A/N: Spoilers for the finale of the second season of Veronica Mars.

Thank you for the lovely and thoughtful review, aldethebeautiful. I really appreciate it.

Also, Aba is a transliteration of the Hebrew word for "dad." In my head, Sandy called his grandfather Aba, as it was what The Nana would've called him.

Chapter 8

Sandy glances at the clock, knowing he should do something other than sitting on the bottom step waiting, but there was also something about sitting on the bottom step waiting that felt productive, like it would somehow compel his son to come home sooner.

His son, who had made up for all those years hidden away in his bedroom by treating his rather generous curfew as nothing more than a suggestion.

Just how late did your teenage son have to be for said curfew before it was acceptable to show up at his girlfriend's house in your robe and slippers looking for him?

Though if he did that, Sandy muses, maybe Seth would make it his business to be a little more mindful of the time.

He doesn't know what he's going to say to Seth when he comes home, other than the same tired speech that never seemed to get anywhere with the boy.

There was the punishment route, but Sandy had always had a hard time really punishing Seth, making the few rules that he and Kirsten put in place feel like anything more than suggestions.

It had been like that for years, not knowing how to respond to Seth when he disobeyed them.

Or maybe, not knowing how to understand it.

However Seth behaved and whatever he did, Sandy could generally find some way-however tenuous or convoluted-to connect it to The Trauma.

Seth never really invoked The Trauma himself, never did what one might expect, given his tendency to try to weasel out of things, and said "I guess I must've blanked out for awhile there, Dad," or "I could've unloaded the dishwasher like you asked me to twelve times, but it's just all these intrusive thoughts and flashbacks make it a little hard for a guy to remember a thing like his assigned manual labor."

But then, Seth never had to invoke the trauma; in his silence, Sandy was right there to fill in the blanks. Maybe not every time Seth "forgot" to unload the dishwasher, but when he cut Sex Ed class in ninth grade, or when he pulled the fire alarm because he didn't want to dissect a fetal pig-was it just that he found it gross, or was he feeling something different and something darker when he looked down at the little prone body pinned to the table and they asked him to slice into it? Because when Seth just didn't want to do something, his evasions could be almost playful, like a fencing match, like-no matter how much he protested when Sandy said it-he was born to be lawyer, to learn and master and even enjoy the rules of verbal combat, but when it came to that fetal pig and that fire alarm, he had nothing to say when Sandy finally got him alone, with no Dr. Kim to perform for and to unwind a yarn for, just a mumbled "I didn't do it," his body betraying something in the way that he squirmed in his chair and looked away and swallowed heavily and that vein in his neck pulsed and-

Sandy's brain could go in all directions, in the absence of any explanation from Seth.

Maybe that had helped prepare him for Ryan, for trying to read around and between the stares and the shrugs and the one-word answers to open-ended questions.

And so, like tonight, when Seth missed curfew, was he irresponsible and indifferent to his parents' fears, or was he so dissociated that he really did lose track of the time and of himself?

When he lied to get out of trouble, was he unwilling to take any accountability, or was he unable to overcome his instinct to hide, to distrust, to treat the truth like it was something that he had to guard closely to himself?

And when Seth set Ryan up in the model home and refused to let him leave Newport without a fight, didn't Sandy see something in Seth's eyes that said this wasn't just a youthful lark, that there was something about this kid from Chino that was a lifeline for him?

And when he snuck off to Tijuana or told dubious tales of the Range Rover getting totaled in the IMAX parking lot or got busted spending the night at his girlfriend's house, well, wasn't Seth finally connecting to the world, wasn't he finally having fun, loving and being loved, coming out of his bedroom hibernation, having the kind of teenage life nobody really thought he'd get to have?

Did Sandy really want to take the wind out of all those sails?

And, when he was fully honest with himself, did he want to be the dad heaping more grief atop a kid who'd already had a lifetime's worth?

Sandy hasn't known how to punish Seth, and he hasn't broached the subject with Dr. Max.

