And now, for something completely different...

[quillscribe]

So here's the thing. With all that's been going on in RL, I've been feeling just a tad bit blocked with ATLB. Not hugely, I've just been... easily distractible. To get myself writing again, I've decided to see how well I do in another fandom.

 

This is for The O.C... It'll be angst, like all my stuff is. I have an old friend that reminds me of Seth, so writing this has been a lovely trip down memory lane. If you're reading this, B., you know who you are. :-D

 

I hope you enjoy. I'm going to post on ff.net as well in a few days (ff.net won't let new members post, apparently), but it will be under another name. I know people are set up to get alerts any time I post anything, and I'm too chicken to face their wrath for it not being another HP chapter. :-P

 

Let me know what you think. Did I capture the spirit of their relationship, because that's my favorite aspect of the show? I'm all about the characters. I hope you enjoy!

 

Skeletons in the Closet - Chapter 1

 

Ryan finally started coming back to the main house for more than just meals about a month after coming home from the hospital. Not that he stayed long – just an hour or so to play a video game or two with Seth - but it was better than nothing.

 

He’d lost weight over the summer. Seth had, too, for that matter, which really made Sandy feel like a failure, but in Ryan it seemed more pronounced, somehow. His cheekbones looked more angular; the circles under his eyes more pronounced.

 

Seth had always been skinny; all arms and angles, but Ryan had been the solid one – steady. Reliable. It was odd to realize how much he’d taken Ryan’s calming influence on Seth for granted until it had been gone. And then his son had gone, too.

 

But that’s not happening this time, Sandy thought, shaking himself out of the memory of last summer. He was making sure Ryan didn’t go anywhere. The forensic evidence had cleared Ryan immediately, but the assault charges had taken a little longer. They were eventually dropped as well, considering both the extenuating circumstances regarding Marissa’s near rape and the amount of narcotics the police had found in Trey’s apartment.

 

Trey’s fingerprints, smudged with Ryan’s blood, were also found on the phone, which backed up Marissa’s claims that he’d been about to bludgeon Ryan, and as of this morning it was looking like the charges against Marissa were about to be dropped as well. As for Trey – he wasn’t getting out of jail for a long time, once he got out of the hospital. Sandy was making sure of it.

 

Now that he was able to talk to Kirsten daily, Sandy found himself at a loss at what to say. I love you. I miss you. Come home. I need you. The last thing he thought she needed to hear was to know how badly he was falling apart without her.

 

It hadn’t stopped him telling her about what happened, though. It had taken him a while to come that decision, but in the end logic won out. Better to tell her in rehab, where she was surrounded by professional support who were undoubtedly much more equipped to help her work through it than he could have done.

 

Still, that was a conversation he didn’t want to revisit any time soon. Kirsten had been ready to come home the moment he told her, and it had taken far more persuasion and brutal candor than Sandy had wanted to have to use, but there was no way he was willing the break the fragile line of communication he and Ryan had developed since his return from the hospital.

 

Ryan had been home for a week by then. The bruises around his neck had turned an angry bluish purple, and he had had to keep clearing his throat frequently. Talking, difficult on a normal day, had become nearly impossible, especially when coupled with Ryan’s discomfort at how his voice sounded: it had been a constant reminder of what had happened.

 

So it had fallen on Sandy to explain why his wife needed to stay in Suriak; that Ryan had already felt like he’d brought all that had happened on their home; that it was ‘Atwood’ luck all over again, and that maybe it was time for them to let him go. With all that had transpired at Kirsten’s intervention, Sandy was positive Ryan wouldn’t stay through the week.

 

“Better to let Seth and I get him settled,” he’d argued. “He’s devastated. He won’t see Trey or talk about what happened other than to say Trey should have known. That after everything, how could his brother have done that?” Which led Sandy to a whole host of questions he didn’t even dare say aloud.

 

He hated playing on Kirsten’s remorse for what she’d said to Ryan to keep her at Suriak, but he did it anyway. And he was glad for it, ultimately. It actually had been the right thing to do, shockingly enough. Kirsten was sounding better day by day. The fear he’d felt at revealing his anxieties was beginning to melt away. She’d be coming home Friday, and they’d finally be a family again.

 

He’d been afraid of her return, oddly enough, when she first left. What if she slipped again? What if too much had happened? What if it was something he’d been doing that drove her away? But the more they’d talked, the more they were honest, the better their talks went. Just last night, as Sandy hung up the phone, he realized he hadn’t had that much fun talking to his wife in a long time. He couldn’t wait for her to get home. God, he missed her.

