Disclaimer: I own nothing but the mistakes that remain. The OC and the characters portrayed therein are solely the possession of Josh Schwartz & Co., which is entirely a pity IMO, but…whatever and no one asked for my opinion, anyway.

pets Trey

Author's Notes: This is completely AU as Papa!Atwood! is not, in fact, played by teh Sorbo. Beta thanks go out to overnighter and crashcmb. I bow and avert my eyes, whenever I'm in their cyber-presence and I suggest y'all do the same.

This chapter is dedicated to cereselle, to whom I promised a belated birthday crack!Winchester!fic!, but this one seemed kinda lonely (sorry, dude, I'm kinda a sucky present-giver)…and to katwoman76, who kept reminding me that Ryan was still standing in the middle of the sidewalk in a crappy part of Chino, all beat up and shit. Which? Hee!

It's been a while, so I'm a bit rusty, please be kind.

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The toolbox was heavier than it looked and Ryan gave a slight, involuntary gasp as he struggled—first in an attempt not to pitch forward and unceremoniously face-plant into the concrete—and then to actually straighten up under its weight. A weight, which put unwanted strain on the already excruciating tenderness that comprised the muscles in his stomach and thigh. Ryan was seriously debating whether he'd be able to carry the damned thing the 20-odd feet to his brother's front steps without causing any further damage to himself when Paulo came back from securing the gun in his car and took the box off of him, lifting it easily out of Ryan's right hand.

"You doing okay, man?" Paulo asked, sounding genuinely concerned.

"Yeah, thanks," Ryan replied, grateful for the help. "It's just…I mean, this doesn't look like the best of neighborhoods to be leaving stuff around," he offered, by way of explanation.

"So, as busted up as you are, you're hauling Trey's shit in for him?" Paulo sounded incredulous.

Ryan attempted a shrug, but quickly aborted the effort, grimacing despite himself when a particularly painful stitch surprised him by running all the way up his left shoulder and implanting itself deeply into the back of his neck. Crap! He'd just raised his right shoulder, and only slightly at that.

"Damn, Ryan. You sure the two of you are related?"

Ryan forced a tight smile as he nodded his assent. It certainly wasn't the first time he'd been asked that question. Nor, he was sure, would it be the last. After all, he'd played the good one, the quiet one, to Trey's—well, to Trey's utter fuckupedness for so long now that it was hard even for him to remember that there had been a time when Trey hadn't been like this. A time when the difference between the Atwood boys, while readily evident, hadn't been nearly as striking.

Ryan had always been the serious one—quiet and contemplative—more of an observer than a doer. And Trey'd always been—well, Trey'd always been Trey—the definition of which was pretty much Ryan's opposite. He'd been born a bona fide smartass, a character trait Ryan was convinced was indelibly imprinted on his DNA, as much a part of his genetic makeup as his darker hair and eyes. A trait that might not have been particularly damaging on its own, but since Trey'd also apparently been born lacking any semblance whatsoever of whatever it was that made most people think twice before executing what was clearly a really, glaringly, ridiculously boneheaded move? Well, it made for a deadly combination.

Deadly—well mostly deadly for Trey, since Trey couldn't not mouth off if the opportunity presented itself. Not even if his life depended on it. A fact Ryan knew with absolute certainty, if only based on the amount of time Trey spent getting the ever-loving crap beaten out of him for opening his mouth at incredibly inopportune moments as a kid. Times when even a brain-damaged manatee would not have been particularly hard-pressed to point out that Trey really ought to have known better.

But, as their father used to like to say, the words "bad" and "idea" had never actually made each other's acquaintance—Hell, they had not once shook hands, waved, nodded in recognition, glanced in the general direction of, or even inadvertently bumped into each other—while rattling around inside of Trey's head.

But, despite Trey's smart-alecky demeanor and his absolute inability to employ even a modicum of impulse control, he'd still been basically a good kid. Or, if not so much a good kid, at least one with a decent heart.

Of this, Ryan was sure. For as long as Ryan could remember, it had been just Trey and him, the two of them against the world.

Their dad had been a mean drunk. He was prone to beating up on the boys and on their mother, especially after getting liquored up; an occurrence that had happened more and more frequently in the years leading up to his arrest. Really, though, even if pressed, Ryan couldn't remember a time when more than a month or so passed without either Trey or him—and sometimes both—getting pummeled by their dad. Trey, mostly, because he was older and more visible. More visible, of course, by virtue of being more audible. Or audible at all.

Ryan figured that whole weeks had gone by, as a child, when—in trying to go unnoticed, trying not to get hit—he might not have said more than a few words in an entire day. Hell, even now he rarely talked, unless directly spoken to. But Trey?

Ryan knew that Trey had probably never been silent for eight straight hours in his entire lifetime…and that included his time asleep. Ryan knew from long experience that Trey was a habitual—and often quite entertaining—sleep-talker. Ryan had been chagrined to learn at an early age that his brother's ability to crack wise had no apparent correlation to his ability to connect to his conscious mind.

Truth be told, though, sometimes the choices Trey made deliberately were as baffling to Ryan as his brother's creative, dreamtime insults. Especially during those rare periods when the house had been quiet for a while.

Ryan could distinctly remember a time when the two of them were hunkered down in their bedroom in the old house in Fresno. They were lying low on a Friday night after their father had come home late from work with his face flushed, his words thick, and his gait just a bit clumsy. The boys had taken cover while their mother and he had argued briefly, but loudly. The fight had ended abruptly when she had stormed out, slamming the door behind.