He thinks he knows what Dr. Max would say: that it's not either/or, that the things Seth does could be because he's a careless teenager or because he's endured so much trauma, or it could very likely be some combination of both. And he'd say that Seth should still be held accountable, that he needed to continue to learn to navigate his symptoms, that even if he was being driven by dissociation or deep distrust and a pathological need to hide, that setting firm boundaries would help Seth build the skills to navigate all of those things.

And yet he's never broached the subject with Dr. Max.

And yet he's fairly certain he never will, and fairly certain that he will continue to spend these nights keeping vigil on the bottom step, waiting for Seth to come home.

ooooooooooooooooooooooo

Sandy's gaze clocks the instant the door handle starts to twitch, the metallic rattle only drowned out by the loud whoosh of his exhale, finally releasing the breath he'd been holding for what had felt like the last hour.

He feels the tension release from his shoulders, and then scrambles to get some of it back for the confrontation, relief competing with frustration competing with an annoying rush of affection as the door opens and Seth backs his way into the foyer and closes the door behind him.

"Do you have any idea what time it is?" Sandy barks, crossing his arms across his chest.

Seth jumps. He whirls around, eyebrows knit together quizzically.

"Dad-hey..." He squints. "Am I-am I late?"

Sandy's eyes narrow.

On plenty of nights, these same lines would be delivered in that aggravatingly cutesy way Seth could get when he was trying to aw shucks his way out of trouble, but Sandy's struck by what feels like a wobbly note of genuine confusion in his son's voice.

"You're over an hour late," Sandy informs him, pushing through his own uncertainty.

"I-I'm sorry," Seth offers. "I-"

"And I don't want to hear any excuses, Seth."

Seth nods, lips pressing together.

Sandy hears himself talking, rolling out the same tired speech he's delivered on too many nights in the past two years, but as he's going through the motions, his eyes scan over Seth, still trying to place his finger on what it is that feels off, that isn't sitting quite right in his gut.

It registers with him that Seth is just standing there, not interrupting him, not starting to unleash any of the multiple whoppers he's got stored in his arsenal for just such an occasion. His eyes are kind of glassy and unfocused, his hair a little rumpled-Sandy squints-was that dirt on his jeans?

"I told Summer," Seth blurts out suddenly, as Sandy is mid-some kind of platitude about honoring thy father or thy perfectly reasonable curfew.

"Told Summer...?" But even as Sandy's asking the question, he's pretty sure he knows what Seth means, as he watches Seth's eyes flash-just for a moment-looking so young and pleading and scared, that look that hit Sandy straight in the gut, that he couldn't ever help but interpret as saying "Please Dad, please fix this."

Granted, that interpretation had gotten Sandy into trouble in the past, had had him launching himself into multiple ill-advised rescue attempts, but it felt impossible to see that kind of need and that kind of pain in one of his boys and not shift headlong into fix-it mode.

"Oh." Sandy blinks. "Wow."

"Yeah." Seth swallows. He looks down at the floor. "I-I'm sorry. I'm not trying to get out of trouble or whatever. I just..." He shrugs, burying his hands into his pockets and rocking back on his heels. "...kind of blew up my whole life for no reason." His chin wobbles, for a second looking as if he might cry.

"How are you-" Sandy clears his throat. "-how are you feeling?"

Seth shrugs again, jaw clenching firmly into place, righting his ship as best he can and managing a tight half-smile. "Either uh, fine or on the brink of death. It's kind of hard for me to tell the difference sometimes."

Sandy nods slowly. "It's uh, it's a big step." He tilts his head to one side, trying to catch Seth's eye. "Kind of a momentous occasion, really."

Seth snorts.

"That's kind of an unhinged way to put it, but sure." Seth sniffs. "But uh, I'm just gonna go to bed, pretend the whole thing was a dream. Maybe we can do the whole grounding thing tomorrow?"

"Wait." Sandy holds up a hand. "Why don't we talk a little ab-"

"That's kind of the opposite of pretending it was a dream, wouldn't you say, Dad?"

