Author's Note: Have to start out, of course, by thanking Joey and Crash for the beta job. All mistakes are mine though, 'cause I can't leave well enough alone.

Thanks for reading. This is part four of eight. (Psssst…Hi Del and Antigone. The party is NEVER complete without you.)

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Windex

A Seth POV Concerning the Season Two Finale

Part Four

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"Seth?"

The last two times I woke Ryan up, he didn't say anything, didn't even acknowledge my presence.

I'm used to him being quiet, but this is a different quiet, a dangerous quiet. Last night and this morning, Ryan's silence and his almost complete lack of the use of the English language, is one of the most eerie and unnerving things I have ever experienced.

"Seth?"

This time, finally, he says my name, and I don't want to lose the opportunity to hear him speak, so I lean over on the bed, my head just above his, and I tell him, "I'm right here, Ryan."

And I have been right here, in Mom and Dad's bedroom, for almost three hours, watching him, even though he probably doesn't have a clue.

Scratch that.

I'm sure he doesn't have a clue.

You know, sitting in silence, trying to make sure someone will wake up and that someone is still breathing and that their breathing hasn't changed, is very exhausting work. I feel like my nerves are on steroids, like they've been pumping more iron than those guys at Venice Beach.

Ryan is starting to fall back asleep but I'm desperate to keep him awake, desperate for something from him, some sign that my version of Ryan is still in there, somewhere, so I practically shout, "Ryan, I'm right here."

"I'm thirsty."

Ok, well, that's not exactly the Seth/Ryan quality time I was hoping for, but it's sure as shit start.

I tell Ryan, "I'll be right back, man, all right? I'll get you something to drink."

He nods and I scramble out of the room. I figure if I don't have a bottle of water in Ryan's hand in about 30 seconds, he's going to fall back asleep on me.

In the kitchen, an evidently now-awake Aunt Hailey is standing at the coffee maker in one of Mom's robes, pouring a cup of coffee from the third pot I've made in three hours.

"Jeez." She glances into her mug cautiously, like she's a member of the bomb squad approaching a suspicious bag left unattended at the airport. She sniffs at it, scrunches up her nose, and then asks me, "Did you leave any of the coffee in the can? Or did you just pour it all in at once?"

If that's her rendition of, 'Thanks for making some coffee Seth,' it's completely lacking in gratitude.

Whatever.

I don't have time for her bullshit right now.

I make a beeline for the fridge and grab a bottle of water, accidentally knocking over another bottle of water, which accidentally knocks over another bottle of water, which accidentally knocks over another one until I find myself giving up on trying to administer any sort of damage control. I slam the refrigerator door shut so I don't have to deal with a plastic avalanche of aqua.

Why in the hell anyway do people stack those things so close together?

I pivot around and Hales is hugging her mug of unwanted coffee, just staring at me.

"Did you get any sleep last night, Seth?"

"Yes," I answer defensively, clutching Ryan's bottle of water.

Yes I did, thank you, Aunt Hailey, I slept an entire twenty minutes, sitting on the hallway floor.

"You look possessed." She takes a step forward towards me, one hand on her coffee cup, one hand on her hip, and both eyeballs trained on me.

"Ok…thanks," I answer, because I've weighed the option of saying the other response that's ping- ponging around in my head, which is 'fuck off,' and I've decided that 'ok…thanks' is the less-controversial road to drive down.

Before she can say another word, I scoot out of the kitchen and rush down the hallway doing my fast dandy walk, as Summer so 'PC'ly phrases it.

Ryan has flipped onto his side, instead of just passing out in whatever position he's been put in, and I take that as a good sign.

The old Ryan, my Ryan, sleeps on his side most of the time, in the same position, one hand tucked under a blanket or pillow, the other arm straight out.

Not that I watch him sleep a lot. I don't, I swear. It's just that I tend to wake him up a lot, randomly, whenever I need him to listen to me…about anything.

I walk up to him and nudge his arm… thanks, doc, I'm sticking with the nudge… and tell him, "I brought you some water, Ryan."

He just kind of mutters something like, "rrrrrrrrrr," which I'm assuming is his own version of 'fuck off.' But he said he was thirsty and I want him awake so I nudge a little harder and say, "Ryan, you said you were thirsty, remember? I brought you something to drink."

I try and put the bottle in his outstretched hand, but unfortunately it's the casted arm, and instead of trying to grab it, he shoves it away.

I wasn't fast enough.

I lost my chance.

He's back asleep.

I glance at my watch.

