A/N: I swear I'm hard at work on finishing my other works-in-progress; sometimes things just come along that demand to be written immediately.

I also feel like the prequel stuff is maybe only interesting to me, but my mind lives for the minutiae of the Cohen family life that I've created here, and exploring the barriers to communication and connection that mess them up in their daily lives.

TW for implied/referenced childhood sexual abuse and implied self-harm.

Evasive Maneuvers

"Do you know where we're going?"

Seth doesn't answer, but the sliding doors have barely whisked closed behind them before he takes off, weaving through people and displays.

Sandy starts to follow his son, keeping his eyes on the bobbing head of brown curls in the sea of people.

He's not quite sure how he got suckered into this, given that shopping was generally Kirsten's purview, and given that Kirsten was also the one insisting that Seth desperately needed new swim trunks, but somehow he's the one at the department store and Kirsten's no doubt in the hot tub sipping Chardonnay, thankful for the extra hour of peace before the boys get home with takeout.

"Of course I want to take him," Kirsten had said. "Do you really think I trust you two clothes shopping?" She gave him a bemused look. "But he's insisting you take him after Dr. Max on Wednesday, and I didn't want to have this huge drawn-out fight over it."

"Why would he want me to take him?"

"He said he didn't want to go places two days in a row, that all these outings are interfering with his 'me' time." Kirsten shrugged. "And then he spent a long time explaining some comic book, and I kind of lost the thread at a certain point."

In between long bouts of saying very little, Seth was getting better and better at wearing them down conversationally.

Still, it was hard to know if the 'me time' explanation was authentic, if he really couldn't bear the thought of two separate outings on two separate days.

You couldn't always take what Seth said, or how he explained himself, at face value.

"He's not that hard to shop with," Kirsten offered. "And he'll probably make it even easier on you."

Sandy considers that maybe Kirsten is right, seeing that Seth is already hard at work, brow furrowed as he picks through the rack of swim trunks. It seems like he's at least going for efficiency here.

Sandy smiles a little as he starts to browse the other side of the rack.

A burst of laughter catches Sandy's attention and he turns to see a group of boys about Seth's age walk by them. He notices Seth notice them and subtly dip his head below eye-level of the rack, biting his lip.

He's not sure if Seth knows the boys, or if it's a natural adolescent instinct to avoid being seen in public with a parent.

"Here," Seth says a minute later, holding up several different bathing suits on hangers. "Mom would like these." He eyes the black trunks with bright red flames on them in Sandy's hand. "Mom would hate those," he informs his dad. He juts his chin at the pair of gray trunks in Sandy's other hand. "Those are fine."

"I'm sure you're right," Sandy concedes, replacing the flame print trunks on the rack and grabbing the other hangers from Seth.

Sandy looks at Seth's choices with admitted admiration. He seems to have a good sense of Kirsten's taste. All either solid colored, or with patterns that are fairly staid—no superhero designs or garish palm trees or brightly colored aquatic life.

Seth could probably do this whole shopping thing on his own, Sandy muses. Maybe that's why Seth wanted him here today—to let Kirsten know he was capable of doing all of this without a parent hovering over his shoulder.

Admittedly, they could both be overprotective, but Sandy felt more receptive to Seth as he'd begun clamoring for more independence and complaining that they never let him do anything on his own.

Sandy hadn't noticed any adults with that group of boys. He could see turning Seth loose to pick out his own clothes while he went to check out the sporting goods section.

He has to admit that that scenario had a certain appeal.

"These look good," Sandy says brightly. "Let's just go try them on quick."

"What, why?" Seth looks incredulous.

"I don't think you need six pairs of swim trunks. Mom said two tops." Sandy puts a hand on Seth's back and starts to aim him towards the fitting rooms.

Seth shrugs off Sandy's hand and stays firmly rooted where he is.

"I thought we were going to buy them all and Mom would pick what she wanted at home."

Sandy shakes his head, conscious of the time ticking away as they go back-and-forth, and conscious of the little wrinkle in Seth's brow that lets him know that this could become one of those long drawn-out things. Seth could be eerily easygoing a lot of the time, but when he dug in, it could be a problem.

"Then one of us would have to make an extra trip just to return them."