"Or..." Sandy trails off, frustrated that he hadn't ever thought to prepare for this moment, had never really conceived of its existence or generated the perfect-or even a kind of mediocre-response. "Do you uh-" he exhales loudly. "Do you want a beer?"

"What?" Seth's face contorts into confusion and skepticism and immediate suspicion. "I'm sorry, what? Is this some kind of trap? I miss my curfew and you're offering me booze?"

Sandy can hear the unspoken "and while Mom's in actual rehab?" in the question.

"Not a trap. I just..." Sandy's mouth falters. "It is a momentous occasion, Seth. You did a big, brave thing." He notes Seth's lip curling upward in disgust, but chooses to ignore it. "Aba Zeke, he believed in marking every momentous occasion over a beer." He pauses. "I'm uh, sure we'll end the practice when your mother gets home."

"Switch to Mountain Dew, anyway?"

"Something like that." Sandy gives a sheepish shrug. "So whaddya say? Enjoy a cold one with the old man?"

Seth appears to mull it over for a few moments, brow furrowed, one eye still scanning Sandy suspiciously.

"I guess this night can't get any more surreal, right?" is his ultimate pronouncement.

"That's the spirit." Sandy smiles. "Follow me to the fridge, son."

oooooooooooooooooo

Sandy takes a pull from his beer, contemplating the wisdom of offering alcohol to his underaged son with serious mental health issues while his mother is in rehab.

And as parenting gambits go, it doesn't seem very effective.

In his floundering for some way to catch and hold Seth before he retreated to the solitude of his room, he'd envisioned the beer creating some kind of bizarre sense of festivity, and with it, inspiring some kind of connection and some way for Seth to process a thing that must've felt unbearably huge for him.

But Seth is quiet, stretched out on his favorite pool chair and cradling his beer bottle, eyes gazing a million miles away.

It's a surprise then, a few minutes later, when Seth is the one to break the silence.

"So Abba Zeke used to do this with you?"

"It was his way of marking an occasion." Sandy smiles a little. "After my bar mitzvah, after I got my driver's license, the first time I got dumped." He shrugs. "It's a little old school, I know. I wasn't sure I'd ever do it with my own kid."

"Yeah well..." Seth squints up at the sky. "Bet you didn't envision marking an occasion such as this."

Sandy feels a twist in his gut. "No, no I didn't."

It's quiet again.

"Can I ask, son, what made you tell her?" Sandy's not sure he's expecting an answer. "I guess I didn't realize you were thinking about it."

"I wasn't really." Seth taps his fingers against his beer bottle. "I mean, Dr. Max thought I should, but I was kind of just humoring him by pretending to consider it." He swallows. "But we were watching tv and there was a guy on it who'd uh..." he trails off.

"Oh."

"Yeah, and he murdered a bus full of people, amongst other things." Seth's mouth twists a little. "Not exactly an ideal representation of my people there, huh?"

"No, I suppose not."

There's another long beat of quiet.

"You know you're a good person, right?" Sandy asks.

"I haven't taken out any bus loads of people, at least." Seth arches an eyebrow. "Though the night is young."

"No I mean, I know you think that it all changed who you are, and I'm not saying it didn't change some things, but you're still you." Sandy swallows around a sudden constriction in his throat. "I mean, I can still recognize the little five-year-old kid, running through the house wearing overalls."

"That's pretty much what Summer said," Seth responds. "Minus the whole overalls thing. We're not like, that kinky."

Sandy forces a little laugh at that, although it hurt to, always felt like something sharp digging into his side to respond to Seth's humor the way Seth seemed to want him to, to feign a kind of comfort with any kind of levity related to what had happened or to its aftermath.

"And so you just told her?"

Seth peers down into the dark abyss of his beer bottle, moving his wrist in slow circles and squinting at the little dark brown waves of liquid that bobbed up and down.

Sandy opens his mouth to say something, to say that they can talk about something else or that he's sorry for pushing the subject, but Seth is again the one to break the silence.

"I don't really know if it was a good idea." Seth bites his lip. "It just kind of happened."