 

“Dearest dad, what do you see in the tea leaves? What does my future bring?” Seth asked as he breezed into the kitchen, robe billowing behind him.

 

Sandy felt a surge of gratitude for Seth, especially now - he knew his son’s normal exuberance had been muted in the face of all that happened; yet still Seth refused to give in to the overwhelming sadness that seemed to permeate every nook of their home.

 

Last night he had even managed to get Ryan to stay inside after dinner and watch a few episodes of Mystery Science Theatre 3000 (or MST3K in Seth-lingo). There were a few moments that Sandy could almost have sworn he saw a smirk or two from the blond.

 

He knew for certain he’d heard a soft snort from Ryan’s side of the couch at one point, and that Seth had heard it too by the speed at which his son’s foot began to vibrate against the coffee table.

 

“It’s coffee, Seth. It’s your mother who likes tea occasionally. New Yorkers do not drink tea,” Sandy replied, warmed as always by the banter.

 

“Single skinny half caf double-decaffeinated hazelnut latte ring a bell?” Seth asked with a quirk of the head.

 

“I’ll grant you that those drinks qualify as fluffy coffees, but it’s still not tea,” Sandy argued.

 

“Fluffy coffee. Remarkable imagery. I stand corrected. So what do the coffee beans say, then?”

 

“That it’s odd you’re up this early,” Sandy said and raised an eyebrow inquisitively.

 

“Ah, but all masterful plans require effortless execution, and in my case, it requires my presence in the kitchen before young Master Atwood arrives,” Seth said as he automatically pulled Ryan’s favorite cereal from the cupboard and placed it on the countertop in front of them.

 

“I see. This is you in Stealth Mode?” Sandy asked as he took a sip. He knew he was grinning foolishly, but he’d missed this, and it almost made his chest hurt to see his son so animated.

 

“Uber-Stealth.”

 

“So what is this plan?” Sandy asked.

 

“Sex and suds,” Seth replied blithely. Sandy spit his drink all over the newspaper.

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

“Whoa, dad, I know we share DNA, but that’s highly unhygienic!”

 

“Do you really want me to remind you who used to change your diapers, Mr. Unhygienic?”

 

“What? No!” Seth said with a disturbed look on his face and a wave of his hand.

 

“Because a certain missing member of this family has an album of photos reserved for that lucky lady slated to someday be Mrs. Seth Cohen, and amongst them is one of little Seth putting out a fire… With no clothes on.”

 

“Dad!” Seth breathed, and Sandy thought he looked genuinely scandalized.

 

“What? That’s what parents are for,” Sandy said brightly. Seth’s eyes narrowed.

 

“I happen to know for a fact that one of the topics already slated for next year’s school newspaper is ‘Parents: Now and Then’. Don’t think I won’t use those photos I found last year of you and mom at some beatnik party with something that… wait for it… looks suspiciously looks like a water bong resting comfortably - and familiarly, I might add - in your hands!”

 

“That’s not a bong! That’s a hookah pipe!”

 

“Whatever,” Seth said, nodding his head in approval at his dad’s reaction. “I think my meaning is perfectly clear.”

 

“Morning,” Ryan said as he came through the glass doors.

 

Sandy watched as he kept his eyes down, quietly crossing the room in sweats and socks to grab his cereal. His hand hovered for a moment at the open cupboard where his cereal should be, and Sandy could see his brows knit in confusion before he looked around, his eyes landing on Seth’s beaming face as his son gently shook the box in his hand.

 

Sandy felt bad at how he and Seth always appeared to stop mid-conversation every time Ryan entered the room, but they couldn’t seem to stop themselves. It was as if a part of them couldn’t help but look each morning and see if the (sort of, he had to concede) carefree Ryan was beginning to return.

 

Ryan’s eyes darted from Seth to Sandy, and Sandy had to force his face to relax. Unfortunately, he could feel his eyebrows giving him away as he watched Seth tease his foster brother. A soft smile lit Ryan’s face even as he eyed Seth suspiciously.

 

“Should I just say no now?” Ryan asked.

 

“Hah,” Seth said, and gestured as if stabbing himself. “You wound me with your wit.”

 

Ryan shook his head and grabbed a coffee mug, pouring himself a cup before joining them at the kitchen island.

 

“The God of all Distracters requests the pleasure of your presence,” Seth said as he handed the cereal box over. Ryan popped open the box and began to munch.

 

It pained Sandy to see Ryan reverting back to a lot of his old habits. Consistent eye contact was something it had taken over a year for Sandy to get from Ryan, but now it was as if he was back at square one. His eyes would shoot from Seth to Sandy and back again, as if gauging the temperature in the room, and only rarely did he let himself linger.