"Or we can just keep them all. It's not like we can't afford it." Seth crosses his arms across his chest.

"Seth..."

"Fine." Seth grabs a hanger from Sandy at random. "Let's just get these then."

"We don't even know if they fit," Sandy points out. "We don't know if any of these are going to fit."

"What are the odds that none of them fit?" Seth counters.

"Seth, your mom asked me to see them on you, and she'll know if I'm lying."

"Why, what have you lied to her about?"

"What?" Sandy shakes his head in confusion.

Seth had also gotten a little too adept at derailing a conversation.

"I mean if she'd know if you were lying, there must be lies you've told that she found out about. Otherwise how would you kno-"

"Seth Ezekiel." Sandy's voice is stern, and he can feel his face settling into the scowl that Seth insisted made him look exactly like The Nana, an observation that had amused Kirsten to no end.

Still, it was the easiest way to convey that he was not going to budge, that it would be futile for Seth to push his dad any further. Sandy had taken to pulling it out before he actually got that frustrated.

"Whatever, fine," Seth mutters, and he starts to trudge towards the fitting rooms, Sandy at his heels.

There's a nylon rope stretched across the entrance of the fitting rooms, and a sign on the wall informing them that the attendant was on a half hour break.

"See, it's fate." Seth gestures to the sign. "We weren't meant to know what I look like in these trunks today. Let's just buy the gray ones."

"C'mon, there are more rooms this way," Sandy says, motioning for Seth to follow him through racks of men's suits to another changing room attendant.

He can sense Seth's continued disgruntlement in the slump of his shoulders and the way he sighs and scuffs his sneakers on the rug as Sandy counts out the bathing suits and takes the number placard from the attendant. He hands Seth the placard and the hangers and directs him to the first open room.

Seth may still be disgruntled, but he's at least compliant at the moment.

As Seth is about to step in, Sandy starts to remember Kirsten giving him some emphatic instructions he was supposed to pass along to Seth, because even if she couldn't be there, her arguably anal retentive ways could be there in spirit with them.

"Hey Seth…" Sandy looks up towards the awful fluorescent lights, trying to remember the specifics of Kirsten's orders.

"What?" Seth glances warily back at Sandy, trunks slung over his shoulder.

"Don't, uh, don't forget to leave your underpants on when you're trying everything on," Sandy blurts out, triumphant in his recall ability.

Seth's eyes widen and the look of absolute scorn that crawls across his face also gives Sandy distinct flashes of The Nana.

Sandy winces. He hadn't meant to embarrass Seth, although this might make Seth reconsider bringing him along with him on any further shopping trips.

Undoubtedly, Kirsten would've delivered the same reminder with a gentle clearing of her throat and a pointed look.

He can hear Seth muttering something under his breath from the other side of the curtain, and can only imagine that he isn't faring too well in his diatribe.

"These are fine," Seth announces dully from behind the changing room curtain a moment later. "Like I said they'd be."

"Well let's see 'em," Sandy says.

Seth groans.

"This will be done a lot faster—"

But Seth has emerged before Sandy can finish the thought, looking like the most sullen child to ever wear navy blue swim trunks with little anchors embroidered all over them.

"You look cute." Sandy smiles broadly.

"Cute?" Seth grimaces.

"Handsome?" Sandy offers.

"Okay, they're not fine." Seth darts back into the dressing room.

"Dashing? Anyway, your mother would love them." Sandy glances at his watch. "What else you got?"

There's some rustling and the sounds of Velcro being undone and done again and what sounds like some light cursing on the other side of the curtain.

"Let's just get these," Seth calls out.

"C'mon out, Seth." Sandy tries to prevent a note of irritation from slipping into his voice.

Kirsten had said this would be easy, but Seth seems to be dragging out every little step of the way.

These trunks are forest green, no design, cute or otherwise.

"Looks good to me," Sandy offers, before remembering some of Kirsten's instructions. "Maybe lift your shirt a little, so we can make sure they fit in the waist."

Seth gives him a disgusted look, but he obliges, inching his t-shirt up slightly.

"See, fine," he says, seemingly not making any effort to prevent irritation from slipping into his voice.

"There's enough room?" Sandy asks. He mimics tugging at the top of his own pants to test the waistband.

