Author's Notes: Dear Joey, I know you tried to teach me about single quotation marks versus double ones, but clearly I'm ignoring the rule altogether. I do, however, muchappreciate your on-going efforts. I'm hopeless.

Hey crash, I still have my fingers crossed for a decent resolution to K.

Beachtree, famous, georgley and overnighter, you guys are cracking me up with your double reviewing. What in the hell I did to deserve you guys, I do not know. And the rest of you nutty kids, all with the reviewing. Very kind words, thanks. This poor little story keeps chugging along. This is part six of eight.

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Windex

A Seth POV Concerning the Season Two Finale

Part Six

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"Seth."

Ryan and I are both still sitting on the Mom and Dad's bed, just staring at walls.

Mighty nifty that there are four solid ones surrounding us. We don't have to share and each of us has a spare.

"Seth, come here please."

My wall of choice is straight ahead.

I'm counting how many times I can blink in-between each of Ryan's weird sounding breaths.

He stopped talking after I told him how sorry I was that his brother was dead and there isn't a whole lot else to do in Mom and Dad's bedroom so the wall staring, and the blinking and the listening to the breathing is the spectator sport de jour.

"Seth."

"Yeah, Mom?" I ask half-heartedly, absently.

Three blinks that time. I counted three blinks.

I force myself to look away from my wall, turn in the direction of the voice that keeps intruding in on my wall and my's special time together.

The voice, it's not Mom's.

Of course it's not Mom's, dumbass.

Can't be Mom, Mom isn't here, Mom isn't home.

I know my mistake; my slip of the tongue is something that I should be worried about, because my dad is watching me now with that look he gives…oops, used to give …my grandpa, when he knew the Gramps was lying to him about something.

It's the Sandy Cohen I'm keeping a very close eye on you look.

My dad indicates with his finger that I should join him in the hallway, so I stand up and sneak a peak at Ryan, who is still busy bonding with his own wall.

"I'll be right back, man," I tell him.

I'm proud of myself 'cause I've avoided making Ryan responsible for my decision. I've suppressed my neurotic desire to ask him, 'Do you want me to come back? That's ok, right, man? I mean, if you and your wall want to be alone, I completely understand. No problem. You don't mind if I come back…right?'

The new Seth is done showering Ryan with frivolous and childish chatter.

There's no more room left for it anymore.

The whole house is so full, so crowded, every nook and cranny, crammed tightly with regret and anger and sorrow and trepidation. It's gobbling up all the fresh oxygen, like an out of control brushfire. There's no spare room anywhere for my ranting.

I've had to pack up my speech pattern and ship it off to rehab with my vodka -drinking, car-crashing mother.

"Seth."

My dad is getting impatient and as I move closer I see…oh big fucking bucket of joy on a stick…he's not alone.

My Aunt Hailey is standing just outside the door, her arms crossed around her waist and her head down, like she'd rather be counting individual carpet fibers than making absolutely any eye contact with me right now.

I can tell the two of them have been conspiring against me.

I slow down my pace a bit.

If I were a dog, I'd have my tail between my legs.

But fuck this shit, I didn't do anything wrong so I stare defiantly at both of them, back and forth and ask casually, "What's up?"

And just how asinine is that question? What's up? Shit, what isn't up? Everything's up. Up in the air and swirling around Wizard of Oz style in a big wind funnel of chaos.

I'm up.

Been up now, for what? Over 24 hours now not counting my 20 minute nap.

My coffee intake is up.

Ryan's finally up.

In this hallway, the tension is up.

My dad clears his throat.

I stare little sharp daggers of death at my Aunt Hailey.

"Seth, your aunt is a little concerned that maybe…"

He stalls and I want to scream at him, 'Oh give me a fucking break, Dad, like The Great Sandy Cohen is at a loss for words. Puleeeez. Quit toying with me and get it over with.'

"Well, Hailey is concerned that maybe you're a little more upset, about everything, than you're letting on."

Oh good lord, are we back on that kick? Hailey's special brand of stupid must be contagious. Focus people. I'm not the one with a broken arm and the stitches in the back…still don't know how the fuck that happened…and the Darth Vader impersonation. You remember Ryan, right, Dad? Perhaps you and Hailey's collective concern should be concentrated in that direction.

And yeah, I am a little fucking upset right now about…everything…and by the way, shouldn't you be, too, Dad? And Aunt Hailey? Upset…about everything?

