"He's your son, for god's sake. Go and talk to him. And I mean really talk to him."

With his wife's words still ringing in his ears, the person known by some as the Man Upstairs, by his wife as Bill, and his son as… well, nothing good lately, found himself standing at his son's door once more.

How many times had he stood here, mentally reciting speech after speech while counting every scratch and mar in the paint until they were all he could think about? How many times had he gone in only to find his words catching in his throat, and found himself filling the silence with idle talk and admonitions instead of what really needed to be said? And his son would simple nod or grunt in bare acknowledgement, or worse, would give him that look, one that seemed so very disappointed…

Bill slid a hand down his face with a sound that was halfway between a groan and a laugh. Here he was, a grown man, and he was fearing the disappointment of his son, of all people. No wonder his wife was getting annoyed.

He found his hand going to his pocket, seeking out the tiny chunk of molded plastic and paint that he knew was there. The construction man minifig, the one his son had spilled super glue on way, had become something of a mystery to him. There was nothing special about it, really; he could go to the store and find the set it'd come with, or put it together from bits and pieces himself. But to his son he'd been the hero of his chaotic imagination play, and the moment he'd taken it away from him and put it back where it belonged…

...the look on his son's face…

Well, things hadn't gotten much better after that, and Bill was convinced that the little construction man had something to do with it.

A cough from down the hallway interrupted his thoughts and made him jump. He turned to see his wife glaring at him, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. She gestured with her head towards the door - Bill made a face in response, and she rolled her eyes before gesturing more urgently. He looked away, back at the door with its assorted drawings and magazine clippings, took a deep breath, and knocked.

"Finn? I'm coming in."

There was no response, but Bill opened the door anyway. The curtain was drawn open, letting in the last orange beams of the setting sun. It illuminated the messy chaos of the room - the scattered clothing, the box of LEGO pieces collecting dust in the corner… and his son, sitting at his desk, reading a tattered library book. For a moment, his eyes flickered up to Bill, before settling back on the pages. "...yeah?"

He found his words catching in his throat again, his mind darting for any way to avoid a subject he really, really didn't want to broach, and latched onto the first thought he found. "You… uh, really need to clean your room."

"Okay."

A turn of the page, loud in the silence. Bill let his eyes slide over to the box of LEGO pieces. He'd moved them upstairs when he'd finished his project in the basement - there wasn't any reason to encourage Finn to mess around with it anymore. He hadn't touched them since, to the point where Bill could almost identify the surface pieces by catalog number. He cleared his throat and turned his attention back to his son. "What are you reading?"

"A book." Flip.

"And what's it about?"

"Stuff."

Were kids supposed to get like this so young? Bill had always assumed he at least had until teenagerhood to prepare for this level of contrariness. For a moment he was frustrated with his son for doing this to him. Why couldn't he just talk to him and tell him what he was sulking about?

Why don't you ask him yourself?

Oh, how he wished he could. They said that actions spoke louder than words, though, and today he was ready to test that out. Bill squeezed his hand around the minifig in his pocket tight enough that he was afraid it'd break, and then placed it on the desk with a quiet click.

His son stared at the minifig for a moment, his expression unreadable, then carefully set his book aside. He picked it up, moving the arms and legs - it'd taken a while for Bill to remove most of the superglue, and he's accidentally gotten some of the paint in the process, but it was as mobile as he could make it.

"Dinner will be ready soon. You should get cleaned up," Bill said, carefully retreating from the room as his mind whirled. What was he thinking, anyway? Giving his son a piece of plastic and paint was even less of a conversation than his previous attempts. It was so stupid-

"Dad?"

He could almost feel his heart stop, and he turned to look at his son's… oh, what was he doing, at Finn's face. Finn was looking at him almost curiously, the minifig still playing through his hands. "Yeah?"

"...it's Taco Tuesday right?"

For a moment Bill blinked, taken off guard by what was probably the longest sentence he'd heard from Finn in... a long time. Somehow, he couldn't help but smile.

"Nah. We're trying something different tonight."

Thanks for reading.