"I'm not going to do that," Seth says flatly.

"Would you like me to come over there and help?" Sandy lifts his eyebrows.

Seth's lip curls a little, but he obediently-if somewhat dramatically-pulls at the waistband of the bathing suit a few times.

"Spacious," he drolls. "But not too spacious," he adds quickly. "What I'm saying is that no swim trunks have ever fit anyone better than these swim trunks fit me."

"Great." Sandy bites back a little smile, grudgingly amused through his irritation.

"So, we're good?" Seth asks hopefully.

"Let's just try one or two more. Your mom said to get two pairs if we found good ones, and I'd rather not do this again anytime soon."

Seth nods a little, seeming to consider the wisdom of this, and he returns to the fitting room without comment.

"These ones are too small."

"Which ones?"

"The gray ones."

"I think I remember seeing a size up on the rack," Sandy says. "I'll run and grab it."

"Wait, I'll come with you," Seth calls from inside the dressing room. "You're going to get the wrong thing."

"I'm not going to get the wrong thing. You stay put; you can be ready with a different pair on by the time I get back." Sandy starts to walk towards the boys' section.

"Dad, wait…"

"Seth, I'll be right back," Sandy calls over his shoulder.

"Dad!" Seth's voice pierces the air, sharp and anguished and sounding many years younger than he is.

Sandy stops in his tracks, heart sinking. He turns and quickly strides back towards Seth's fitting room, ignoring the urge to smack the sales associate who gives Sandy a snide isn't he a little old for that? look, but of course Sandy really only wants to smack himself for being so dense.

Because it's at that moment that all of the small annoyances—Seth's surliness and picking through racks of clothes Sandy couldn't care less about while trying to figure out what Kirsten will care about, the time ticking away and with it Sandy's chance to unwind at home—fall away and Sandy suddenly sees and hears different things very clearly.

There's the jangling of belt buckles and the sound of heavy pant legs falling to the floor, the deep masculine coughs from the dressing room just to the right of Seth, the sales associates coming in and out of the space, the flimsy curtain separating Seth from anyone else who might be there.

The two or three men who had entered the changing area, arms laden with hangers, had barely registered for Sandy, but he's sure they did for Seth.

And his heart sinks further remembering his stupid dad joke, his stupid invasive embarrassing dad joke, Would you like me to come over there and help? He'd noticed Seth's lip curl a little, had had that quick pang of wondering if he'd gone too far, but he'd willfully let it go, had willfully allowed Seth's quick recovery and his quick joke to make everything okay. Like a quick recovery and a quick joke weren't Seth's MO.

And like Sandy was any parent embarrassing any kid, any parent loudly talking about his son's underpants in public or threatening to test the waistband of his shorts.

"Seth?" Sandy pitches his voice low, one hand poised on the fitting room curtain. "Seth, I-I'm sorry I left you. I'm not going anywhere, I promise."

No response.

"Seth?" Sandy runs a tired hand through his hair. "You okay?" He pauses, trying to ignore the curious look from the fitting room attendant. "I'm coming in, okay?"

Sandy pushes the curtain aside slowly, still half-expecting to hear Seth call out in protest.

Seth is scrunched on the floor in the corner of the dressing room, elbows propped on his legs and palms pressed into his eyes. His breathing is harsh and erratic between clenched teeth.

It had been a stretch of a few good weeks, maybe even a few good months; Sandy hadn't really been keeping track. While Seth didn't necessarily seem particularly happy, he seemed okay enough. And there were things that seemed to make him happy: comic books, video games, drawings he'd done, Sandy taking him to Comicon for the weekend. He seemed a little calmer, a little steadier on his feet, was sleeping a little better at night.

And Sandy had let himself forget a little, and the invisible presence of everything that happened felt a little less present and a little less heavy and everyone seemed to be breathing a little easier.

They were Turning a Corner.

Of course, every other time it had felt like they were nearing a corner, something had happened to brutally smack down that very feeling, but Sandy guesses he'd let himself forget that part too.

Sandy approaches Seth slowly, not sure how to unmake the mess he's made. For not the first time, he wonders where Seth would be if he had a different father, a father who would've recognized what was happening as it was happening, who would've stopped it before it could do so much damage, who wouldn't have allowed his child to carry so much alone and for so long, a father who wouldn't continue to wound him, even if he didn't do it on purpose.