I've got no patience for this random, bullshit, little concerned, parenting moment.

"Do you have Ryan's pain medication?" I ask him, holding out my hand, slapping at my palms with my fingers, beckoning at him to get a move on and fork the pills over.

Remember, Dad?

Follow the bouncing ball.

Ryan…bedroom…headache…sick…dead brother…ringing any bells there, big guy?

Can't save us all right now, Dad.

You have to pick.

You have to do triage and tag the one who's most severely fucked up. Sure, Mom's a drunk and I'm slowly imploding, but Ryan still wins. He's still holding the heavy weight championship belt for catastrophe.

"You need to get some sleep, Seth," Hailey says quietly without looking up.

"Don't tell me what I need," I snap back.

Not all of us can nap on the couch and eat eggs right now, Hales. Some of us are a little on edge, ok? Some of us saw somebody die last night. You didn't know Trey and you sure as hell don't know a fucking thing about what's going on with me; so don't tell me what I need. You may have Mom's robe but you sure as hell don't have her authority.

Your dad is safely in the ground, Aunt Hailey. I saw the shovels throwing in dirt. Don't worry, you're gonna' get some of his money.

You can leave now.

Go back to Japan or wherever the hell it is that you have finally started living your adult life.

"Hey," my dad points his finger at me. "That's enough. Do not speak to your aunt that way."

And if that's his reaction to the few words I did say out loud to Hailey, I'm tempted to scream the rest of the shit I'm keeping locked up in my head, just to see what witty dictate my dad can come up with.

Pop the popcorn, kids. The Sandy Cohen Parenting Show is coming on. Don't want to miss it because you never know how long it's going to be on the air.

"Sandy," Hales whispers my dad's name, "just drop it, it's ok."

Gather around, folks, come and see the Amazingly Stupid Woman.

She still, and I have no idea how it is humanly possible, she still, doesn't get it.

Nothing…is ok.

It's not…ok.

It's not gonna' be…ok.

"Explain to me why we're standing in the hallway when Ryan is awake and needs something for his headache?"

I stare at my dad, head tilted.

I'm done wasting any amount of energy on Hailey.

I'm declaring her a non-factor.

So, now that she's out of the way, along with her annoying intrusions…it's time to make your pick, Dad.

Time to decide.

Time to tag the survivors in order of greatest need.

Who's it going to be?

Ryan or me?

You can't deal with us both right now.

So who gets your attention? Who gets to be saved today, right now, right here. Who's the lucky one?

My dad sighs and he's looking at me all disappointed, maybe not disappointed, maybe a combination of sad and worn-out, but it's gonna' take more than that to force me into compliancy. He gives up on me. He knows he can't fight this battle on two fronts. Not even my dad can spread himself that thin.

"I have to run Ryan back to the hospital, Seth. I expect you to get some sleep."

Behind my shoulder, I watch him walk into the bedroom.

I knew he'd choose Ryan.

Ryan's trauma is real and solid and tangible.

It's one of the reasons that I think my dad prefers Ryan sometimes. He can clearly see Ryan's reasons for his various crises. Understands how to confront them, or at the very least, how to approach them.

Not like with me.

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Ryan and his pitiful medical condition are turning into an instant olive branch between my dad and me. As soon as he has to deal with Ryan, it's like all my dad's frustration or anger with me just melts away.

I walk down the hallway behind the two of them, ready to help catch Ryan in case he falls over.

My dad and I. United in our front to salvage what we can, sifting through the wreckage, of what remains, of Ryan Atwood.

"You're doing great, kid," I hear my dad say and I suppress a strong desire to snark, 'Yeah, sure you are, Ryan. You're looking pretty terr-fucking-iffic there, buddy. Love the snail's pace. And the scattered bruises around your neck? Spiffy.'

I actually have to keep myself from laughing because, Jesus, things are so fucked up right now, they're starting to turn the corner from tragic into ludicrous and obscenely funny.

Yeah, Dad, he's doing…

Just.

Great.

Hailey opens the front door and puts a hand on Ryan's shoulder, and by the way, what the hell is up with the, hand on the shoulder thing anyway? And then, whoa, what in the hell, she leans over and kisses him on the check and whispers something into his ear and Ryan just kind of nods and Hailey rubs his back a little and I wonder to myself, CAN the universe tip any further over before everything spills out?

