Author's Note: It seems I am always apologizing for not updating sooner. This story was even completed before I stated posting, and I couldn't get my act together. It's amazing I have any readers. Anyway, I had to break this chapter up, so now we have eight parts and an epilogue, which I suppose makes nine parts total. I'll have the other two parts up tonight. Always!thanks to Joey and Crash for the betaing.

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Windex

A Seth POV Concerning the Season Two Finale

Part Seven

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"Seth."

Quiet, just like a whisper in a library.

Summer is standing there at the front door, the proud ringer of our doorbell, with her hair in a pony tail, no make-up and goddamn if she's never, ever looked better.

She moves into my arms, just sails in, like I'm the Bay of Seth and the realness of it, the familiarity of her touch, kind of shocks me a little, 'cause nothing has felt real lately, nothing, but I rebound and put my arms around her and hug her and kiss the top of her hair and take a second just to recognize the smell of her shampoo and the feel of her skin and how smooth it is and how perfect she is.

She looks up at me and she's already crying and she says, "I can't believe any of this is happening."

"I know," I answer and concentrate as hard as I can on sounding normal and supportive and consistent and reliable. You know what? My Aunt Hailey is good at refusing to allow reality to interfere with real life, so I take a lesson from her oh-so-massive personal vocabulary and I tell Summer, "It's gonna' be ok."

Which, of course, it's not.

But I need Summer and me to be ok.

See, I don't know what to do about Ryan. I don't know what to do to fix him or to help him and I'm a little bit too scared and ineffective to try.

And I can't help Trey, 'cause he's dead and I'm no lawyer, so Marissa's out and I'm no counselor, so my mom is a lost cause, and I only draw superheroes, I don't play one on TV, so my dad is on his own, but Summer, maybe I can help Summer.

Maybe the two of us can be ok.

I'd like that. I'd like for her and me to be like things were yesterday and the day before and the day before that.

Maybe she's the one I can hit rewind with.

"It's ok," I repeat, and kiss her again and smell her hair again and touch her again and just hold on to her as tight as I can.

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We're sitting in the living room, Summer and me.

Aunt Hailey brought us some bagels and orange juice and then excused herself to go and make some phone calls in private, in Ryan's pool house.

Hales and the subtle…not so much.

But at least she has gotten rid of herself and Summer and I can have some privacy.

I'm keeping a close eye on that freakin' chair, The Chair, from the corner of my eye.

Trey's chair.

It's listening to us, I know it is, making me want to set fire to the damn thing and fucking send it flying like a Molotov Cocktail through the front window.

I want it gone from my house. In fact, I want everything that reminds me of Trey gone from my house.

Except for Ryan.

He can stay.

And I realize, what's the use of getting rid of the chair and anything else? 'Cause every time I look at Ryan, every time I see the stitches in his back or watch him staring into space, I'm gonna' start itching at my fingernails.

"I saw Coop this morning," Summer tells me.

Oh yeah? Tell me, how is Annie Oakley today?

Gun shot residue is evidently a bitch to scrub off.

Stays with you for days, did you know that, Summer?

Maybe Marissa should wear gloves. I don't want her touching you, Summer. Maybe some of it will wear off and onto your perfect skin.

I have to be normal. I can't mention strange shit, like contagious gun shot residue, so I ask Summer, "How is she?" And I'm the new Seth, so I don't ask, 'Is she sorry? Is Marissa fucking feeling a tad morose for killing Ryan's brother? Does she know how badly she fucked up or how sorry I am that I called her last night instead of maybe, I don't know, my dad or even the police? Does she realize that I'm the reason she shot a gun last night or blame me or wonder just a little bit that if she just would have told someone sooner, about Trey, that maybe the dominoes would have fallen in a different pattern?'

Does she know how much I hate her for shooting Trey and changing…everything?

Does she know how grateful I am to her for saving Ryan?

"She's…" Summer stops to collect, I guess, her thoughts, like there's a basket somewhere big enough right now for any of us to do that, and then tells me, "God, Seth, I've never seen her this bad. She's just lying on her bed crying. The doctor gave her mom some pills to give her, but I don't think they're helping."

Oh really?

Pills aren't helping solve a problem in Newport. Well isn't that just a major fucking shock.

Summer wipes away her tears and asks me, "How's Ryan?"

Huh.

How's Ryan?

How's Ryan.

Where to start.

Well, Summer, Ryan's an only child now.

He's breathing is funny, he's got a cast, some stitches, some emotional baggage that's so fucking heavy that it ain't never gonna' qualify for carry on.