He shakes his head, recognizing that he's lapsing into self-flagellation, a thing his own therapist had identified as unhelpful, even if all of the thoughts felt true and necessary and deserved, and even if it felt like he wasn't properly atoning if he wasn't berating himself on a regular basis.

But he can recognize that none of it is helpful now, in this moment, as he's standing frozen over his son, completely lost as to how to move forward in this moment.

Sandy frowns. Through Seth's propped up arms, he notices that his boxer shorts have slid partway down his legs, revealing a large patchwork of blue and purple and fading yellow and brown bruises on each leg.

It had been a stretch of a few good weeks, maybe even a few good months.

He could've sworn it had been.

But maybe there are really just so many things he doesn't notice or doesn't want to notice. And he may experience an invisible presence of everything that happened, but he could only ever imagine how that presence inhabited Seth's life and his body and all the parts of his day that were supposed to feel mundane.

Maybe it never got any lighter for him.

Sandy clears his throat, not really sure what he's going to say or do. Most of him just wants to collapse on the ground beside Seth.

"Can we just go home?" Seth's voice sounds congested, thick. He doesn't move his hands from his eyes. He sounds somehow so young and so old all at once.

Sandy isn't sure if Seth had returned from being totally blanked out, or if he'd never been fully gone in the first place, if he'd sat and borne witness to his father standing over him, completely frozen and completely helpless, if he'd realized that he'd be the one to have to clean up the mess, to figure out how to move them both forward in this moment, how to point them in the direction of home.

"Yeah," Sandy says heavily. "Let's go home."

ooooooooooooooooo

Sandy takes the bag from the cashier and turns to look for Seth, but Seth is already striding past his eyeline and towards the exit.

He starts to pick up the pace to catch up, almost certainly against his better judgment.

"I'm really sorry—" Sandy starts to say, reaching out to Seth.

Seth ducks away from his hand.

"Seth, you know you can tell me—"

Seth huffs a frustrated breath and picks up his own pace.

Sandy lets himself lag behind a little bit.

It's a mercy really, his son power-walking away from him.

He's doing it wrong, trying to have this conversation now, trying to resolve things when they're still in public, when Seth is still raw and has just barely gotten his feet back under himself.

Kirsten and Seth are different. They don't feel that burning immediate need to talk everything out the moment that it happens. They needed time to stew, sometimes for excruciating lengths of time.

It often felt like they used that time to package the real things they were thinking and feeling into something that felt acceptable to them, leaving Sandy with that lingering sense that there was something unsaid, hidden, tidied up, something they were guarding close to themselves.

With Kirsten, she could usually-in that controlled way of hers-eventually give him some sense of what was wrong and what she needed.

With Seth, well, you couldn't always take what he said, or how he explained himself, at face value, if he was willing to explain himself at all.

Another group of kids around Seth's age enter the mall through the sliding doors. Sandy watches grimly as Seth seems to instinctively shrink away from them, his steps veering him towards the nearest wall.

The other kids pay him no notice either way.

oooooooooooooo

Sandy closes his eyes and tips his head back against the headrest, thinking about what he's going to say when Seth gets into the car, when he'll be contained and beside him for at least fifteen minutes.

It's probably a better idea to just let Seth stew in peace, but another part of him doesn't want to waste those minutes of Seth being held in one place.

His eyebrows lift when it's a backdoor that opens and closes in quick succession and Seth crawls into the backseat.

The right to sit in the front had been another hard-fought battle in the Cohen household. Seth had made it clear that the very core of his dignity hinged on riding in the passenger seat, that it was a tragic blow to his fragile ego when his peers, who'd all graduated to the front seat long ago, observed him shame-facedly emerging from the back of his mom or dad's car every morning.

So there were other times when Seth could use a dizzying number of words to express his feelings.

Sandy fumbles the key into the ignition, but he can't bring himself to turn it yet, to choose to leave things as they are right now.

"Hey Seth, I'm really sorry. I wasn't thinking." He pauses. "But you know, you can...I mean I just..." Sandy pinches the bridge of his nose. "I wish you would tell me things sometimes." God, he's exhausted. "I just..I can't always guess, you know?"