A few more steps away from the house and now we're at the BMW and I open the Beemer's passenger door and cringe in sympathy as Ryan lowers himself carefully onto the seat.

Stitches, stitches.

I remember that Ryan has stitches in his back.

A stitch in time.

Stitches in a friend of mine.

"Hold up a second, Dad," I shout out and I race like hell past Hailey and the open door, right into the fame, ouch, got to stop doing that, and grab a small pillow off the sofa and go back through the door, and straight to Ryan's side of the car. He's leaning up, hands on the dashboard, eyes closed, and I say to him, "Here, Ryan," and put the pillow behind his back and gently steer him backwards, onto it.

"I'm just gonna' get your seatbelt, ok?" I tell him and one click later, Ryan is settled, as much as he can be I guess, and I feel frozen, leaning over Ryan, the seatbelt latch still in my hand.

I can't move.

I should be saying more to him.

But I don't know what to say.

Hailey barely knows Ryan and she kissed him and rubbed his back and put a hand on his shoulder and, a few hours ago, while it was still dark out, she wiped blood off his face and he's my best friend and I still don't know what to say. Can't come up with a fucking word other than I'm sorry, which is the last fucking thing I'm thinking Ryan needs to hear more of because I'm pretty sure his life is littered with discarded sorrys from every single person he's ever counted on to be there for him.

Bam!

Gunshot.

I startle to a semi-standing position, banging the back of my head hard against the inside rim of the car.

I rub at my head and it hurts so damn bad, so I rub at it harder and it still hurts and now I feel like maybe I've done some actual damage.

My eyes start watering.

Maybe I should crawl into the back seat of Dad's car and have him take me to Hoag along with Ryan because I think I might have given myself a concussion from my reflexive recoil reaction in response to hearing my imaginary gunshot.

My head is fucked up, Doctor, sir. Can you please take a picture of it? Figure out what's wrong?

Despite my traumatic brain injury, I manage to stand up straight. Fully out of the car now, I continue to rub at the back of my head while I watch my dad fiddle with his car keys before inserting them into the ignition. Too lost in his own world of if I just keep charging ahead, I won't have to look behind, he doesn't see my fantastically insane reaction to the noises in my skull.

If I know I'm crazy…I'm not crazy, right?

If I'm hearing gunshots that aren't really there…I'm still doing better than the guy with the broken arm and the stitches and the fucking purple and black marks around his neck, right?

If I find myself constantly scrubbing my fingernails to try and get blood off them…blood that I can't see anymore…but I know is still there, hiding…I'm still better off than the dead guy the blood came from, right?

My dad's car takes off and I walk around the outside of the house, through the now infamous, it-had-better-be-f'ing-unlocked patio door, 'cause I want to avoid Hailey and whatever in the hell she has in store to mutter at me and I go up the stairs, to my bedroom, and slam the door shut, and see Captain Oats, sitting there, waiting for me, as if nothing has happened and everything in my world is still solvable by whispering secrets into a plastic horse's ear.

I swing my arm out and send the Captain sailing against the wall with a loud thump and I flop down on my bed and roll over and put a pillow over my head, and because my head hurts…and only because my head hurts… I swear that's the only reason…and maybe because I don't know else to do and my head, it's more than hurting, it's throbbing with noise and confusion…I start crying.

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I figure Ryan and Dad should be back in a few hours. I overheard him and Hailey talking about Ryan and a CAT scan that should have been done last night.

Whatever.

I'm sure the doctors are more concerned about covering their asses than they are about Ryan's actual injuries.

I call my dad, and tell him to make sure they check the cast, cause Ryan played a little game of break the window with it last night and yeah, I probably should have mentioned it a lot sooner but I forgot and yes, I'm sorry and we can just add this to ever growing list of 'Wow, Seth has fucked up.'

My dad thanks me for the information and I can tell he's feeling bad about the whole pointing his finger at me in the hallway thing and I hear him say, "Promise me you'll get some sleep now, son."

"Yeah," I lie. "Absolutely. I'm already in bed." Crying like the freaking sissy ass pansy that I am.

"When I get home, Seth, you and I, we're going to have a talk, all right? I'm sorry I wasn't around last night for you or much at all this morning."

I want my dad to keep talking, so I can shut my eyes and listen to him and remember the way his words always manage to wrap around me and make me feel like, even if the world is exploding into little pieces, everything in the Cohen household is going to emerge unscathed.

