, too kind for his own good, apologizing for the trouble he'd caused—jumped unexpected into his thoughts, Ryan pounded his fist into the wall. He saw Mrs. Cohen, tugging at her rings, hands fluttering at her chest, and he punched again. Mr. Cohen, telling Ryan he shouldn't have run away, that he could have been killed. Another punch. Ryan clutched his hand to his chest. He was breathing heavy again and his vision blurred as his eyes flooded with tears, but he wasn't shaking and he wasn't thinking. Ryan looked down at his hand; the knuckles were red and already swelling but not bloodied. He let the too-long sleeves of his jumpsuit fall over his hands, which he balled into fists so they nearly disappeared beneath the coarse blue fabric. He folded his arms over his knees and dropped his head onto his hands. He still couldn't sleep, but at least he wasn't shaking anymore. He would get through this.

+++++

Ryan had no way of knowing how much time had passed before the door clicked open and the same guard who had brought him there walked back in. He nodded at Ryan and told him to get up, moving his hand in a circle so that Ryan knew to turn around and place his arms behind him for the handcuffs. After sitting so long in one position, he didn't mind standing with his arms behind his back. He resisted the urge to stretch or even roll his shoulders and work out a knot in his neck. Without a word, Ryan allowed the guard to walk him out of the room.

They walked away from the main detention center, Ryan trying to keep a half step ahead so the guard would not need to prod him along. He knew immediately that they were headed to see his parole officer. It wasn't a meeting Ryan was looking forward to, but it also wasn't unexpected and he wasn't particularly worried. They had told him when he'd first been admitted what kind of punishments met kids who screwed up in juvie. He was facing limited free time in the recreation area or not being allowed school privileges for a few days. Maybe they would take away his copy of Huck Finn. In other words, he wasn't too worried about the consequences. When Ryan and the guard stopped at the door that led to his PO's office, Ryan dropped his head and consciously forced his hands, which had balled themselves into fists behind him, to relax.

"Atwood. Come in."

Mr. Little barely looked up from his desk as Ryan was hustled into the office. Despite the name, the parole officer was a large, bearded man who seemed out of place in the tiny closet of an office, where he was wedged between a desk stacked high with papers and three file cabinets that looked ready to topple. Mr. Little's tie was loose at the neck, his sleeves were rolled up, and Ryan could see even from across the desk that his glasses were dirty.

The guard unlocked Ryan's hands and left the room without a word. Ryan waited for a nod from Mr. Little before he sat in the folding chair on the other side of the desk, pushing up the sleeves of his jumpsuit. He glanced at a clock to his right: 3 p.m. He'd been locked in that room for nearly four hours.

Mr. Little kept his head down for several long moments, making quick notes in a file, and then more notes in another file. Hanging over the cabinets, one corner curled up and torn, hung a poster of a space shuttle taking off with what Ryan presumed was a motivational line printed beneath it: "Dare to Dream. Create your future today."

Ryan dropped his eyes and found himself staring at the shiny bald spot in the very middle of Mr. Little's head. He quickly lowered his gaze back to the floor before he was caught.

"So," Mr. Little began, and Ryan continued to fix his eyes on a smudge on the floor, "what the hell did you think you were doing?"

Mr. Little was a fan of the tough love genre of discipline. Ryan had figured that out when he'd first met the man earlier in the week after being arrested. He had a fair amount of experience with these kinds of men: coaches or teachers who were convinced that kids like Ryan needed stern guidance and a heavy hand—although not exactly as heavy as someone like AJ—to "get back on track" and "make something of themselves." Those were their catch phrases. The problem was, they didn't know kids like Ryan. They didn't know anything at all about Ryan.

He kept his eyes glued to the floor during the lecture.

"What'd I tell you about fighting in here? It won't get you anything but trouble," Mr. Little said, and Ryan thought the disappointment in his voice sounded forced, like he really didn't care at all but was determined to make Ryan believe otherwise. "And why'd you have to go after Torres of all kids? That guy's got friends in here who're just begging for an excuse to wipe these halls with anyone's ass, and especially some scrawny white kid like you."

Ryan gritted his teeth and felt the muscles in his jaw grow tight, but he didn't blink, didn't look up. He hadn't wanted to fight that kid. He'd had no choice.

He could feel Mr. Little staring at him, trying to win some kind of reaction from him, but finally the man sighed loudly and leaned back in his chair, which squeaked under his weight. Mr. Little made a show of taking his glasses off and rubbing his eyes. He sighed again and leaned back toward the desk.

"Well, you're damned lucky, Atwood," he said. "I actually have some good news for you."

Ryan frowned at that and looked up, briefly meeting Mr. Little's eyes.

"You're getting out of here." Mr. Little must have read the confusion on Ryan's face, because he continued before Ryan could voice a question. "That family," and Mr. Little pulled another file toward him, flipping through a few pages, "the Cohens, they're taking you in."

Mr. Little kept on talking—about how Mrs. Cohen must have called in favors from several well-placed connections in order to get Ryan released so quickly, and how Ryan must have made quite an impact on the family to get the attention of such powerful people—but Ryan barely understood the words. He let his mouth drop open and his eyes felt frozen wide in surprise. He could hardly breathe. He didn't know what to think. He didn't know where this change of heart had come from.