I go back to the corner of the room I've been holing up in and wait.

I have 55 minutes before I have an excuse to wake Ryan up again.

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"Seth."

My dad is walking into the bedroom.

When did he open the door?

I didn't hear it open and there's no other noise in the room, not even Ryan's weird snore, so why didn't I hear the door open?

"Seth." My dad nods in Ryan's direction. "How's he doing?"

What am I, some kind of fucking psychiatrist? Do I look like Doogie Howser to you? I don't know how the fuck he's doing. He said "rrrrrrrrrr," Dad. I've been with him for three and a half hours and all I have to report is "thirsty" and "rrrrrrrrrr."

My dad walks up to the bed and gingerly sits down on the edge of it. He pushes back Ryan's hair and inspects the bruises on his face.

And I can't hold it back any longer.

I have to know.

My dad made me leave the hospital last night when I wanted to stay. He made me go with Hailey when all I wanted to do was make sure that Ryan was going to be ok.

I've been trying and trying and trying to keep it in, but I feel myself losing control along with the ability to get regain it. I know at this point that my dad cares about Ryan with the same protective fierceness that he cares about Mom and me. So I have to know why did he leave Ryan all alone last night at the hospital when he promised me he would take care of him?

I hear myself ask my dad, "What were you doing that was so important that you left Ryan by himself?"

I wait for my arrow of an accusation, masquerading as a question, to hit its target.

My dad's shoulders sag a little bit but he keeps brushing back Ryan's hair and studying the bruises on his face.

And me?

I can't keep it in any longer.

I'm trying so hard to control my mouth. But it, and my brain, have banded together and are staging a mutiny.

The words just fall out of my mouth, like coins from a slot machine, clanking one after another and disturbing the silence as they hit the hollow tin.

Maybe I raise my voice a little, but I should, right? "You promised me you'd stay with him and then you lost him. Look at him, Dad. God. What if he hadn't called me and just left the hospital by himself? How could you leave him alone, with everything going on? If you were going to just forget about him like that, why didn't you let me stay at Hoag and take care of him?"

Why wouldn't you let me stay and try and make up for the damage I had helped cause?

I have to get a hold of myself before it all comes pouring out, everything that's cluttering my mind and making it so hard to be a new and improved Seth.

I want so desperately to say to him, 'How could you let Mom get so bad? How could you bring Trey home, Dad, and then leave it up to Ryan and me and Marissa to reform him? How could you sit there and pass judgment on me last night and make me feel even worse and even guiltier than I already fucking did, when you fucked up just as bad?'

My father fixes the blanket a little, pats a sleeping Ryan on the arm, and stands up, so gradually that, for a second, I have a flash of him when he might be older, like Grandpa.

The room, the room is so quiet, like slow motion quiet, like looking through a sealed window quiet, and the words that did escape my mouth are still echoing through the bedroom, bouncing off the walls, pointing imaginary fingers.

Dad walks to the door, with his back turned to me and I figure he's going to bail without answering me.

But I should know better than that.

My dad never bails.

He just bails everybody else out.

My dad, Sandy The Selfless, The Martyr of Newport.

He glances over his shoulder, at Ryan, who's still dead to the world, and tells me, "The paramedics tried to revive Trey. The hospital needed me to identify his body. I'm sorry, Seth. I only left Ryan alone for ten minutes. The ER nurse promised me he'd be safe."

The old Seth would say, 'My bad. Spank me stupid.'

The new one has no response. I drop my head. I can't even form the words my dad deserves to hear.

For some reason I can't bring myself to say, 'I'm sorry.'

"When you saw Trey, was there a lot of blood?"

My head snaps up, thinking that it was Ryan who spoke but my dad has turned around and is looking at me.

I must have asked the question.

But I don't remember asking it and the room is so quiet, so quiet, that I can't concentrate. And what in the hell, how can I not remember saying something like that?

My dad doesn't answer me and God knows what he's thinking about me after that question, so I answer it myself.

I was there.

I should know.

The carpet soaked up all Trey's blood and what it couldn't absorb, was left in little puddles around him, and I took the rest of it out of the apartment, on my hands, deep under my fingernails, maybe into my skin, where some of it may hide forever.

And Marissa has a little of Trey's blood on her hands.

And Ryan on his.

And Summer on hers.

"Your aunt made breakfast. I want you to come and eat something and then it's your turn to get some sleep."

I get up and follow him.

Because, after all, Aunt Hailey made breakfast, and won't that just fucking fix everything.

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To be continued…………….