They'd watched from the window as she'd flung the door of their father's battered pickup open and thrown her purse onto the front seat, climbing in after it. She'd slammed the door, then turned the ignition several times with little success—the engine turning, sputtering, but ultimately failing to catch—and whining in just a slightly higher register with each new attempt. They'd stood at their window, silent, as they waited for their mother to turn the engine for a final time. That final time when her angry twist of the key would offer nothing in return but silence. A silence that would only be broken by a soft, barely audible click of the useless starter. Well that and the slamming of the house's front door a few moments later as their father came flying out, flinging obscenities—if not his fists—at his wife and bringing the neighbors to their windows and the cops to the Atwoods' yard once more.

The boys had released a collective breath when their mother had finally given up, slamming the steering wheel repeatedly with both hands before gripping the top of the wheel, hunching over and laying her forehead on top of her knuckles. They'd continued to watch her shadowy form in silence for a few minutes as she sat alone, shoulders heaving.

An 8-year-old Ryan's first impulse had been to go to her. To climb into the truck. To climb into her lap. To make her feel better. Or at least to try. He'd even reached for the handle at the bottom of the window, braced himself to heave it up and haul himself through, when Trey had grabbed his hand to stop him.

"Don't, Ry."

"Why not, Trey? She's crying!"

Trey had dropped Ryan's hand and turned his back to the window.

"That's not what she needs. You're not what she needs," he'd whispered, staring through narrowly slitted eyes at their bedroom door. "Hell, you're not even what she wants."

As Ryan had waited for Trey to continue, he'd followed his brother's line of sight to the only light in the darkened room—that which seeped in from the hallway and forced its way through the cracks around the door, where it had hung unevenly on its hinges ever since the night a few years before when their father had ripped it half off, while chasing after his elder son, who'd badly miscalculated his own speed and unwisely thought that he could outrun his old man and make his escape out the bedroom window, unscathed.

As a result of that battered door, Ryan had been able to hear the television coming from the living room, and even seven years later, he remembered that it had been tuned into a college basketball game. He could call up a vision of his father—sitting on the couch in front of it—just as easily now, standing in front of Trey's house in the very worst part of Chino, as he could then, in their bedroom in a marginally less shitty part of Fresno. He'd be sitting, his feet propped up on the weathered soft pine of the coffee table. Most likely with an open beer and a lit cigarette in hand.

The boys had known even then that, as long as they stayed quiet, the odds were in their favor that he wouldn't come looking for them. There was little need for them to leave the bedroom again that night and Ryan had figured, with eight long years of experience under his belt, there was no real reason why it shouldn't have been just one more night in an unusually long string of nights that they could chalk up as a relative success. No reason at all.

That is, of course, until he asked the question.

"What do you think she wants?" Ryan had asked, keeping his voice a low whisper to match his brother's, and turning his back on the scene in the window behind them as well.

Trey had exaggerated a shrug that was impossible to miss, even in the darkness surrounding them.

"She wants what we all want, Ry. She wants to stop holding her breath and counting the minutes till Mount Assuvius blows."

"What're you talking about?"

Ryan hadn't understood him at all.

"C'mon, Ryan. You know it. I know it. She knows it. Dad hasn't lost it on anyone in a real long while."

"So? Isn't that a good thing?"

Ryan had been confused. He had not yet arrived at the inevitable and disastrous terminus of his brother's train of thought.

"No, it's not a good thing, Ry."

Trey's whisper had sharpened, but he had broken off whatever he was going to say next at the unmistakable ka-thunk of the truck's door opening and closing. The boys had turned and watched as their mother threw the straps of her purse over her shoulder, turned on her heel, strode purposely down the sidewalk, and rounded the corner.

Once she'd disappeared from sight, Trey had turned slowly from the window and trained his hostile stare at the bedroom's door again, this time leaning back, crossing his arms, and resting his ass lightly against the window's low sill.

"He's due," he'd said simply, his voice returning to a normal tone, but jutting his chin towards the door. "Or, I guess what I really mean to say is, one of us is due."

"But, it doesn't have to be now. It doesn't have to be tonight," Ryan had whispered furiously, shaking his head, still desperately trying to hold onto the fleeting hope that the night might not end badly. An exercise that he was quickly finding as frustrating as trying to grab onto an echo. One left by the wisp of a dream. It was as frustrating and as futile.

"Yeah, now. Yeah, tonight," Trey had said matter-of-factly, like it was a foregone conclusion.

"Just think about it, Ryan. Mom just left to get her drink on. Dad's already loaded. He ain't gone all Bobby Cox on any of our asses in what? Three weeks? A month? Longer, even? He's pissed at her. She's pissed at him. He's sitting out there beering it up and waiting for her to come back. And Mom? Well, she'll be at the Grog soon enough, knocking back her 'one-fours' and seething about how she managed to get knocked up by such a Herculean prick. Twice, even. There's no way this is ending okay, Ry. Not tonight. No fucking way."

Trey had waved his head vaguely in the direction of the bedroom door and then pushed off of the windowsill to take two steps towards the bed, and back again.

"Eventually, Mom's gonna come home tonight. She's gonna come through that door and she's gonna be drunk and she's gonna be pissed off and she ain't exactly gonna be any less stupid. So, she's gonna lay into Dad with whatever shit she's been stewing in for however long she's been bellied-up to the bar slamming down the booze and practicing what she thinks she's got to say to him. But by then, Ry? By then, all Dad's gonna see is…baby seal."

He had paused, and then nodded slowly, before he had said, almost to himself.

"Yep. Mom's toast."

Trey's scenario had had a certain, irrefutable logic to it and Ryan had borne witness to the scene his brother had described far too many times for his stomach not to have started twisting itself up with worry. The queasy feeling that he'd had just a few minutes before, when his mother had threatened to kill the truck's engine, had come back with a vengeance, too. He had been sure, however, that unlike that lucky break, there would be very little chance that it would be assuaged at any point again before the night's events had played themselves out to Trey's inevitable conclusion.