Peering at Seth in the rear view mirror, Sandy feels something constrict in his chest as he catches his son furtively wiping at his eyes with the heel of his hands.

"I-I didn't-"

Sandy whirls around in his seat to look back at Seth, surprised to hear any kind of response from him.

Seth flinches, seeming to shrink into himself even further, his body slumping into the door.

Sandy turns away, mentally kicking himself for his big reaction.

"I didn't-" Seth starts again, but trails off. Face scrunching up, he lets out a small sharp burst of breath.

"You didn't what?" Sandy prods gently, trying not to sound too eager.

There's an interminable stretch of silence that Sandy has to struggle not to fill. It's hard not to prod again, hard to overcome the frantic part of his brain that says he should be doing something, saying something.

Finally, he can't bear it anymore.

"You didn't what, Setheleh?"

"Nothing," Seth mumbles. He stares fixedly out the window.

Sandy frowns, biting back a sigh and biting back his frustration.

He wishes he could say he's only frustrated with himself.

And he thinks he can see it now, how Seth had maneuvered both of his parents each step of the way. He didn't tell anyone what he needed, or what made him feel anxious or uncomfortable or unsafe.

But then when did he, except under duress?

He tried so often to maneuver himself and everyone else around his vulnerable spots without having to admit to them, and he did the best he could with what he could manipulate, at the end of the day. And sometimes it worked and sometimes he was shouting for Sandy in the middle of a department store.

Seth might want more independence, and he might fight for more independence, and he might bristle when Sandy and Kirsten were too delicate with him, but he also needed to be handled with care.

And maybe Seth understood that to some degree, and maybe the whole time he was fighting tooth and nail for more freedom, he wasn't even trying or hoping to win. He just knew that the last thing a kid his age was supposed to want or to ask for was to be handled with care.

Sandy can't imagine how hard that must feel, how humiliating and demoralizing and unfair.

He opens his mouth, wanting to say something-anything-but he's got nothing to offer to any of that, so he does the only thing he can, turning the key in the ignition and heading for home.

oooooooooooooooooooooooo

"It's about that time," Kirsten says, gesturing towards the clock and giving Sandy a meaningful look.

They'd been cleaning up after a late dinner, washing and drying the dishes in a leisurely fashion while they chatted about Kirsten's latest work project.

Seth was in the living room, playing some loud and gratuitously violent video game that Sandy can't recall he or Kirsten approving of.

"Ah." Sandy dries his hands on a dish towel. "And it's my night."

"It is your night," Kirsten affirms. "I could trade with you though," she offers, smiling at Sandy over her wine glass. "You did take him shopping today."

"No, I got it." Sandy squeezes Kirsten's shoulder as he walks by.

Seth is tapping furiously at different buttons on his controller, face screwed up in concentration, seemingly oblivious to Sandy's entrance.

"Hey kiddo, time for bed," Sandy announces, plopping down next to Seth on the couch.

"Okay." Seth taps a few more buttons in rapid succession and then dutifully goes about the process of putting away his video games for the evening to his mother's specifications, working quickly and efficiently. "'Night," he mumbles, shooting Sandy a tight-lipped smile over his shoulder before heading for the stairs.

"Goodnight," Sandy says to his son's swiftly retreating back.

He sighs.

"That was fast."

Sandy smiles and leans back as Kirsten's arms encircle his neck from behind.

"He didn't even try to negotiate for ten more minutes?" Kirsten smiles and rests her chin on top of Sandy's head. "He really is going easy on you today."

"Hmm, yeah," Sandy murmurs in something like agreement.

"How about I pour us some wine and we can finish that movie we started last night?" Kirsten kisses the top of his head. "I'll even rewind it to the part where you fell asleep."

"Hey, I was resting my eyes, and you know it." Sandy's mouth twitches a little, struck by a sudden impulse coupled with the uneasy feeling he's been carrying with him all afternoon. "And that sounds great. Just let me run upstairs quick; I forgot to ask Seth something."

"You really want to poke the bear?" Kirsten asks, arching an eyebrow.