Let's see, what else? He's drugged, 'cause, you know, what else are you gonna' do with him, right, Dad? Did you even ask Ryan, Dad, before you signed the papers to medicate his new reality away?

Oh, how could I forget? Silly, stupid me. He's got some souvenir bruises, Summer, around his neck, 'cause, evidently, the T-shirt that said, My Coked-Up Brother Tried To Kill Me and All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt, was sold out.

"Seth?"

She reaches out puts her hand underneath my chin and steers my face so that I'm looking at her.

I don't remember not looking at her; when did I stop? We were talking, right? I don't remember when I replaced her face with The Chair.

That fucking chair that I can't stop staring at.

God, what did I say out loud? Did I say any of that out loud?

"What did I say?" I ask her quickly.

"What?" Summer asks, confused, and I let out a deep breath, pretty sure that I kept the manhole cover safe and secure over my mouth, and I practice the Cohen art of finely-tuned subterfuge and say, "What did you say? You asked me something and I didn't hear you."

"Oh." She sits back and lets go of my face and relaxes a little and I tell myself, "Do not blow this chance, asshole, and do not destroy this chance of normal and structured and familiar."

Summer repeats, "I asked you how Ryan is."

I love Summer's voice. Especially when she's so quiet and soft, like she is right now.

Her voice sometimes sounds like liquid sugar.

Sweet and heavy and sticky.

The individual syllables adhere to my skin and linger.

"Seth?"

"Um, sorry." I shake my head. "He's uh, you know, very, very, quiet. Very, very…post-trauma Ryan."

Think after-Oliver, Summer, only this time, the big bad gun went bang.

Summer nods, as if I've actually revealed any fucking helpful information and tells me, "She wants to see him. Marissa wants to see Ryan. I think it would really help her, you know, to cope with everything."

Oh, ok.

Now I understand.

Summer came over here to check things out, reconnaissance, if you will. Do Marissa's dirty work. She didn't come here to see me. She came to see if there's anything left of Ryan, any scrap of him still existing, hanging on, so she can tear him into little strips of cloth and wrap him around Marissa and help put her own friend back together.

As if it wasn't enough that he was by Marissa's side last night, when the gun was still smoking.

As if it wasn't enough that he standing next to her, instead of being with Trey. That he sent me to feel for Trey's pulse while he put his arms around Marissa.

What else does Marissa want from him?

Absolution?

All ready? Trey's body isn't even cold.

Could she maybe fucking wait until his brother is buried before she relies on Ryan to solve her newest drama?

"Um," I stutter, 'cause now I'm all about the stutter. I've embraced it. Hello stutter, goodbye ramble.

"He's uh…well, Ryan's maybe not ready for the whole visitors thing yet. He's at the hospital, with my dad, and uh, I'm not sure when they're going to be home."

Summer just looks at me, strange, like I've got a big blob of mustard on my shirt, which I know I don't have 'cause I hate mustard and would never allow it that close to my shirt and I wonder what I said wrong, 'cause I'm so very careful now, so very careful and I don't release my words until they've gone through a mental metal detector, so what the hell did I say wrong that she's looking at me like that?

"They need to see each other, Seth. They need to be together. This is all so nuts and she needs to know that he's ok and he must be wondering the same thing about her. Right? We need to get them together."

Summer nods once, fast. She's so sure of herself. So sure that she's already on the road to fixing everything. I rub at my forehead and try to remember why I'm so tired and I look at The Chair and for a brief flash, I think I see Trey, and how can that be possible? 'Cause that's not supposed to happen, me seeing Trey, unless my eyes are shut and now my fingernails itch and I take my hands away from my head and methodically rub my cuticles, back and forth, hard, scraping them with my nails as I go up and down the rough skin.

Rough skin, not soft like Summer's.

She scoots over and lays her head on my shoulder and says to me, "We need to get them together, Cohen. They're, like, our best friends and they need us right now and we can't let them down."

We can't let them down? I'm sorry; did I hear you correctly just now?

We can't let them down?

Fuck.

Summer, fuck, you did NOT just say that.

Fuck.

WE ALREADY LET THEM DOWN, YOU STUPID BITCH.

And my head snaps up and I swing my face sideways and accidentally hit Summer's cheek and watch her, wild-eyed, waiting to see if she heard me and, God, please, please tell me I did not just say that last sentence out loud.

I didn't mean it. I don't even know where it came from.

I love Summer.