That was the one thing that Ryan had been sure of—right on up to and including the moment when he had fallen asleep somewhere on the other side of 1:00 a.m.

When Ryan had been rudely jolted back into consciousness some time later by a loud rapping on the house's front door, the first thing he'd noticed was that, while the bedroom was still dark, it was also being lit in alternating shades of florescent red and blue. So, the cops were there. He'd presumed that he'd somehow managed to sleep through whatever it was that had happened between his parents after his mother had gotten home. Well that, and that at least one of their neighbors wasn't nearly as deep a sleeper as he was.

Ryan had known, from past experience, that the police were required to take his dad in if he'd left a mark on his mom. He'd also known from past experience, that if the ruckus had been loud enough to have garnered the neighbors' attention—loud enough for someone to have called the cops—well, there was little doubt that his mom would be sporting a prominent welt or a handprint, at least, if not a lip, cheek, or nose that was torn and bleeding.

Ryan had thrown back his blanket, swung his legs off the bed, and slipped out, dropping to the floor, before he'd noticed that Trey's bed was empty. Not that it had come as any sort of a surprise, all things considered. He had just hoped that his brother hadn't done anything stupid.

Of course, if he'd really been paying attention, Ryan might also have noticed that the bare wood of the floor was unusually cold beneath his feet. Or that their bedroom window was ajar, its shade raised just enough to reveal what appeared to be a Trey-sized opening. But Ryan had been too preoccupied, trying to hear what was going on in the other room over the suddenly thunderous beating of his own heart.

When he couldn't make out what was happening from his spot hunkered down right inside the bedroom, despite pressing his ear to the sizable, if uneven, crack between the door and the jamb, Ryan had opened the door to the hallway. As he'd walked out and blinked several times to adjust to the brightness, he'd heard the unmistakable sound of a stranger speaking in a stern and authoritative tone. A cop, no doubt.

What had been unsettling, though, was that he hadn't immediately heard his mother. He'd thought that he should hear his mother. She should have been sobbing—or shrieking—uncontrollably, as she usually did, when the cops showed up…begging and pleading that she was okay…that they'd misunderstood…and please…would they please, please, please not drag her husband away. It had been equally unsettling that he hadn't immediately heard his father, either, who should have been shouting, as he usually did—in a voice angry and laced with profanity.

Although Ryan had mentally braced himself before tentatively entering the living room, what he saw once he got there was such a huge disconnect from what he had expected to see that it had taken his brain several seconds to process the scene playing out before him. Once it had, though, it hit him with a physical force and he'd had to fight the sudden urge to run to the bathroom and puke up his twisted guts.

Instead, Ryan had stared at the opened doorway and had yelped a strangled, but concerned, "Trey!" before taking another step into the room.

"Ryan…back to bed," his father had tossed over his shoulder, not turning from where he was standing by the front door, a lit cigarette dangling loosely from the fingers of his right hand, held down by his jean-clad thigh, with what must have been close to an inch of ash hanging precariously from its end.

The cop, a large youngish-looking guy with a blond crew-cut, who Ryan hadn't recognized from any of half a dozen previous Atwood interventions in the last several years, had been in the doorway, his right hand resting heavily on Trey's left shoulder. Trey, who had improbably appeared to have his hands cuffed behind his back, was standing still, though his head was angled slightly back, his gaze aimed directly at their father, in the same intense and hostile manner that he'd been glaring at the bedroom door just a few hours before—the very picture of defiance.

Despite his insolent demeanor and the fact that he was much older and bigger than Ryan, what had struck Ryan had been just how vulnerable Trey had looked, standing between the beefy policeman and their father, handcuffed and practically lost inside of an oversized navy blue hooded sweatshirt. Then again, Ryan had had a pretty good idea of what awaited his brother as soon as the cop stepped off their front porch. And the fact that their father had had his hand on the open door, gripping it tightly, bicep straining at the sleeve of his white t-shirt, thick veins standing out blue and corded? Well, it hadn't exactly done much to help settle Ryan's turbulent gut.

The cop had looked from Ryan lurking in the hallway back to his father, before solemnly stating, "He was with a group of other kids, all smoking, drinking, and most likely playing dice in the parking lot behind the Sip & Save. They scattered, but we managed to catch up to your boy here and one other. He can consider himself lucky," the cop had emphasized as he had nodded in Trey's direction. Ryan had wanted to disagree with that statement, but even then, he'd known better than to answer a cop.

"The other kid—we know. He's got a pretty heavy juvenile jacket. He's being taken to baby booking as we speak. His parents will have to figure out how to get him out, though they won't be successful, not till Monday at the earliest. Your kid—well, since he's only just twelve and we haven't run into him before, I'll trust you to take care of this, Mr. Atwood. As I said earlier, I'm willing to make an exception this one time, but if I collar your son again on a curfew—or any other violation—he's not getting another break. These kids he was hanging out with—they're older and every single one of 'em's got a juvie record of some sort. Trust me—you don't want your boy to surround himself with the likes of them."

Their dad had nodded, with an exaggerated gravity—so ridiculously and transparently sycophantic. Frank Atwood, a cop's best friend, all amicable and conspiratorial and…God…whatever. Ryan had been surprised, even then, that the cop could keep a straight face after witnessing such unmitigated bullshit. His dad had shifted his cigarette to his left as he reached out and shook the hand that the cop extended.

"Thank you, Officer. I appreciate you cutting the kid a break."

At the time, Ryan had thought that there was no way that the cop couldn't tell that their dad was loaded. The red face, the unsteady gaze, the slurring—it was all so painfully obvious. But, it hadn't seemed to—or maybe it had registered, but the cop certainly hadn't appeared to think that it was any big deal. Then, again, the cop hadn't known his father. For all he could tell, Frank Atwood might have been just another harmless working stiff—getting his well-deserved buzz on, on a Friday night, after a rough week of punching the clock.