"Maybe that means it was supposed to," Sandy offers. When Seth snorts, he adds, "I mean it. Maybe it's the kind of thing where, if you think too much about it, you'll never do it. It just has to kind of happen."

"I dunno. Maybe never doing it was the right way to go."

Sandy considers that for a moment, taking a sip of beer. "You know Seth, this doesn't define you and it never has, but I think keeping it from Summer must have felt like keeping a pretty big secret from her."

"It did." Seth exhales a heavy breath. "It just really sucks, you know? This big horrible thing happens, and it's the kind of thing no one ever wants to know about or hear about, but then it's like you're lying to everyone if you don't tell them, but if you do tell them, you make yourself, like, radioactive to everybody."

Sandy opens his mouth to respond, though every reply that comes to mind feels painfully feeble and inadequate.

"I mean, I think she took it pretty well, considering. But I just...feel bad." Seth traces a finger in circles around the rim of his beer bottle. "Like I told her this big traumatizing thing and then told her she can't talk to anyone else about it."

"Listen..." Sandy hesitates. "If you ever want me to, you know…" he trails off, worried that he's overstepping, that Seth will recoil in horror at the mere suggestion of him meddling in his relationship.

"Thanks," Seth says instead, looking pensive. "I mean, let's hope it never comes to that," he adds, shivering at how creepy the thought was, his dad and his girlfriend having a casual chat about The Trauma. "But…I appreciate it."

"Of course," Sandy says. "And you know, Summer might not be traumatized. She might feel like she's getting closer to you, getting to know you better."

Seth snickers. "Sure, yeah, my favorite movie, my favorite band, and the details of my years of victimization."

Sandy flinches. He wishes he didn't.

"Sorry," Seth looks down at his feet. "I know I'm talking to, like, the OG person I traumatized with all this."

"You didn't traumatize me, Seth."

"But you were traumatized, Dad." Seth's voice is firm, pointed, within it a hint or two of exasperation.

Sandy doesn't say anything. He knows by now that he can't really argue that point. Seth wasn't a little kid anymore, and maybe he didn't buy any of it when he was little either. Maybe it all just made him feel more alone, hearing everyone deny what he knew to be true, that he did become radioactive, that what had happened to him, even if it wasn't his fault, had upended his family life and his relationships.

And it continued to do so, all of the ripples and the aftershocks of the initial trauma creating and complications in his relationship with Summer before he'd even told her about it.

They sit quietly for a few minutes, sipping their beers and listening to the night sounds on the Cohen patio, crickets and the gently lapping ocean waves and a distant owl.

"I'm sorry I freaked out on Mom," Seth says. "I really didn't mean to mess it up like that."

Sandy's eyebrows lift, that is Seth is again the one to initiate conversation, that he'd shifted to another generally off-limits topic like his mother.

"I know," he says. "And you really have nothing to be sorry about."

"Do you..." Seth breaks off, wincing. "Do you think it'll make her stay there longer?" His voice cracks a little on the end, and he swiftly coughs to cover it up.

Sandy can't help but be momentarily distracted by the thought of other coughs to cover up other more painfully awkward voice cracks when Seth's voice had first started to change. He'd wondered then how different it might have been, guiding Seth through puberty without all of the additional baggage that The Trauma entailed.

It seemed like every phase of life brought something different, something that made the past resurface as Seth started to grapple with new things: friendship and love and sex and relationships and increased independence and starting to relate to his parents on more of an adult level as he got closer to the end of high school and the start of college.

"No, I don't." Sandy shakes his head a little, bringing himself back to the present. "If your mom needs to be there longer, it's because it's what she needs; it's not because of you. And it's not your job to take care of her or me. It's your job to tell us how you're feeling and our job to deal with it. It doesn't go both ways."

Seth sits with that for a minute, taking a long swig from his drink.

"I don't really know how I'm feeling," he admits, peeling at a loose corner of the beer label with his fingernail. "It's like with the Summer thing, all that stuff you talked to me about. I could never really figure out how I really felt about it. I still don't really know."

