The Man and The Egg

A/N: Sandy has some concerns about Seth's relationship. TW for disturbing content/implications of child abuse that aren't strictly canon. Pretty much dialogue and introspection. I attempted to use some formatting breaks in case italicizing doesn't work its magic.

The timeline isn't super clear, but it's set at some point when Seth and Ryan are in high school and Seth is dating Summer. I sometimes pretend the second season characterization of various characters never really happened, which might be evident with some of this.

Disclaimers: I don't own The OC, or any of the characters, or the musical Chicago, which is briefly referenced.

…

"You summoned me?"

Sandy looks up from the stack of papers he'd been pretending to look at and smiles at his son, who stands in the doorway looking vaguely uneasy.

"Hey Seth, c'mon in." Sandy waves his son inside and puts the stack of papers to one side of his desk.

"Do I want to c'mon in?" Seth asks, narrowing his eyes.

"You're not in any trouble," Sandy assures him. "I just want to talk."

Seth eases into the room slowly but doesn't yet sit at one of the two chairs in front of Sandy's desk.

"Are we sure I'm not in trouble, Dad? Because you asked Ryan to clear out of the house for the day…that's got some real 'parental big guns' vibes." Seth crosses his arms in front of his chest and stares pointedly at his father.

"I promise you're not in trouble," Sandy responds patiently, trying to stifle the urge to sigh. When Sandy had talked to Ryan that morning, he had asked him several times not to tell Seth about his request. He'd also, several times, assured Ryan that Seth wasn't in any kind of trouble. Sandy can barely muster the energy to be annoyed, knowing that their brotherly alliance always wins out. He gives his son what he hopes is a reassuring smile and gestures to the chairs in front of him. "Have a seat."

Seth slumps into one of the chairs and eyes his dad, still a little wary. "Okay, what's up?"

Sandy swallows, feeling his heart rate pick up slightly. He'd mentally rehearsed what he wanted to say many times.

"Seth…"

"Dad…"

"Seth, you know I love Summer, right?"

Seth looks thrown off. This is an unexpected turn.

"Yeah, okay," Seth says slowly. "But like, as friends, right?" He narrows his eyes again, his lips falling into a sly grin. "Just what kind of conversation are we having right now? Because we're close and all, but not 'sharing my girlfriend with my dad' close."

"Seth…"

"Dad…"

"Seth, I love Summer, and I'm sometimes worried about how she…" Sandy falters, takes in Seth's body language shifting. "…how she can be with you."

Seth's grin disappears. He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it. He looks away, opens his mouth again, closes it, head bobbing. He scratches the back of his head vigorously, scrunches his face, gestures wildly with his hands. He gestures with his hands again. After what feels like an immense chasm of silence, he asks: "What?"

Sandy feels his hands trembling. He places them into his lap, and does his best to keep a steady, reasonably confident gaze on his son.

"Son, I've seen her hit you." His voice drops, hitches slightly. "I've seen it quite a few times now."

"Are you serious?" Seth scoffs and rolls his eyes. He crosses his arms tightly in front of him.

"Yes," Sandy responds firmly. "I've also heard her say things to you that I find concerning."

"You're being dramatic. She doesn't hit me," Seth mutters.

Sandy looks at Seth pointedly. Seth sighs loudly and uncrosses his arms. Sandy watches Seth's hands make loose fists, his fingers rubbing the palms of his hands over and over.

"Okay, so she smacks me…sometimes," Seth concedes. "It's not like she 'hits' me." Seth makes air quotes with his hands. "And anyway, it's like, part of our thing, our schtick." He shrugs. "I say something obnoxious, she knocks me on the head." Seth works to maintain eye contact with his father in spite of the white hot discomfort building in his chest. "I mean, I can't believe you're even talking to me about this. Summer's…she's…she's a girl. It's not like it hurts or anything. She's not like, abusive or something."

"And the black eye that time?"

"It was an accident," Seth replies, squirming in his chair and staring firmly at the wall.

"Seth, I'm not saying Summer's a bad person, or that she's trying to hurt you, or that you should break up with her. I know it can feel different that she's a girl, like it's not really a problem, but it worries me." Sandy moves his head slightly, tries to catch Seth's gaze, but his son continues staring at the wall.