Please, tell me I did not say that sentence out loud.

'Cause if I did, and I lose Summer, I don't want to live.

"What?" she asks, confused, rubbing her cheek where I accidently hit her, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." I shake my head back and forth, probably too fast, probably too out of control, but I'm so grateful, so grateful that she didn't hear my thoughts and I'll give her anything right now. I'll do anything for her to keep her wanting to be with me and near me and maybe it's not such a bad idea if Marissa comes over because Ryan did ask me about her and maybe he wants to see her and maybe Summer's right and if Ryan and Marissa just see each other, maybe things will slowly start to reconstruct, like Clayface does after Batman shoots him with water and he reassembles himself someplace, alone, when all his little globby clay parts slink back to him and rearrange themselves into something recognizable.

Summer kisses me and tells me she'll be back later with Marissa and that I should try and get a little sleep because I look tired.

I nod and promise her I will, because I've lied to everyone else this morning, so why not Summer?

I pull her back into my arms and kiss her one more time and she hangs onto me, and I want to tell her… no I have to be honest with myself…I want to beg her not to go. I want to get down on my knees and plead with her to just stay because I really, really don't want to be alone with the chair and Trey's ghost and his invisible blood.

I don't want to be alone with myself.

But I can't tell Summer any of that, because then she won't look at me the same way she did when she first came to the house this morning. She won't look at me like she did yesterday and the day before and the day before that.

She'll know that I've changed. She'll know that I'm new, and not at all improved.

"It's ok. It's gonna' be ok. They'll both be fine," I tell her, and kiss her behind her ear and rub my hands up and down her arms one last time and hook my neck around hers.

Then I wave at Summer as she drives away and I go back to my room and close the door and start counting my comics and putting them in a row and organizing the clutter by numbers and where the fuck did I put Issue # 88? Ok, yeah, it's a reprint but my dad worked hard to find it for me when I was, like, nine and now I've fucking lost it because I don't take care of anything.

Or anyone.

I don't fucking take care of anyone who I should take care of.

And I have to find that fucking comic and that's exactly what I do. I tear up my room and look for it and look for it and look for it, and I look for it until I hear my dad and Ryan come home.

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"Seth?"

I'm watching Ryan watch his new wall of choice. A kitchen wall this time, I'm guessing the spot right above the stove, but I could be off by an inch or two. He's sitting on a stool, so height is a little hard to judge.

"Seth."

What is it about Ryan and inanimate objects? Do they talk to him, speak to him, like animals to Tarzan?

What the fuck does go on in Ryan's brain all day?

Is it busy busy busy, like mine?

Or is it in a permanent holding pattern?

"Seth. Did you get any sleep while we were gone?"

My dad.

Hi, Pops. How the hell are ya'? Wait. Don't answer that. I really don't want to know.

"Um." I tear myself away from watching Ryan watch his wall. "Uh, Summer came over for a little while, but other than that," I mutter, shrugging innocently, "I, uh, spent the rest of the time in my room."

I move along fast, lighting flash quick, 'cause my dad, he's the one who cultivated and cared for and grew the original Cohen family tree of subterfuge and I know he's a hell of a lot more savvy than Summer and not nearly as easily distracted.

He's the master of not telling the truth by not necessarily lying and I know, if he gets a chance to cross-examine me, I'm toast, and oh so busted about the not sleeping, even a wink. So to divert his parenting laser back on to the target it should have in its sights, I practically shout out, "What did the doctor say about Ryan?"

My dad sneaks a peek at Ryan and I can't tell if he's waiting to see if Ryan is going to answer me or just waiting to see if the guy was even fucking listening to my question.

I'm guessing the wall is more interesting than me right now, 'cause Ryan's clearly not at all motivated to offer up any information so my dad clears his throat and tells me, "Ryan's, uh, doing better than expected. That doesn't mean that he shouldn't have stayed at the hospital last night…" And thanks, Dad, ever so much, for that little side swipe….because I was almost done feeling guilty for helping Ryan escape. Good thing you brought it up, 'cause, you know, I don't have enough shit weighing me down right now.

"But, uh, everything looks remarkably good, all things considered. The swelling should go down in a few days and the bruising will fade. His breathing isn't compromised so, uh, really, we just need to be cautious of the concussion, take things slowly for a little while."

And the stitches Dad, don't forget the stitches, deep in Ryan's back.

And the scars, Dad. The scars that are gonna' settle into his back when the stiches go away.

If we take things slowly, will those fade too?