The cop had nodded curtly, then huffing a bit, he had knelt down behind Trey and pulled his key ring from his belt, flipping through and finding the one he needed.

"Sorry about the cuffs, kid, but my car's got no cage; it's standard protocol."

When he'd finished, he gave Trey a slight shove and Trey had stepped into the house without a backwards glance.

"Hey, kid," the cop had said before making a move to leave. Trey had turned both his body and his insolent glare to the officer, but he hadn't responded, not until their father had given him a quick stinging cuff to the ear.

"Yeah?" he had finally answered, just far enough into the realm of polite to avoid another smack.

"It really is awfully dangerous out there on the streets this time of the night for a kid your age. Those boys you were with—you mess with them, you're gonna get burned. By them—by us—or both. Your dad and me…we're just trying to keep you safe. You do understand that, right? We just want to make sure you don't get hurt."

"Yeah, sure," Trey'd said, giving an embellished eye roll for cop's benefit, still the poster child of pre-adolescent rebellion. Even as he did so, though, he had taken several more steps backwards, into the house—away from the cop and out of his father's easy reach. He'd stopped when he got to the end of the living room—he'd stopped and reached back, putting his arms behind him as though they were cuffed again, before leaning, nonchalantly, against his crossed wrists and propping himself up against the wall that abutted the kitchen's doorway.

The cop had left at that, without another word. He'd turned, gone down the short walk and out the front gate. Their father had waited until he had driven off, before he shut the front door. Ryan had stayed standing still all that time, just inside the doorway to the hall leading to the bedrooms, still feeling like he wanted to vomit.

Their father had turned; slowly and deliberately, he had crossed the few feet over to the coffee table, stubbed out his cigarette on its surface and picked up his half-full beer. He'd drained it in one long pull, then stood—absently holding the bottle and swinging it loosely by its neck. He had stared at Trey for a while, his gaze still slightly unfocused, before finally speaking.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he'd finally asked, his tone remarkably quiet, but unmistakably dangerous. Enough so that Ryan's blood had instantly run cold. Ryan had thought that Trey must have felt it too, since he had darted a quick look at his little brother before he had retrained his gaze on their dad. But, despite that, Trey hadn't dropped the casual front. He'd just stood there, leaning back against the wall, looking at his dad, through bored and practiced eyes.

"I mean…what exactly is the fuck wrong with you?"

Their father's voice was still quiet, although he'd amped it up just a bit. Just enough to make it scary.

Trey had stared at his father for a few seconds, before he'd finally shrugged, and managed a grin that stopped at the ends of his lips.

"I dunno, Dad…crap genetics, I'm guessing."

Even from a vantage point of ten feet away, Ryan had seen the telltale angry vein. The one that ran from the top corner of their father's left eye, and disappeared up into his hairline, as it had popped out, suddenly standing out in stark relief against his skin.

The three of them had stood in uneasy silence as their father had seemed to consider Trey's words for a moment, his face clearly registering his anger and annoyance.

They had stood in uneasy silence, that is…until the situation exploded—literally—less than five seconds later when, out of nowhere, Frank had hurled his beer bottle. It shattered against the wall, less than a foot from his older son's head, raining glass everywhere. All things considered, it had been a good thing that he'd missed so wildly, because there was no way that Trey would have been able to muster up anything more than what he had—a cringe, a duck and a not-quite-fully-executed turn of the head—not with the way he had been leaning back against his hands, pinning them against the wall with his own body weight, rendering himself completely defenseless.

Ryan had watched as Trey's face had finally registered the fear he must surely have been feeling, but even then, only fleetingly, before his defiant mask had slipped back into place. Trey had quickly scrambled to stand upright after the initial surprise, moving his arms out from behind him and holding them flat against his sides.

Ryan had turned his gaze back to his dad, who was staring at Trey. There had been no remorse, no surprise at himself. No echo of compunction in his hardened eyes, which had seemed suddenly much more focused. Some of his drunk, undoubtedly, had been replaced with some of his anger.

Ryan's brother and his father had continued to glare at each other for a couple of seconds, in seemingly mutual hatred and disgust. Finally, it was Trey who broke the silence.

"Nice aim, Pops. Though, next time? You might wanna try going for…you know…the me in the middle."

Their father had lost it, then. He'd come charging at Trey, who had been a bit too slow in getting a jump towards the hallway to their bedroom. Frank had brought him down to the ground in a full body tackle, just a few short feet short from where Ryan was standing.

Since Trey'd been running and their father had taken him down from behind, he'd ended up with his right cheek to the living room floor, his left arm pinned uselessly underneath him, his right arm stretched out before him, still aimed in the general direction of the hallway. He'd tried to use his free arm to pull himself up, dragging his elbow along the floor and in towards himself, a task which had proved impossible with their father's relatively sizeable weight holding him down.

"Dad, please…"

Ryan had been only half-aware that he'd spoken the words out loud, until their father looked up and apparently noticed Ryan for the first time. Or the second time, Ryan supposed, since he'd come into the living room.

"I—thought I told you to go back to bed," he had said, seemingly surprised that Ryan hadn't heeded the first time he'd asked.

Ryan's head had started shaking back and forth at that, slowly, but repeatedly, and pretty much of its own accord. Trey had managed to lift his own head far enough off the ground to turn it and look straight at his little brother.

"Dude, go back to bed," he'd implored, his voice gentle…coaxing…pleading…with just the smallest, but unmistakable, bit of panic seeping through underneath.