"It seems like you're starting to figure out some of your feelings," Sandy offers gently. "Maybe not with all the Summer stuff quite yet, but other things." He pauses. "Do you and Dr. Max talk much about Mom?"

"He tries to, I guess. Not just the rehab stuff, but her not really being able to..." Seth's shoulders slump a little. "...handle it, I guess."

"I know it's been hard."

"It's fine," Seth mutters darkly. "I get it. I've always gotten it." He shrugs. "I don't really see the point in talking about it."

Sandy wonders what getting it looks like in Seth's head. He's scared to know. He has to fight the urge to slide into their familiar back-and-forth, to tell Seth that Kirsten loves him more than anything, that Kirsten's drinking isn't Seth's fault and had never been, but he's slowly been recognizing-and even more slowly, coming to accept-that he can't talk his way into untangling the jumble of thoughts and feelings and crossed wires that went on in Seth's mind.

"Still..." Sandy fumbles for words. "I'm uh, glad you have someone to talk to about it."

Unbidden, Sandy remembers Kirsten that first night he'd brought Ryan home, the way her nostrils had flared, the way she'd said: "Sandy, did you even consider how it might feel for Seth to have a complete stranger sleeping in this house?"

Sandy had been taken aback, realizing that the thought hadn't crossed his mind, that part of him had been thinking that banishing Ryan to the pool house had been a sign of his wife's casual cruelty.

It had struck him then too, that although he was the one who so accused Kirsten of pretending like nothing had ever happened, he wasn't innocent of that charge either. He'd allowed the past few years-years of Seth being quietly miserable, as opposed to obviously and overtly miserable-to convince him that things were okay, that they were better, that because he'd immediately and instinctively felt comfortable with Ryan, that there would be no issues and nothing he should have to explain to Kirsten and nothing he would need to explain to Seth.

As if Seth had any reason to trust his instincts.

Kirsten had noted the look of comprehension on his face and started to walk away with the sheets.

"I'm going to make up the bed. You can go explain this to your son."

There's part of him that almost wants to share this moment with Seth, to let him know that Kirsten had been there and had been trying, in the ways that she could manage, that she had been protective, quietly and behind-the-scenes, while he did more of the hand-holding, the front-and-center, telling Seth that it was okay to lock his bedroom door if he didn't feel comfortable with their guest spending the night in the pool house, telling Seth that he would leave his cell phone charged and right by the bed if he needed anything or started to feel uncomfortable or unsettled in the middle of the night.

But he knows he can't do it, can't talk his way into untangling Seth's relationship with Kirsten either, as much as he wants to.

A soft buzzing sounds from Seth's pocket.

Sandy watches as Seth digs into his pocket and flips open his phone, the blue glow from the screen illuminating his face as it twitches into a hint of a smile.

"Ah, so you do know how to use that thing," Sandy observes, tipping his bottle back for the last sip.

"Hilarious." Seth's mouth twists up a little at the corner and he shuts his phone. "I am sorry about that. Sometimes my head gets weird and I kind of lose track of everything else."

"I can understand that." Sandy's seen that very thing in action plenty of times. "But hey, for my sake, you think you can make an effort to get better with it? I just need to know you're okay."

"I'll be better with it," Seth says. "I promise."

"I appreciate that." Sandy pauses. "So uh, what was that about?"

"Hmm?" Seth glances over at Sandy, who gestures toward the phone. "Oh." Seth ducks his head, looking embarrassed. "Summer just asked if I could call to, uh...say goodnight, I guess."

"I see." Sandy smiles a little, touched at Summer's outreach, hoping it's a good sign.

It was terrifying, watching his kids put themselves out into the world and having to hope or trust that it could receive them okay, catch and hold them and support them and love them, scars and radioactivity and unexpected baggage and all.

"So that would be my cue to leave you to it, then?" Sandy asks, already rising to stand.

"I can call her in a few minutes," Seth offers, but Sandy can see, even by the dim glow of the pool lights, that he's eager and anxious to talk to his girlfriend.

