Both Micky and Davy let out stifled gasps, and Peter's eyes widened, his mouth falling open in shock. Mike ignored them.

"I never told you, because . . . because I've been trying all these years to forget. He was cruel. My mother was afraid of Him, we both were. He would blow up at the littlest things . . . I remember watching Him beat her, wishing I could help but knowing that . . . that if I interfered, it would only make it worse.

"When He was away, we were so happy. She would smile, and I never saw that smile when He was there. Her eyes would just light up, and she would laugh . . . I used to love her laughter. When it was just the two of us, I knew we were okay. But it never lasted. He would come back, and her smile would go away." He paused, momentarily lost in memories. His throat tightened and he swallowed hard, refusing to let them see him cry.

"She thought she was doing the right thing, staying with Him. She thought a little boy should have his father. But I was afraid. I always wondered when the day would come that He'd go too far . . . when He'd kill us. And some days, when I huddled in the corner, crying . . . watching Him hurt her . . . I wished He would."

Faintly, he heard Micky's whispered "Oh God," and a choked intake of breath from Peter. It took all of his strength to continue.

"I'm sorry I've been so moody lately." He glanced up at Peter, but found he was unable to look him in the eyes. He dropped his gaze back to the tabletop. "I shouldn't have snapped at you, Peter, but . . . it's just so hard for me. You kept asking why, and . . . I don't know why, I never did. People say it's . . . it's hereditary. And I'm so afraid that one day I'll look in the mirror and I'll see His face looking back at me. I know I get mad at you guys sometimes, and I lose my temper . . . but if I ever raise a hand against you in anger . . . I'll never forgive myself. How could I, when I've never forgiven Him?

"He left us when I was six, and I was glad. We were finally free of Him, I thought, but . . . I was never free. He died years ago, but I . . . He still hasn't gone away. So long as I remember . . . so long as it haunts me the way it does . . . I'll never be free."

He turned to Susan and grasped her hands, staring into her eyes. "I had to help you, Susan. When I saw you in that club, I knew. Deep down, I knew. I'd seen the look on your face so many times . . . I felt in mirrored in my own eyes. Maybe somehow . . . somehow if I free you from Charlie, I'll finally be free myself . . ."

He smiled slightly then, feeling some of the pain inside him ease. "And if not, then at least I'll know you're safe . . . and that'll be a comfort to me."

It was finished.

Mike took a deep breath and looked around the table. Susan's eyes were wet with tears, her hands clasping his own, giving him wordless support. Micky was pale, his normally lively eyes dull with shock. Davy was looking anywhere but at him, his fingers drumming the tabletop nervously. Peter was crying openly, staring at Mike with sympathetic eyes.

"I'm so sorry Mike," Peter said, drawing in a hitching breath and reaching for him. "We didn't know."

"I didn't want you to know," Mike responded, shrugging him away. "There wasn't any reason for you to know."

"Then why did you tell us now?" Micky's voice was quiet and subdued, showing no trace of his earlier mirth.

"I had to," came the simple answer, accompanied by a negligent shrug.

There was a moment of silence as Mike stared down at his plate of cold eggs, unable to meet their eyes.

"Are you alright," Susan asked quietly, standing up and slipping her arms around his shoulders.

He didn't answer at first, unsure of what to say. Then, "Yeah, I think so." He stood too, and swayed slightly, startling Susan, who slipped an arm around his waist to steady him. "A little tired," he admitted, a vague smile flitting across his face.

She nodded her understanding. "You've been through a lot this morning, it took a lot out of you. Go on upstairs and rest, Mike. We'll be here when you need us."

He looked down at her, his eyes suddenly wide and childlike. "Come with me."

The other three watched in respectful silence as she helped him up the stairs, all too aware of the weariness in his posture and the tremor in his tired limbs.

Upstairs, Susan lowered him gently into his bed and drew the covers up around his shoulders, placing a comforting kiss on his forehead. "Stay with me," he murmured, feeling her pull away.

"I'll be right here," she assured him, stepping away to retrieve a chair to place by his bedside. "I'll sit with you until you fall asleep."

His eyes were already closing, but he reached for her. "Lie with me . . . please."

She startled, her pulse momentarily quickening before she quelched her thoughts and forced herself to nod calmly. "If you want."

She pulled back the covers and slipped in beside him, relishing his warmth as he snuggled up next to her and wrapped his arms around her. She rested her head on his chest and listened to his steady heartbeat, feeling herself grow drowsy as his breath lightly ruffled her hair.

Her mind whirled. Being here with him . . . she felt the glimmer of something she hadn't felt in a long time, not since the early days with Charlie, when things were good. Her body was alive, her heart warm just being close to him. Just before she fell asleep, all of her thoughts calmed into one.