Ryan had been in shock, rooted to the spot, his head still doing its slow shake…back and forth, back and forth…back…and…forth. He couldn't seem to stop it or to regain the autonomous use of his limbs.

Their dad had leaned back on his heels and turned Trey over, onto his back, ignoring Ryan for the moment. Pinning both of Trey's arms to his side, he'd forcefully slammed his son into the ground a few times. With his arms immobilized, Trey had been able to do nothing to soften the blows, and the sickening sound of his head bouncing off of the floor had further soured Ryan's stomach. Or, it would have, if it had even been possible.

Then…well, then their father had started punching. Frank had been kneeling, straddling Trey's prone form, his knees just above Trey's wrists, holding Trey's arms flat to the ground. He had leaned heavily on his left arm, which was pinning Trey's right shoulder to the floor and he had lifted his right hand and repeatedly slammed his closed fist down into Trey's face.

Blood had spurted everywhere. Or at least that's the way it had looked to Ryan. Of course, to Ryan, it had also looked like his dad hit Trey twenty times, or more …although in reality, it had probably been closer to three or four. When Ryan had finally regained the independent use of his limbs, he'd rushed up and took a hold of his dad's right arm, just as he drew it back to administer another blow.

Ryan had grabbed onto his father's bicep with both of his hands and literally dug his heels into the living room floor as he'd yanked back with all of the strength contained in his small body, doing everything he could to just…stop…its downward progress, as his father had strained to continue its intended trajectory towards Trey's bloodied face.

Frank had looked up and locked eyes with his younger son and Ryan had seen his dad's surprise that he had involved himself in the situation. And, though Ryan had done his best to look brave and resolved, he was pretty sure that his own eyes had given away the utter terror he was feeling.

Frank got rid of Ryan easily enough by flinging out his arm and shaking it, causing Ryan to fly three feet backwards, dumping him unceremoniously onto his ass. With that temporary, but ultimately inconsequential, impediment gone, Frank had returned back to the task at hand—fucking up Trey. He had resumed punching his older son, over and over again.

Ryan had wanted to help. He had wanted to do something—anything—to stop his father from beating on his brother. But he had found that he was once again rendered immobile by his own fear. And, though there was nothing he had wanted to do more, he had also found that he couldn't look away—that he was forced to bear witness to the savage brutality of what was happening before him.

When it looked like he'd had enough with Trey, Frank had stood. He had seemed suddenly weary as he had turned and, head down and shoulders hunched, made his way over to where Ryan sat, still leaning back on his hands, his legs sprawled out before him. Seeing his dad approach, Ryan had crab-walked backwards, trying to remain out of his father's reach. Eventually, he had run out of floor, his back pressed into the wall behind him. As Ryan had looked up at his father, terrified, Frank had taken a deep, shuddering breath, then leaned down and lifted him to his feet.

After a quick glance over to make sure that Trey wasn't going anywhere, Frank had taken a step back from Ryan and backhanded his younger son, catching him squarely across his right cheek. He'd then grabbed both of Ryan's upper arms, lifted him up off the ground, and slammed him into the wall before sitting him back down, roughly. In the process, Ryan's right knee had caught his jaw, jarring it painfully and causing his mouth to fill with the unmistakable metallic taste of blood—a quick run of his tongue around the inside of his mouth, though, had proved the taste phantom—fortunately, he had still had all of his teeth.

"Don't you fucking move, Ryan…you hear me? Not one fucking muscle…not unless I tell you to," Frank had growled.

Ryan had nodded, solemnly, his knees drawn up, his arms hugging them close, his back to the wall. In the meantime, Trey had somehow managed to turn over and rise up onto all fours. Blood was dripping from his nose and mouth, pooling onto the floor below him. He had looked dazed. Stunned. He had shaken his head slowly from side to side, as though he were trying to clear a ringing in his ears.

Frank had walked over to his older son almost casually and put the sole of his boot on Trey's shoulder. Then, leaning into his leg, he'd straightened it out, pushing Trey over easily. Trey had toppled onto his side and immediately and instinctively reached up to shield his chest and face with his forearms.

Their dad hadn't kicked him, though, even though it's what Ryan had been expecting. He had been breathing heavily and he had stood there with his hands still balled into fists, just kind of…looking down at where Trey lay, battered, on the floor below.

"You got anything else you need to say to me with that smart mouth of yours?" he'd finally asked.

Ryan had watched as Trey had slowly pulled his arms from their protective position, rolled over, and forced himself to his feet. His face had been a mess. Ryan hadn't been able to tell if Trey was bleeding from his nose, his cheek, or his lip, but if he'd had to put money on it, his guess would have been all three.

When Trey was fully upright, there had been a moment when his remaining so was very much in question. He had swayed slightly, blinking repeatedly at the floor below him. Ryan had thought that he was most likely trying to focus in on a stationary spot, doing his damnedest to get his world to stop rolling and pitching.

Frank had stood, his arms crossed, looking at Trey with anticipation. Ryan had sat and hugged his knees even tighter, even as he had focused his stare at his brother as intently as he could. He had been trying to burn a path from his own eyes straight through Trey's scalp and right on into his brain, so that Trey could hear his thoughts. So that Trey could hear Ryan's desperate, but silent, plea that he was beaming along that path with all of his might.

Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up! God, please, Trey, shut up!

Ryan's attempt at telepathy, however, had been about as effective as his crack at running interference with their dad had been. As in, well, very much not at all.

Because Trey had finally looked up, fixed his father with as steadfast and defiant a gaze as he could muster, spat out a mouthful of blood onto the floor and choked out, "Not one goddamned thing."

Ryan had almost relaxed at that, but Trey had gone on with barely a pause.

"Except, you know—thank you. I mean, Ryan and me, we're all kinds of lucky. Who needs Disney Land when you've got a dad who's made entirely out of eight kinds of awesome?"