"I finished my beer anyway," Sandy says. "You done with yours?"

"So Mountain Dew next time?" Seth asks, as he hands his empty bottle to Sandy.

"The beverage isn't the important thing, right?"

Seth eyes Sandy like he's being impossibly corny, but he has the grace to keep the thought to himself.

Sandy hesitates a moment, standing over Seth. He clears his throat, faltering as he tries to form words.

"I uh, I meant what I said, Seth. You did a really brave thing." Sandy's voice breaks a little. "And you're a very brave person."

"You know, I have heard that one before," Seth says archly, looking away as he fiddles with his phone.

"I know." Sandy nods. "And I know I say it too much, but I also don't say it enough." He shakes his head, the words not feeling quite right. "I mean, I say it as a parent to his kid, but I just want to say it as a man to another man."

Seth shifts uncomfortably in his chair. His mouth opens and closes in a few false starts.

Sandy realizes he's holding his breath again.

"Is this uh, is this where we're supposed to hug or something?" Seth asks finally, voice low as he squints up at Sandy.

"Only if you want to." Sandy had been ready for a flippant response to his admittedly earnest declarations, and can only hope that some seed of something made its way wherever it needed to go in Seth's mind.

Seth's head bobs back and forth as he considers it, looking at Sandy appraisingly.

"Only because you look like you could use it," he eventually proclaims, surprising Sandy by rising to his feet and holding out his arms, expression only gently mocking.

Sandy sets the bottles down on Seth's chair and pulls his son into a hug.

"Don't stay up too late, huh?" Sandy kisses the side of Seth's head before pulling back. "And it's elephants later, if you're interested."

"Good to know." Seth settles back down into his lounge chair. He shoots Sandy a sheepish little half-smile. "I'm sure I'll make an appearance."

Sandy contemplates letting Seth know that it's okay and it makes sense if it feels like too much to be alone tonight, but he thinks better of it, guessing that that's another thing he has to hope or trust, that Seth can get there on his own somehow, accepting himself and his needs and limits and what got him through the day and through the night.

"I'll see you later then." Sandy grabs up the beer bottles and heads for the house.

oooooooooooo

Seth flips his phone open, feeling his heart pick up in his chest as he looks at the tiny and only slightly pixelated photo of his smiling girlfriend. His finger hesitates over the 'call' button, and he breathes slowly in and out, reminding himself that, even if this conversation goes okay, even if Summer wanted to talk to reassure him that they were good, to insist again that nothing had really changed between them, it didn't mean that it was true.

There was a lot of time for things to settle into Summer's brain, to become things that she didn't know what to do with and couldn't really deal with, and he couldn't let himself forget that.

He rests his thumb on the 'call' button, but can't seem to press it quite yet.

"And so you just told her?"

It was hard to explain, to his dad or even to himself. He wasn't sure that he fully got it, what had him turning around to knock on Summer's door when he'd had one hand on the car door handle, so close to home free.

In a way, it was like he couldn't give Summer the opportunity to talk to him about Cassidy and what had happened to Cassidy. He had to get there before she could say anything, before this thing that was a heavy and perpetual question mark in his mind could transform into something definitive: Summer's disgust or Summer's mockery or Summer's pity or even Summer's potential moral relativism when it came to people who committed atrocities after atrocities had been committed against them.

"Eww, but I mean, of course he'd end up like that. Everyone knows that kind of thing will turn you into, like, a violent deviant with no hope of ever fitting into society again."

And then whatever he'd seen and heard there, there'd be no going back, and no rewriting from the knee-jerk emotional response of his girlfriend to a fictional character who'd committed mass murder to hide the fact that he'd been sexually abused.

Whatever she'd thought about what happened to Cassidy would secretly be what she'd think about The Trauma, what she'd secretly think about him because of The Trauma, and then it would be done, etched in stone.

And then he'd never have had a chance.

Seth presses the 'call' button and holds his phone to his ear, closing his eyes as he listens to the phone ring and waits to hear the sound of Summer's voice.