"But it's *not* a problem, Dad," Seth insists. "It's play fighting, it's like, our Love Language."

Sandy raises his eyebrows, and Seth scoffs again.

"You're being so weird and intense about this." Seth starts to rise from his chair. "I am so out of this conversation."

"Seth, sit," Sandy says, his voice raising just slightly, but his tone unmistakable. "We need to talk about this. If you're mature enough to be in a relationship, you're mature enough to sit here for this conversation."

Seth sits, feeling his face grow hot. "Are we sure Summer's the only one with an aggression problem, Dad?" he mutters, picking invisible lint off the knee of his jeans.

Sandy ignores him, takes a deep breath, bites his lip.

"Seth, do you remember what Dr. Max said?"

"Oh my god, no, please don't," Seth moans, rubbing his forehead with the butt of his right hand. "Why? I mean, the man is so full of himself that he needs everyone to call him 'doctor,' but also so unbearably try-hardy and wannabe relatable that he goes by Max instead of his last name, like a normal person. Who does that? How much value can someone like that provide?"

"Seth…" Sandy keeps his voice low, trying to remain a solid force, trying to maintain his grasp on the flailing kite string of his son's train of thought.

Seth throws up his hands, exasperated, and scowls. "Fine, which nugget of Dr. Max's wisdom are we ruminating on today?"

Sandy pauses, considers. "With everything you've been through, I know it can be hard to feel like you deserve to be treated well."

Seth sighs angrily. "Why does everything always have to come back to that?" he demands, his own voice raising slightly. "And it's not even true. I demand to be treated extremely well. You of all people should know that."

Sandy pauses. "Does Summer know about—"

"Uh no, because she already thinks I'm a pathetic excuse for a man without adding that to the equation."

"What happened to you doesn't make you any less of a man," Sandy responds, feeling something tighten in his chest.

"Awesome, then if we're both in agreement that I'm a man, then we're in agreement that I can handle this situation like a man and deal with it on my own," Seth says, brushing his hands together. "Glad we're clearing this up."

Sandy takes a long inhale of breath. He quietly remembers another Dr. Max lesson. Seth is great at therapy. Seth is smart and insightful and retains what he learns…Seth is also terrible at therapy. He can talk circles around everyone he cares about, weaponizing everything he learns in therapy to deflect, to minimize, to shut down the conversation. Sandy reminds himself to ride out the wave, to not get swept up in the chaos or the diversions. He watches Seth pick up verbal steam, can practically see the gears turning in his son's brain.

"…and I seem to recall a certain someone smacking me around when he didn't like how I was acting with Anna. It's wild for you to be sitting here—"

Sandy blanches. Seth is so, so good at finding the kill-switch. He opens his mouth, fumbles for words.

Seth sees his father's face, frozen in some kind of gruesome emotion, and stops. He grimaces.

"Shit, Dad, I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by that. I just wanted to stop talking about this," Seth says quickly, looking horrified. "I'm so sorry. It's really not a big deal."

Sandy holds up a hand, regains mental footing.

"Seth…"

"I'm really not upset about that, I promise. I just—"

"Seth!" Sandy barks, not unkindly.

Seth quiets.

"Seth, please. It's okay. You don't have to apologize. I told you how sorry I was that I hit you that day, and I meant it." Sandy looks down at his hands. "It wasn't okay."

Seth averts his eyes from his father again. "It's really fine. It was stupid that I brought it up. It never bothered me."

"Maybe it should bother you," Sandy responds gently. "I worry you would never tell me if it did. I worry that you don't feel safe enough—emotionally safe enough—with Summer, or maybe with anyone, to say when we've hurt you."

Sandy seems calmer now, which feels to Seth like tacit permission to escalate again himself.

"Look, I'd rather you and Summer smack me around than have everyone treat me like an egg," he says rapidly. "And I mean, I understand why you did it, and why Summer does it. I can be a dick sometimes, and sometimes I'm a dick on purpose. It's not like I don't deserve…" Seth trails off, closes his eyes, clenches his fists. He opens his eyes and exhales sharply between his teeth. "See, this is why I can't talk about this stuff with you. You just use your stupid verbal wizardry to trap me into using these After School Special bullshit buzzwords that you think prove whatever point it is that you're trying to make."