Their dad had just stood there, shaking his head. He'd seemed as disappointed in Trey as Ryan had been, albeit for a different reason.

It could have been over and it should have been over and Ryan had just wanted it to be over and he hadn't really understood why it wasn't. All he could think of at that moment was that Trey must have hated their father a whole awful lot, for him to have wanted Frank to kill him like that.

"Or…what I really mean to say is…fuck you," Trey had continued, not the one to disprove Ryan's suicide-by-dad theory.

Their father had backhanded Trey again, hard, then had grabbed him by the back of his neck and pushed him towards the kitchen. It had been readily apparent by then that Trey, despite the vehemence behind his words, had had very little fight left in him. His legs weren't quite working right. He'd stumbled and started to fall, but Frank had just caught him roughly and dragged him into the other room, one hand on his upper arm and the other on his neck.

Ryan had heard the crackle of glass under their shoes as they treaded over the remains of the broken bottle and, as they disappeared through the kitchen doorway, he had put his hands over his ears and pressed as hard as he could, hoping to block out whatever it was that was going to happen. He really, really hadn't wanted any part of hearing his father kill his brother.

He had been out of luck, though, as his father's bellowed, "Ryan!" penetrated his makeshift barriers mere seconds later.

Ryan had gotten up and slowly made his way to the kitchen at that, taking care to avoid stepping on the broken glass with his bare feet. In the few minutes that his father and Trey had been alone, his father had somehow managed to remove Trey's hoodie and t-shirt, or managed to make Trey take them off himself. Trey had been sitting—leaning, really—hunched forward with his arms crossed on the kitchen table in front of him, each hand gripping the lax bicep of the opposite arm, his forehead resting on top of one of his wrists. He had been staring straight down, apparently focused in on the ever-expanding puddle of blood that was slowing dripping and pooling onto the table from his nose and chin.

Frank had been using his left hand to press down on Trey's neck, ostensibly to hold him in place, though it hadn't looked to Ryan like Trey was putting up much of a fight, or really anything by the way of resistance.

Ryan had stood in the doorway, unsure of why his father had called him there, until Frank had looked over his shoulder and gestured for Ryan to come to him.

"I need my belt," he'd said, simply.

Ryan had known that his dad could easily have pulled his own belt from his jeans. But for some reason—whether to punish Ryan for his earlier defiance or to offer him an object lesson—he'd wanted Ryan to do it for him. Ryan had wished that he could say no. That he could just not. He had hesitated for a few seconds, until his father had admonished him with another sharp, "Ryan!"

At that, Trey had rolled his forehead to the right, just enough to make eye contact with his little brother. He'd raised an eyebrow and lifted his right shoulder a fraction of an inch, in a weak shrug. The implication was clear.

With shaking fingers, Ryan had fumbled at his father's buckle, pulling awkwardly on the end of his belt. Ultimately, he had managed to wrestle the metal prong from the hole in which it rested. He had yanked on the thick leather, finally freeing it from his father's waist and, when his dad had held out an anticipatory hand, Ryan had passed it to him, his fingers still slightly trembling.

Frank had let go of Trey then, taken the belt, and doubled it over. He had taken the loose ends and put them together, crimping them in on themselves to make the belt more compact. With the buckle resting securely in his palm and his fingers wrapped around the thick folds he'd put into the leather, he'd turned back to his older son.

Trey hadn't moved through any of their father's preparations.

Frank had grabbed Trey's wrists and roughly yanked them forward a few inches, pulling his arms out so that they were farther away from his body. As Trey's head had slipped off of its perch on his arms, it had softly thudded onto the table. He'd turned slightly, so that he had his cheek to the Formica—his right, less battered cheek. Of course, the effect of Frank's maneuver had been to stretch Trey out slightly and expose more of his narrow back.

Frank had put his left hand on Trey's neck again, immobilizing him, before bringing the belt down. The nauseating crack of leather meeting bare skin had echoed loudly in the overly bright kitchen. The first few times Frank hit him, Trey'd bucked a bit as the belt bit into his flesh, and he'd emitted a quiet grunt. But by the fourth or fifth blow, he'd stopped reacting altogether. Frank had been able to let go of Trey's neck then, confident that his older son wasn't going to move and, with the better leverage that afforded, the beating had accelerated in intensity.

If Frank had been hoping to get a further reaction out of Trey, he'd been out of luck. Trey had just stayed there, hunched over the table. His eyes, which were squeezed tightly closed, gave the only indication that Trey had, in fact, still been conscious.

Ryan had counted a silent ten lashes to himself, before his dad stopped hitting his brother and tossed the belt to the side.

Trey's eyes had relaxed somewhat, then, though he still hadn't opened them. He had almost looked as though he could have been asleep.

It was at that moment that Dawn, her timing impeccable as ever, had stumbled through the front door. She'd come into the kitchen, her eyes slowly drifting from Trey, to Ryan to Frank.

"What happened?" she'd asked, and she had been swaying slightly, her face flushed.

The odor of booze had emanated off of her so strongly, Ryan could have sworn it was visible, like cartoon waves.

"Trey," Frank had answered, simply, nodding down at their son, who was still hunched over the table, eyes shut.

"Aw, for fuck's sake, what'd he go and do now?"

Dawn's voice had registered her annoyance, and Ryan, still focused on his brother, saw his shoulders rise and fall, saw him wince.

"He was out drinking and smoking behind the liquor store on Brandywine, got caught by the cops after curfew, got brought home in cuffs," Frank had explained.

"What is wrong with that kid?" Dawn had asked, an unconscious echo of her husband, before bending her head down to Trey's ear and yelling, "What in the hell is wrong with you?"