"Ryan." My dad, bless his ever-hopeful heart, attempts to coax something, anything out of Ryan. "Do you remember how long the doctor said your cast has to be on?"

Silence.

And my dad and I just stand there in anticipation, waiting for Ryan to speak, as if he's a toddler, just testing out his first wobbly steps.

"Ryan," my dad says, raising his voice, and I suppress a strong desire to scream at him, "What the fuck is wrong with you? Leave him alone, maybe he doesn't want to fucking chit-chat right now."

"Ryan, how long for the cast?" My dad is persistent if nothing else.

"Six weeks," Ryan mumbles, lowering his head. Must be communing with the kitchen counter top now. Me Ryan…you granite.

More silence and my dad tells us, as if either of us cares, that he'll be right back, and abandons me in the kitchen.

I'm alone again with Ryan. All my nerves and self-doubts and personal shortcomings race into the kitchen and form a circle around Ryan and me.

Duck, Duck, Goose.

My turn again to talk, even though, I mean, what the hell can I possibly say?

"Um, so, Summer was over here and she was saying that she saw Marissa earlier today."

His head swings up and he stares at me and, shit, I didn't expect to replace the counter as his focus of attention so quickly, so I scramble for the next thing to say.

"Yeah, and um, I guess Marissa was wondering if she could come over and see you."

You know, when Ryan wants to stare, when he wants you to know that you have his attention, he's suddenly the least shy person I know. He could cut glass with his eyes, when he wants you to know he's listening and interested in what you're saying. How does he do that, change so fast? Does he have a switch?

"Is Marissa ok?" he asks, and what is it with everyone asking me if everyone else is ok?

I haven't combed my hair in almost two days. Do I honestly look like someone who should be judging anyone on his or her health or mental wellness?

"I don't know," I manage to answer, 'cause I really don't know, not really. I know she's in her bed crying all the time, and I suppose I should probably tell him that much, but I'll be damned if I'm going to contribute to Ryan running off and trying to console poor Marissa about his own fucking brother being dead.

"Do you want to see her? 'Cause if you don't feel up to it, man, nobody would fault you for it, Ryan."

Wow, that was actually a very coherent, reasonable thing to say. A few of my self-doubts lower their heads in defeat and exit the kitchen.

And by the way, look at us, talking. Ok, sure, we're discussing whether or not Ryan should see his girlfriend who man-slaughtered his brother, but hey, it's a fucking start, right? Got to start somewhere. Can't just jump straight into, 'Hey man, are you up for a game?'

He scratches at his eyebrow with his casted arm, and the movement is strangely mesmerizing. His upper arm, his bicep to be exact, is so ridonkerously big but the cast makes his arm look fragile and I think to myself, no author, no writer, could sum up the situation any better than Ryan and his manly, ass-kicking bicep and broken forearm can.

Strong and weak and vulnerable and rock solid.

Broken but still moving and functioning.

That's our Ryan Atwood, folks.

"I need to see her."

He's back to staring at me, with his bruised up face and glassy, watery eyes and he's looking up at me, wanting me to make it happen. Depending on me…to make it happen.

"Ok." I bob my head up and down. "I'll call Summer right now."

Ryan nods and when I get up, he says the worst possible thing he could.

"Thanks, Seth," he whispers in that voice.

And it sticks to me like a dirty wad of taffy to the bottom of my shoe. I don't want it there. I want to scrape his thank-you off. I don't want Ryan to ever thank me, for anything, ever again.

In the bedroom, Ryan asked me what exactly I was sorry for and now I want to return the favor and ask him what exactly he's thanking me for. For telling him about Trey and Marissa when I knew, I fucking knew, that nothing good would come of it? For being too much of a coward to turn around and tell him his brother was dead? For risking his safety just because I wanted to make sure that my own girlfriend would be protected from his psychotic brother? For calling Marissa and telling her to rush over to Trey's apartment and try and stop what I already knew was an unstoppable tidal wave?

What exactly are you thanking me for, Ryan?

Remind me again.

He's talking, Seth, I chastise myself. He's speaking. He's at least freaking interacting with something that has a pulse. Don't ruin it by laying your own guilt trip on him. Give Ryan a break. He's already granting one pardon today. He's already going to give out one Get out of Guilt Jail Free card.

Let this be Marissa's day.

Tomorrow or the day after or the day after that or the year after this, maybe after he has had some rest, maybe after he has forgiven himself, maybe then you can ask Ryan for exoneration.

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To be continued... Tonight, cause the season premier is tomorrow!