 

“I’m afraid to ask,” Ryan said between mouthfuls. Thankfully, his voice was nearly back to normal now.

 

“Manhattan Beach’s beaches await us, my friend,” Seth announced proudly.

 

“What’s wrong with Newport?” Sandy asked, affronted. He loved Newport’s beaches.

 

“They do not contain women volleyball players,” Seth replied.

 

“Yes they do,” Sandy disagreed. He saw them practically every day, bless their souls.

 

“Not like these lovelies,” Seth said, and with wide eyes and a reverent expression slid a magazine in front of Ryan, whose eyebrows shot up nearly to his hairline. Sandy reached out and turned the magazine towards him, whistling appreciatively as he did so.

 

“There’s a reason why women’s volleyball was the number one most watched sport at the summer Olympics,” Seth said wisely. Ryan silently mouthed ‘Wow’. Sandy noted it would also be televised and decided to discretely set it up to record.

 

“They’re playing in Manhattan Beach?” Ryan asked, looking up. Eye contact at last.

 

“Oh yes. And I have tickets!” Seth said, flipping them on the countertop triumphantly, as if presenting the winning hand in a game of poker. Ryan blinked a couple of times, and Sandy realized he and Seth both were holding their breath. He’d not gone out much at all, except to walk along the beach, since he’d gotten back.

 

“Cool!” Sandy said quickly and snatched a ticket up.

 

“Bad Dad! Not for you! You have dad things to do today. It’s the price you pay for giving up on things like curfew and having to listen to your parents,” Seth said as he grabbed the ticket out of his hand.

 

“You mean I don’t have to listen to the Nana anymore?” Sandy asked.

 

“Oh… Well, I wouldn’t recommend that,” Seth said, then regrouped. “Ah, but you don’t, do you? Hence your High Priestess of WASP herself: mom.”

 

“You have a point there,” Sandy conceded, concentrating extra hard not to look at Ryan’s smile directly for the superstitious fear it would go away again.

 

“So, shoo. Go bring home the bacon, or make the bread and butter, or whatever the food term is for doing parental, responsible things,” Seth said, and waved his hands in a sweeping motion at him.

 

“Is Summer going to be at this celebration of scantily clad female athleticism?” Sandy asked as he put his mug in the sink and grabbed his briefcase.

 

“Blasphemy!” Seth cried, and Ryan laughed softly. “She’s taking Marissa shopping today, and doing mysterious day spa stuff. Apparently good news is likely to be forthcoming, so no, she will not be there to share in the glory which is Rachel Wacholder.”

 

And just like that, the tone changed. Ryan still was smiling gently, but his eyes lost their glimmer of humor, and once again he was the shell of who he used to be. Seth’s enthusiasm faltered for the briefest moment in disappointment at his blunder of the reminder of all that had happened.

 

Surprisingly, it was Ryan, with his uncanny knack to intuitively sense people’s feelings, who grabbed the magazine and turned it his way again who chose to speak up. He frowned and scratched absently at his chin.

 

“So is it me, or does she look a bit like Summer?” Ryan asked, and this time Sandy couldn’t help himself. He wrapped an arm around Ryan’s shoulders and hugged him warmly. He’d be doing a victory dance in the car on the way to work - Ryan hadn’t even flinched.

 

Reaching out, Sandy tousled his son’s hair, and left the room to Seth’s cries of, “Dad! The hair!”

 

“So which is better? The Olympic athlete who looks like Summer, or Summer?” he could hear Ryan asking as the door closed behind him.

 

With briefcase still in hand, he pumped his fist down then to his side like the football players sometimes did. “Yes!” he said with heat, then quickly regained composure as he watched Rosa drive up. She was eyeing him with a puzzled frown. Sandy straightened his tie, waved a greeting, and got in the car.

 

Thank God Rosa was finally back. The house was falling apart without her (despite Ryan’s best efforts. There was no hope for the Cohen men, apparently). He prayed Rosa’s daughter didn’t decide to have any more children any time soon. He’d hate to see how the house looked after a month with Kirsten home as well. One of the Cohen men would likely be killed.

 

Sandy smiled as he started the car. Things were finally starting to look up for them. It was about time. He turned up the music and began planning out how Friday would go. Kirsten was coming home, and maybe, after all that had happened, they’d find a way to prove to Ryan that Atwood luck wasn’t real. Besides, he was a Cohen now, and in his book, that made all the difference.