Trey hadn't moved, or opened his eyes, although they did squeeze tight again in the face of his mother's rebuke. There was no smartassed answer.

"Trey, get to bed," their father had ordered after they all stood in silence for a moment. "Ryan, clean up this mess."

Then, having dismissed both of his sons, their father walked over to the refrigerator in the corner.

"You want a beer?" he'd asked his wife, who'd nodded her reply.

Frank had pulled out two beers and handed one to Dawn, after twisting off its cap. He'd then left the kitchen without a backwards glance, going back into the living room to sit in front of the television with the volume jacked up, the TV tuned to some late late night talk show.

Trey had opened his eyes at that, finally, and Ryan had watched as he'd struggled to focus in on his hands, which were still resting on the table. With what seemed like an enormous effort, Trey'd managed to pull himself up and sit back in the chair, though he'd gasped a bit and arched forward when he hit it with a touch more force than he'd anticipated. Trey'd pushed the chair back at that, grabbing onto the table with both hands and pulling himself upright.

"You've gotta stop this, Trey," their mother had said from her spot near the doorway. She had been holding her beer loosely with three fingers on the top of its neck, swinging it in a tight circle.

"You've gotta stop it with all of this…this messing up all of the goddamned time."

Trey'd aimed a tired, but decidedly angry, look at his mother, who'd looked back at him through rheumy eyes for what seemed like a full minute, before smacking him once—hard—across his bloody cheek.

Ryan had gasped at that. Before that night, the unspoken, but universally adhered-to rule had always been that Dawn would never touch the boys after Frank had had a go at them. In fact, the aftermath of one of his father's beatings was often the only time that their mother showed any kind of physical affection to either of her sons.

"You don't…you don't get to look at me like that," she'd spat, "Not after the cops hauled your ass back in here tonight."

Then, dropping her voice to a whisper, she'd continued, "You've got no right. No fucking right, Trey…no fucking right."

Trey's head had snapped back slightly, in response to her slap, but he had recovered quickly, and his gaze, when he returned it to their mother, had seemed no less hostile to Ryan.

Dawn had pointed her bottle to Trey.

"Your dad told you to go to bed. So go. But—you've gotta straighten up your act, kiddo. You've gotta straighten up your fucking act."

She'd left the kitchen then, going to join their dad in the living room.

As soon as she was gone, Ryan had rushed over to his brother.

"You okay?"

Trey'd just stood there, looking all kinds of pissed off, before finally nodding.

"I'll live, Ry," he'd managed to choke out, and Ryan was sure he was trying to restrain himself from going after their mother—from saying something that was sure to get his ass kicked. Or kicked even more.

Ryan had reached a tentative arm out and put it around his brother's waist, hoping that he could stop…well…whatever it was that Trey was at least thinking about doing. He had given his brother a tight squeeze.

Trey'd looked surprised for a few seconds, but then he'd reached down and put an arm around Ryan's shoulders, squeezing him back, slightly, before releasing him and starting to walk out of the room. He'd half-turned before he reached the doorway and he'd apologized, throwing over his shoulder.

"Sorry I…uh…kind of bled all over the place."

He'd waited until Ryan'd offered a half-hearted grin that came nowhere near to reaching his eyes, and then he'd shuffled off and out of the room.

Ryan had grabbed the broom and dustpan from their place in the opening between the refrigerator and the wall and he'd moved out to the living room to start sweeping up the mess of glass. He'd heard the water running in the bathroom and had assumed that Trey was cleaning himself up. When the water cut off, he'd watched over his shoulder as his brother deliberately crossed the hallway and into their bedroom. He'd watched as the light briefly shone, then cut out. He'd continued cleaning up the remnants of the night's violence.

As Ryan swept up the glass, then carefully wiped his brother's blood from the living room floor, the kitchen floor and the table, he'd noticed his mother snuggle up close to his father on the couch in front of the television. His father had absently brushed at her hair and the sudden sound of the two of them laughing loudly a few times at something the host said…well, it had jarred—in the house's otherwise relative quiet.

When they'd finished their beers, Ryan's parents had turned off the television and disappeared into their bedroom, leaving their empty bottles on the coffee table. Ryan had cleaned those up, as well, before piling some ice in a dishtowel and going back to his own room and waiting for his mother to emerge. Because, no matter how angry she was at Trey, she wouldn't just go to bed without checking on him. No way. Or, at least, she never had, before.

As he had opened the door, he had seen Trey huddled on his bed, his body an apostrophe, drawn into itself and facing the wall. His shoulders were shuddering and it was obvious that he was crying. Which, Ryan had thought, was odd.

Ryan hadn't been able to remember the last time Trey had cried after a beating and he'd been hit a whole lot worse. In fact, this didn't even rate in the top five, not really. Not even when measured against the brutality of the beatings Trey'd gotten in the past year. After all, their father hadn't even been all that wasted, when he'd come after Trey that night. And he'd seemed to sober up, in the process, which usually mitigated things, in the end.

Ryan had sat on his own bed for a few minutes, unsure of what to do, in the dark and the quiet, still holding onto the chilled dishtowel. Well, at least it had still been dark. The quiet had been broken up pretty regularly by the slap and giggle of his parents, their earlier argument obviously forgotten. Trey'd been wrong about that, at least, after all. Not that Ryan was going to point it out.

"Trey."

He'd finally screwed up the courage to approach, standing by his brother's bed.

"Go 'way, Ryan," Trey'd answered, his voice still thick with tears.

"It's just…I…um…I've got some ice…you know…if you need it," Ryan'd offered, holding out the towel.

"Yeah…okay, thanks," Trey'd murmured, taking it and rolling over so that he was sitting, his back to the wall separating their room from their parents' room. The wall through which their mother could now just barely—but horribly—be heard to softly moan.