Sandy raises his eyebrows again. Seth doesn't stop talking; the kite string keeps flailing. His son is so hard to hold onto.

"And c'mon, Dad. All I do is tell people when they've hurt me." Seth smiles wryly, making a concerted effort to soften his tone towards his father, to blunt the intensity of the conversation his father keeps trying to have, and he keeps trying to escape. "I've been argumentative since birth."

"I don't mean superficial whining and bickering," Sandy responds, rubbing absently at his forehead. He struggles to find words. Dr. Max often talked about the balance of things, of treating Seth like a typical kid, while understanding the ways in which he is vulnerable, the balance of parental intervention and allowing him his independence, his hard-fought normalcy.

"Then what do you mean, Dad?" Seth asks. "I don't get what you're trying to say. I mean, things have been good for awhile."

There is a long stretch of silence.

It can be so difficult with Seth to know where the line is, especially since Ryan joined their family, since his lonely son started to forge connections with people outside of his immediate family.

It was easy for Sandy to be a safe place to land for his son; Seth wasn't the only Cohen who could ace therapy. Kirsten couldn't talk about it, Kirsten wanted to forget, but Sandy knew someone had to bear the brunt of the aftermath, and really, his guilt demanded it of him. And, he had to admit, bearing the brunt had also allowed him to feel that he was doing something, anything. He could sit in therapists' offices, in doctors' offices, in police stations and court rooms, he could be solid and consistent.

Seth's world had been small before Ryan came to live with them. Sandy hadn't realized that watching his son make friends would be equal parts joyful and terrifying. He hadn't realized how many times he would find himself praising Hashem for the simple fact of Ryan's loyalty to Seth, his protectiveness. Sandy knows that some of that might come down to Ryan's own trauma, to his careful nature, but he can't help but wonder what would have happened to Seth if he'd brought home someone more like Trey, more like Donnie, more like a lot of people. Ryan might be impulsive at times, and he might steal a car or burn down a model home, but he would never purposefully harm Seth.

The silence continues to stretch.

Seth coughs, raises his eyebrows expectantly at his father as if to say "This all you've got?"

"Seth, I know you're struggling again," Sandy says finally.

"What?" Seth rolls his eyes. "How do you fig…" Seth trails off, swallows and looks away again.

Sandy wonders if Seth had forgotten. He didn't always remember after, but he can see something has clicked in his son's mind.

….

"Dad?"

Sandy jerks awake, his brain foggy and disoriented, but vaguely aware that someone is talking to him. He lifts his head from the pillow and instinctively looks for the clock, though he looks away before even registering what time it is.

"Mmf," he mutters, blinking rapidly and looking around, trying to will himself to wake up. He sees Seth standing by his bedside, hands balled into fists in the pockets of his pajama pants. "Seth? You okay?" He starts to sit up.

"Yeah," Seth whispers, his voice thick and raspy. "Yeah, I'm fine. I just, uh…I'm kind of freaking out."

"I'm up," Sandy says, already swinging his legs off the bed and grabbing for his robe.

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay." Sandy replies quietly. "I'm glad you came to me." He cinches his robe around his waist. He puts his hand on Seth's shoulder gently and starts to guide him back to his bedroom.

There's dim light from Seth's desk lamp, and his blankets and sheets are tangled up on the bed. Sandy's brain is still waking up. He starts to disentangle and smooth out the bedding.

Without looking up at Seth, eyes trained on the sheets, Sandy asks gently: "Did you throw up?" He glances at his son.

Seth nods, points at the trash can by his bed. "I can take care of it." His voice is hoarse, hollow.

"Let me," Sandy says, hands reshaping Seth's pillow. "Here, get back into bed," he tells Seth, stepping back from the freshly arranged sheets. "I've got it."

Seth gets into the bed, even allows his father to place the blankets over him like he's a little kid, allows him to kiss his forehead and run his hand gently through his hair like he's a little kid.