But I crossed a bridge last night, and my dad wasn't with me.

I left him and my mom and everything and everyone else on the other side with the old Seth. So I absolve my dad from any further guilt and need to coddle the old Seth, telling him, "No, it's cool. I know you had a million things to do, helping Marissa and Ryan."

And helping the hospital match a name with a body and a guy from the DA's office, match a motive with a bullet and writing Grandpa's eulogy and reading it with grace and honor and sincerity and helping Mom pack her bags for rehab and driving her there.

And having the courage to leave her alone and turn around and walk away.

I understand everything you do, Dad, even if I don't comprehend how you manage to do it all.

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I've decided to pass the time waiting for Ryan and my dad by organizing my comic books. My mom is always complaining about the mess and how she hates that they are lying around constantly in piles and could I please just take five minutes and do something about the clutter?

Clutter, clutter, clutter everywhere.

And my brain, it won't shut down and let me sleep, and there's already so much confusion, so I'll do something about the clutter and organize my comics and then that little part of my life will be very carefully arranged and I can start to mentally shelve the rest of my shit that is causing my brain to give off sparks of overuse.

My cell phone rings and I throw a pile of comics, not collectors edition, 'cause I'm not that crazy yet, out of my hand and jump on top of and over my bed and lunge for my phone.

Summer.

And I smile.

Because that's what I do when Summer calls.

"Hey," I answer quietly.

"Hey," she answers back. I'm always amazed at how much information Summer can relay from the word, 'hey.' It's in the way she pronounces it. Right now, she reminds me of that afternoon on the hill, at Grandpa's wedding, when she found me alone, and plotting secretly on how I was going to leave her.

"Um…"

What the hell is wrong with me? First Ryan, now Summer. I can't form sentences.

"Listen, Cohen, I know a lot is going on right now and it's still kind of early, but, could I come over? I just want to be with you."

Hell yes, woman, by all means, bring your pretty little self right over.

Summer can come over and she can sit at the breakfast bar and bitch about the lack of diet soda options we have and complain that I'm not listening to her and then at least that itty-bitty part of my life will seem like it's not unraveling and falling apart.

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Aunt Hailey is downstairs, in the kitchen, doing something that suspiciously looks like housework. Maybe Dad should have taken her to the hospital, gotten her head checked out.

"I thought you were going to try and get some sleep?" she asks quietly, seemingly a little wary of me, and I wonder just how scary I must look right now, that the hardcore Hales is treating me, of all people, like a worthy adversary.

"Summer's coming over."

I feel very proud of myself, that I've bothered to even acknowledge her comment.

I grab a Coke from the fridge, 'cause I doubt Hailey is going to let me within a half mile of the coffee pot, and go into the living room to wait for Summer.

It's so quiet.

No Ryan, no Dad, a church mouse Hailey.

No Mom.

I sit on the couch and close my eyes and immediately I flash to Trey lying in the apartment, surrounded by his own private pool of blood, and so I pop my eyelids open and I'm back in the living room and I look over and see a chair, that Trey seemed to always sit in, whenever he would hang out with Ryan and me.

"I'm sorry you're dead," I tell the chair, hoping it can somehow deliver the message to its recently departed former occupant.

"I'm sorry I told Ryan about what happened with you and Marissa. I'm sorry I helped kill you."

The chair seems uninterested in my confession but it feels so good to just say the words that have been choking me with the same pressure that Ryan must have felt when Trey was trying to strangle him.

"I'm sorry you made such fucked up decisions and I really, really wish you wouldn't have tired to rape Marissa. It's a shame, you know?" I tell the chair. "Because you really didn't seem like that bad of a person. A bit impulsive and criminal and maybe bordering on scumbag, sure but…"

It's just a chair, I tell myself, shut the hell up before Hailey hears you and fucking convinces your dad to commit you.

"But you know what, fuckhead?"

I'm pretty sure I'm threatening the chair now.

That's perfectly normal, right?

I scoot up to the edge of the sofa, stiffen up my body.

I want the chair to know I mean business.

"Screw you, ok? You tried to kill Ryan and you would have fucked his girlfriend if you could have gotten away with it so just screw you."

The doorbell rings and I shake my head a little bit.

What in the hell?

Was I just fighting with stapled upholstery?

I go to answer the door, not entirely sure who won.

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To be continued…………….