As Trey had pressed the ice up to his eye and cheek, Ryan had stood there, entirely uncertain of what he could do to make any of this all better. He was pretty certain that there was nothing, but he was sure willing to try, if there was anything, anything at all that he could do to help.

Anything to make his brother…well, to make his brother act a little more like Trey…and a little less like a twelve-year-old who'd just gotten the crap kicked out of him by his dad, with his mother piling on a bit at the end.

At least Trey had stopped crying by then, though a shudder still ran through him every so often, a stray remnant of his recent jag catching up to him. He was also gently banging his head against the wall behind him, his eyes closed, in a seeming effort to momentarily drown out the sound of his parents, as they softly, but audibly made up with each other.

"God, I hate her," he'd finally allowed, in a voice almost too low for Ryan to catch.

"What?" Ryan had asked, not sure that he'd heard correctly.

"I fucking hate her," Trey had repeated and Ryan couldn't help but think that his brother was blaming entirely the wrong parent.

After all, it was their father who had beaten the shit out of Trey. All their mother had done was to deliver one small slap. And her disappointment. Which? It was their mother, after all. She was rather prone to disappointment.

"Can I ask you a question?" Ryan had finally asked, since he had hated feeling like he was missing out on a crucial part of what had happened. The whatever it was that had made Trey leave the relative safety of their room and go hang out with a bunch of older kids at the liquor store—after curfew, no less.

"Depends on the question, el dorko," Trey had thrown back, like Ryan could have predicted.

"What happened tonight?"

Trey had shrugged, his eyes still closed.

"You could have been arrested," Ryan had pointed out, still not willing to let it drop, when Trey didn't verbally answer.

Trey had sighed then and shook his head slightly. Finally, he had opened his eyes and fixed his gaze on his little brother.

"C'mon, Ryan. Overreact much? I wasn't about to go and get myself arrested," he had said, a slight smile playing lightly on his lips, "Geez, I thought everyone knew that that cop Williams always takes a kid home, the first time he catches him out after curfew. Oh, he'll handcuff the kid and throw him in the back of his cruiser—'cause he thinks it's all scary or some shit—and apparently he'll bitch at the kid till his eardrums bleed, but they don't call him soft Willie for nothing."

"Soft Willie?" Ryan had repeated.

"Yeah, though if there's another reason for the nickname…I don't wanna hear a thing about it. Like seriously, dude." Trey had exaggerated a shudder and his ghost of a smile had widened itself into a full-on smirk.

"So I guess you were just lucky that you got caught by…by this soft Willie guy and not some other cop, hunh?" Ryan had asked. He hadn't had the slightest idea of what Trey was talking about, but he wasn't about to ask for clarification, either, especially since there was at least a glimmer of the old familiar Trey back.

"Yup…that's exactly what I was, Ryan…I was lucky," Trey had confirmed, though, to his little brother, it sounded a bit sarcastic for the circumstances.

"Well, you'd better make sure you don't get caught again," Ryan had offered his advice, unbidden. "I mean, he did say that you wouldn't be getting any more breaks. Next time you really might get arrested."

Trey had laughed softly at that, "Not a problem, Ry."

Then, after a few seconds, he'd continued, shaking his head in mock disappointment, "C'mon, though, man—you sure doknow how to let a brother down."

"What do you mean?" Ryan had asked, still completely lost.

"I mean, you seriously think that that soft Willie dude—a dude fatter than Albert—could have caught up to me? Like for reals?" Trey had started quietly laughing again.

"But…"

Although Ryan had had a thousand questions running through his head, Trey had cut him off with a gentle, "Go to bed, Ryan," before lying down, drawing his covers around himself and putting his head on his pillow, a clear signal that the conversation was over.

Ryan hadn't known it then, but that was the last time he'd ever see Trey cry. It was also the night that something had fundamentally shifted in Trey and it had marked the beginning of his great, two-front war on the Atwood family. Where before it had always been the three of them against Frank, after that night, Trey had clearly washed his hands of his mother, just as he'd washed his hands of his father, long before.

When they'd moved to Chino after their dad's arrest a little over a year later, Trey and their mother had been locked in a cold war that had never ended. While Trey had still jumped into the fray on the occasions when it was Ryan's head that was being used as a speed bag, it was Ryan who had been alone in charging to Dawn's defense with each new boyfriend. Each new boyfriend, who'd seemed impossibly worse than the last. With Trey—at least until he'd moved out after AJ'd kicked him out—sneaking him icepacks and frozen peas in the bloody aftermath. Well, icepacks, frozen peas and most likely a lecture, delivered in the half-stoned, half-dead voice that Trey'd adopted as his own—the topic of which was invariably that, not only was Dawn not worth the fucking aggravation, it was her own goddamned fault that she kept ending up on the knuckle side of some asswipe's fist. After all, she was the one who repeatedly brought the same guy home time after time after ever-loving time. Oh, his name might have changed along the way from Ray to Cal to Brian to AJ or whatever. But, he was still Frank Fucking Atwood, all over again.

Paulo bumped the back of his knee with the toolbox in a friendly enough way, but Ryan still staggered forward, barely catching himself before he fell. Paulo reached out and tucked a hand under his arm, helping to keep him upright as Trey poked his head out of the rusted screen door.

"Jesus Christ, Lennie, do you think you could…you know…not finish the kid off before I at least find out what the hell he wants?" he called, and Paulo let go of Ryan just long enough to flip him the bird.

"Get in here, the two of you, before the neighbors see you stinking up our yard. You look like ass, Ry. There's gotta be something in here we can use for an icepack, at least. Oh…and could you bring the box in with you? Thanks."

He disappeared back into the house before Ryan or Paulo could answer.

—TBC—