"You're okay," Sandy whispers. "You're okay."

Seth doesn't respond. His eyes are far away.

Sandy swallows thickly, then stands up. He walks over to Seth's bookcase and grabs a few familiar comics. He hands one to Seth. He puts the other on a small end table next to an armchair in the corner, thinks about the last time he put down a comic here, picked up a trash can. He can't remember quite when it was. He picks up the trash can and starts to walk towards the door.

"Let me just take care of this, and get you some water, then we can read for awhile," Sandy says quietly. He waits until he sees Seth give just the slightest nod before stepping into the hallway.

…..

Seth's face is flushed, and his jaw is tight again. "It was once," he mutters half-heartedly. "Once in a really long time."

"It makes me wonder about all the times you don't come get me," Sandy replies sadly, again moving his head to try to make eye contact with his son. "I know you've been trying not to sleep again." He pauses, taking in his son's rigid posture. "And you've been jumpy lately."

"So why does that have to have anything to do with Summer?" Seth says, letting out a short bark of a laugh. He shrugs in an almost convincingly casual manner. "I mean, there's a lot going on. Junior year and all, thinking about college. I'm sure Dr. Max said something sometime about like, 'life transitions,' or whatever. It could be about a lot of things." He holds out a hand. "For example, I think I had a pretty rugged gas station hot dog that night."

Sandy nods slowly, marveling at his son's ability to compose himself, to desperately maneuver to keep things light.

"I know it could be a lot of things," Sandy acknowledges. He hesitates, knowing he's pushed Seth a lot in this conversation already. "Which…Seth, I know you're sexually active."

"Gross, Dad. You can just say 'having sex.'" Seth wrinkles his nose, considers it, then shakes his head. "…actually, maybe just don't say either."

Sandy ignores him. "And I know that in itself can be complicated and come with a lot of different feelings and challenges. I want to make sure you know that you can talk to me about it."

"Dad, I really can't believe you're asking me about this, and you would *not* believe how little I want to talk to you about this."

"I know," Sandy says firmly. "But I dropped the ball not talking to you about this when you first told me you were sexually..." He pauses, gestures with his hands. "-having sex. I didn't check in to make sure you were feeling okay about it. It's okay if it doesn't always feel okay, or if brings up a lot for you. It's to be expected." He pauses, takes in Seth's rolling eyes and closed posture. He reminds himself to ride the wave, keep pressing forward. "And does the sex ever get uh, you know, a little rough?"

"Whoa Dad, take it down a notch." Seth winces. "Now I know Dr. Max didn't tell you to monitor me for like, BDSM indicators in later life."

"Seth…"

Seth sighs dramatically. "Fine, whatever. But I'm only answering your gross question because it disproves your weird non-point. She doesn't like, smack me around in bed or anything." Seth's lip curls, and he squints uncomfortably. "I mean, it's really more the other way around."

"Oh." Sandy nods, pauses, trying to think through his next move. "Because she wants you to, or because you want to?"

"What? I don't know." Seth closes his eyes, feeling a thousand leagues beyond mortified. "I guess it's her thing. She likes it…" he trails off.

"And how do you feel about it?"

"Fine," Seth says lightly. "I mean, I like that she likes it." He opens his eyes, shrugs at his father, and runs a hand through his hair. "It's not like whips and chains and gimp suits or anything, if that's what you're thinking. It's pretty tame...maybe vanilla-adjacent." There he is, again finding his way to some kind of haphazard composure.

Sandy swallows, not sure how to phrase what he wants to say. "Are you sure it's fine for you, Seth? I'm just wondering if it would make you feel too much like him, like, well, like Je—"

"Don't!" Sandy recoils as Seth's hands fly to his ears and squeeze, his eyes screwing shut tightly. His casual façade has slipped for just a moment, and Sandy sees the other side of that façade, sees the twelve year old hyperventilating on his bedroom floor, the boy stumbling into his parents' bedroom, reeling and too disoriented from his latest nightmare to pretend he doesn't need help. "Please, just don't," Seth mutters, hands slowly coming away from his ears. He shakes his head.