"I'll just be a minute."

oooooooooooooooooo

Sandy raps his knuckles lightly against Seth's door.

"Seth?"

No response.

"Hey Seth, it's me. I'm coming in," Sandy announces himself as he slowly opens the door.

Seth is sprawled on his bed, face buried in a comic book. His eyes flick up to Sandy and then quickly flick away.

"You didn't hear me knocking?" Sandy raises an eyebrow.

"Oh uh, no." Seth sits up a little. "Just uh, absorbed in my reading, I guess," he says, holding up his comic.

"Right." Sandy smiles wanly. "Looks like a good one."

"What's up?"

"I wanted to see if you wanted your melatonin tonight." Sandy places a glass of water on Seth's nightstand and sits down on the edge of his bed. "I didn't see you take it earlier."

"Oh uh, yeah." Seth squirms a little, looking down at his bedspread. "I guess I forgot."

Seth sits up a little and holds out his hand and Sandy drops the little white capsule into his palm. He reaches over and hands Seth the water glass from the night stand.

He absently studies the posters on Seth's walls. They'd been gradually morphing from maps and generic images of sailing or surfing to posters for bands and movies and tv shows and video games, most of which Sandy has never heard of. His brain tries to make sense of some of the mysterious and out-of-context images, as he wonders what about them speak to his son.

Seth clears his throat.

Sandy blinks out of his trance to see a water glass hovering under his nose.

He takes the glass and replaces it on the nightstand, but he doesn't stand up yet. He can practically feel Seth's hackles come up, realizing that this wasn't purely a melatonin-related visit.

"Seth, there's something I wanted to talk to you about." Sandy looks down at his hands.

"What?"

Sandy can hear the apprehension in Seth's voice.

"You're not in any trouble, and I'm not upset with you," Sandy assures him, although he's not really sure that's the source of said apprehension. "Today, when we were…I uh, I noticed some pretty big bruises on your legs."

Seth doesn't say anything.

"Setheleh?"

"What?"

"Can you answer me please?"

"Answer what?" Seth's brow furrows. "You didn't ask me anything."

If Sandy had detected any apprehension in Seth's voice or in his demeanor, it's gone now, his expression impassive and his lips set into a thin line that brings out that resemblance to Kirsten that only Sandy seems to be able to see.

"Your legs are really bruised up."

"So?"

"So how did you get hurt?"

"I dunno." Seth's shrug conveys an absolute lack of interest in the subject matter.

"You don't know or you don't want to say?" Sandy turns and gives Seth a steady-and hopefully sympathetic and hopefully knowing-look.

"I don't remember," Seth says lightly. "Maybe when I was out on the boat."

"Okay." Sandy's head bobs up and down in a slow nod.

"I'll be more careful next time," Seth offers. Seeing the confusion on Sandy's face, he adds blithely, "when I'm out on the boat."

"Right. Well, that's good." Sandy falters a little. "Seth-

"I'm really tired," Seth cuts in, punctuating his declaration by yawning with exaggerated gusto and sliding his comic book onto the nightstand. Blinking rapidly, he gives his dad an imploring look. "Can we finish talking about this tomorrow?" Without waiting for an answer, he wriggles down further under his covers, burrowing his head into his pillow and closing his eyes. "Could you turn off the light, please?" He throws in another extended yawn for good measure.

Tomorrow, Seth's vague outline of having hurt himself on his boat will undoubtedly transform into a harrowing and rambling and vividly detailed account of his injuries, an account from which he will-also undoubtedly-never waver..

And tonight, well, if he gives it twenty seconds, Seth's sure to start snoring in dramatic fashion.

Resigned, Sandy rises to stand.

"Sleep well, kiddo," he says, flicking off the light switch. "You've got a big day tomorrow."

There's a snicker from Seth's cocoon of blankets.

"You know Dad, you say that every night, but every day is pretty much the same."

Sandy considers this. "Well, even so, I hope you get some rest." He leans over and kisses Seth's forehead. "Love you, kid."

"Love you," Seth responds, in that garbled half-embarrassed adolescent way that he's started saying that to his parents.

"We'll talk tomorrow," Sandy says.

"Sure, yeah." Seth yawns, smacking his lips a few times as it peters out. "Tomorrow."