Except, when he thought about it, he did know, and he didn't like the reasoning behind it. Mrs. Cohen thought she was indebted to him. She thought she owed him because he had "rescued" her from that other kid. Ryan couldn't let her think that. He owed them everything, not the other way around. Ryan blinked and swallowed thickly. His mouth felt dry and he really wanted a glass of water.

"Hey, Atwood, you all right?" Ryan jumped at his name and darted his eyes toward Mr. Little before dropping his gaze back to his lap, where he saw that his hands were clenched into fists again.

"Is there something wrong?" Mr. Little sounded truly concerned now. He lowered his head to try to meet Ryan's eyes. "Ryan, do you not want to go with the Cohens?"

"No," Ryan managed to croak. He swallowed and tried again. "No, no, it's great. They're great."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah, no, they're great." Ryan didn't even attempt a smile.

Mr. Little studied Ryan for another moment, then leaned back in his chair and folded his heavy arms over his chest. "Okay then, let's get you out of here."

+++++

There were some papers to sign and Mr. Little offered a stern lecture that he probably delivered to every one of his outgoing delinquents, but Ryan felt numb and dizzy, and he concentrated only hard enough on the speech to be able to nod in all the right places. When the guard returned and Ryan stood up, he became lightheaded for a moment and blinked a few times to get his bearings. Mr. Little, head bowed over his desk and already focused on the next file, didn't notice. The guard didn't need the handcuffs this time, and when he reached out and touched Ryan's arm to guide him from the room, Ryan jumped and nearly yelped in surprise. His heart was racing and every part of him felt so tense he wondered if he'd be sore the next day. He took a deep breath and followed the guard through the door. His head was really starting to ache.

A short walk through mostly empty hallways and they ended up in the same part of the facility where Ryan had first been admitted. Through an open door, Ryan saw six boys in street clothes waiting in chairs, most of them sitting straight and nervous, two of them lounging as though they were in their own homes, watching TV. These were boys about to be processed into juvie. Ryan had been one of the nervous ones.

They stopped at the end of the hallway and the guard pushed open the last door.

"Your stuff's inside," the guard said. "Get changed and leave the jumpsuit in there. Knock when you're done."

Ryan stepped into the room and heard the door lock behind him. He was in a bathroom. A toilet and sink were to his left; to his right was a table, with a plastic tub on top that contained everything he had left in the world. It was barely bigger than a shoebox.

He peeled off the lid and winced as he was immediately assaulted by the bitter smell of smoke. Apparently his clothes hadn't been washed, and several days locked in a glorified Tupperware container hadn't helped. He sighed and dumped his boots and clothes on the table. His wrist cuff and choker fell out last. Ryan kicked off the lace-less shoes and popped open the buttons of the jumpsuit, shrugging it off his shoulders and past his hips until it puddled on the floor and he could step out of it. He wished putting on his own clothes made him feel better, more comfortable, but the pungent smell rolling off his jeans and shirt made him wrinkle his nose in disgust. The white T-shirt was still covered in dirt from when Luke had dumped him to the ground after pulling him out of the fire. He was just glad he hadn't bled all over it.

Ryan picked the jumpsuit up off the floor and folded it neatly before setting it in the plastic tub. He set the lace-less shoes on top and pushed at the corners of the lid until it was sealed in place. He was just snapping the wrist cuff back on when a knock came at the bathroom door and the guard asked if he was ready. Ryan slipped the choker into his jacket pocket and knocked back.

+++++

They were back in the heart of juvie, where the kids were huddled in groups, snarling and yelling at each other. Ryan rubbed at his wrist cuff as he was walked out of the detention center, past throngs of kids who hurled insults and laughter at him, but kept their hands to themselves. As he rounded the last corner and caught sight of Seth and Mrs. Cohen waiting for him at the end of the hall, he dropped his head. He didn't look up again until he was stopped before the last gate. He watched as it rolled open and Seth beamed at him. Ryan had barely walked two steps past the gate before Seth wrapped him in an impulsive hug. Ryan stiffened at the contact, involuntarily leaning back, away from Seth, unable to return the gesture. Seth released him without comment, then took a step back and offered a friendly, but shy, "hey." Ryan glanced up at his face long enough to offer his own quiet "hey" in return, then turned to Mrs. Cohen.

She was standing a few feet behind Seth, one hand clutching at her neck, the other arm crossed over her belly as though she felt sick. He saw her anxiety, saw her doubt, the way she tried to smile hopefully at him and came up short.

"Are you okay?" she asked, her voice quiet but earnest. He was caught off guard by her concern, and before he could stop it, he felt his eyes flood and his cheeks flush. He felt himself crumpling inside, felt his control slipping. He looked down at his feet, and concentrated on breathing and blinking away the tears.

"Yeah," he said, still staring at his scuffed boots. "Yeah, I'm-" he heard the way his voice shook and paused, frowning. He swallowed hard and forced himself to look up at her.

"Thank you," he said softly, before looking away again. He wanted to tell her she didn't have to do this. He wanted to explain that he hadn't attacked that boy to prove himself to her, or to make them want him again. She didn't have to take him home with her. But he couldn't bear the thought of going back inside, of returning to his bunk and those loud, horrible noises in the night that made it nearly impossible to sleep. He wanted to leave with Seth and Mrs. Cohen, and he hated that he needed them so badly right now.

"Let's get out of here," Mrs. Cohen said. She turned and led them outside. Ryan didn't look back.