And Sandy watches with equal parts awe and frustration as Seth quickly puts himself back together again, as if the mask had never slipped. Sandy can barely make out the words flying from Seth's mouth. He's vaguely aware that Seth is promising him that he'll think things over, that he understands his father's concern but he's really not worried. You just have to know Summer; Summer is fiery, sure, but also fiercely loyal and kind. Does he know that Summer almost went shang hai on Katie Kendall's ass when Katie was about to grab the last fruit cup from the salad bar, knowing that Seth's afternoon is ruined without said lunchtime fruit cup?

Seth's babbling washes over Sandy, and he feels a heavy dread in the pit of his stomach, some part of him certain that he's lost the kite string, that that thing is sailing up, up, and away, never to return again.

No, it's not gone. Seth is sitting in front of him, outwardly casual, but inside, inside he is red-faced and straining and clutching that kite string in his fist. Sandy often thinks of Ryan and Seth as different sides of the same coin of pain. Ryan is tense, coiled, sizing everything up, afraid to disrupt, but ready to fight if need be. Seth is Billy Flynn tap dancing frantically; he is chaos and energy and distraction. Two sides of the same coin that both say, in drastically different fashions: "Stay away; don't come any closer."

Before he can even fully think the thought, before he can consider it, Sandy feels his own mouth moving, hears himself say: "God, Seth, it's like you do the best impersonation of a guy who's never had a problem a day in his life."

Seth quiets, wrinkles his brow. "What do I even say to that?" he asks, brow furrowed. He pauses, sets his jaw determinedly. He leans forward, voice hoarse and practically whispering. "But wouldn't you rather be that guy, Dad, than the other guy, the human egg?" He finally looks directly at his father, eyes desperate. "Why can't you just let me be that guy?"

Sandy swallows the lump that's quickly growing in his throat. He opens his mouth, hears himself make a choking sound, closes his mouth. He takes a deep breath to steady himself, rubs one hand over his mouth.

"Seth, the egg, that's a part of you," Sandy says quietly, feeling his eyes well up. "It's terrible and fucked up, and it breaks my heart that it's a part of you, but it's there." He wipes at his eyes. "And you are a man. I am so so proud of the man you are." Sandy's voice cracks. "Part of being a man is taking care of both parts of you, the man and the egg."

"It's not your fault, but it's your responsibility," Seth mutters, looking at his hands.

Sandy nods, recognizes the Dr. Max-ism, recognizes the shift in Seth.

"And Seth, I just think about you growing up, and going off to college, being on your own. I worry you won't look after the hurt parts of yourself." Sandy brushes a tear from under his eye. "I won't always be right there to remind you that they're there, that they need you too." Sandy smiles sadly. "That scares me, Seth, it really does."

Seth sighs and closes his eyes, feeling them start to water. He takes a long slow steadying breath and opens his eyes. His father looks tired and sad and expectant.

"Okay," Seth says quietly.

"Okay?"

"Okay," Seth agrees. "Questionable stretching of the whole egg metaphor aside…I do hear you, Dad." He swallows. "And I'll think about what you're saying." Sandy opens his mouth to speak and Seth holds up a hand. "Really. I'll really think about it. Not even bullshitting you, I promise."

"And therapy?" Sandy asks. "I think it's a good idea."

Seth gives his dad a look. "You're pushing it, you know that, right?"

Sandy smirks lightly. "What can I say; I make deals for a living."

"Yeah, you do." Seth snickers, looks away. "Can we be done for now, though? I'm kind of at capacity right now." He clears his throat and looks away.

"Sure, son." Sandy nods. "And Seth, I thought we could catch a movie this afternoon, maybe go to the diner after?"

"Okay." Seth nods. "Can I just have a few minutes to uh, regroup or something?"

"Of course, of course."

They both stand up, and Sandy watches as Seth starts towards the door.

"You know I talk with you like this because I love you, right?"

Seth turns his head towards Sandy and regards his father with a small smile. "Yeah, you make that abundantly clear, my man."

"As long as it's clear." Sandy clears his throat and picks up a random stack of papers from his desk, studying them intently.

Seth nods and leaves the room, quietly shutting the door behind him.