This feels so right.

"You tear the top right off my head, you blow my mind," Peter sang softly, his head bent over the gently vibrating strings of Mike's borrowed guitar. He closed his eyes and hummed along with the music, relishing the feel of the guitar as it sang beneath his skilled fingers.

As the song ended, he sat up and turned his face out to the beach, catching sight of Micky and Davy, seated side-by-side just out of reach of the waves. He smiled a bit sadly - it wasn't like Micky just to sit, but after Mike and Susan had gone upstairs, he'd been awfully quiet. It had been Davy who'd suggested going back outside, and even then it seemed to Peter that Micky had gone rather reluctantly.

Obviously, they were all somewhat shaken by what Mike had said. Peter himself wasn't sure what to think. Mike had always seemed so strong, and it was disconcerting to see him vulnerable. There had been something odd about his eyes as he spoke. The intelligent gleam had all but vanished, replaced by a glazed, dead stare. But behind that cloudy stare had been real, naked pain, and it looked very out of place on Mike's usually stoic face.

Peter sighed and bent back over the guitar, once again turning his back to the window. Mike would be alright, especially since Susan was with him. She seemed to have a calming effect on him, so maybe she could help him get rid of the pain too. Micky and Davy just needed time, he decided, to digest what they'd been told. Soon, Micky would be back to his usual bouncy self.

As for himself . . .

Peter shook his head and bit his lower lip, feeling a familiar pang in his chest. He knew he wouldn't be alright until Mike was alright. But Mike would be alright, it would just take time . . . he hoped.

He started the song over again, this time taking note of the chord progressions in his head so he could write them down later. Mike had been wanting a new song for a while, maybe if he got one, that would cheer him up. He was almost to the bridge when there was a knock on the front door.

Peter stood and stretched out semi-cramped limbs, then headed for the door and opened the peephole. "Who is it?"

"Milkman," answered the burly man outside.

Peter wrinkled his nose in confusion. "Where's your milk?" he asked curiously, opening the door a bit. "Is it in the tru - "

And the man slammed his way into the pad and wrapped a beefy hand around his neck. "The name's Charlie," he growled, smiling thinly, "And I ain't here to bring you milk, blondie."

Peter gasped, clawing at his throat and trying to pull away. Charlie did let go of his neck, but instead grabbed both arms and wrenched them behind his back. Peter let out a yelp of pain as Charlie pulled him backward and hissed into his ear. "Where is she?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Peter managed. His mind whirled, trying in vain to think of a way out of this. Charlie's hold on his arms was too tight, he couldn't move them without sending a burning pain shooting up into his shoulders.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about," Charlie growled, yanking on Peter's arms and causing him to cry out in pain. "My slut wife is here with the freak in the hat, and I want you to tell me where they are."

"They're not here," Peter lied frantically, squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head as if he might will the threat away. Why had he opened the door? Now Susan and Mike were in danger -

All thought fled as Charlie took hold of his right arm and pulled back, twisting roughly at the same time. Peter heard it before he felt it - a dry cracking sound and then the wet rip of the splintered bones bursting through the skin - but then the pain did come and his eyes filled with tears, his head filling with static. It felt as though his arm had been ripped clean off, and he could feel himself growing light-headed.

"Where is she," Charlie screamed into his ear, and through a growing haze of pain and confusion, Peter saw Susan and Mike appear at the top of the steps, still rumpled from sleep.

"Charlie, no," Susan screamed, and Mike's already pale face seemed to lose all color.

Seeing them, Charlie finally released him, throwing him aside as though he weighed less than nothing. Peter fell bonelessly, his head impacting the side of the table as he went down. His last thought as darkness exploded around him was one of regret . . . that he hadn't protected them better.

Susan watched in horror as Peter's body fell to the floor and lay still. Behind her, Mike let out a strangled gasp, and he shoved past her, flying down the steps and around Charlie, falling to his knees by Peter's side.

"My God . . ." Mike looked up at Charlie, his face white and his eyes haunted. "What have you done?"

Charlie didn't answer. He sneered up at Susan, who still stood frozen at the top of the stairs. "Was Blondie your lover too?"

"No," Susan answered, her voice hoarse with tears. "He was my friend."

Charlie shrugged. "Too bad for him."

Mike stood then, his fists clenching at his sides, "You bastard . . ."

And Charlie whirled on him. He brought his fist back, only to slam it into Mike's midsection. As the taller boy doubled over in pain, he attempted to strike at Charlie. However, Charlie was quicker, and he brought his knee into Mike's chest, knocking the wind out of him. As Mike began to crumple to the ground in a painful heap, Charlie grabbed him by the shoulders and hoisted him up.

Susan was only dimly aware that she was screaming. Her throat hurt and it was hard to breathe. "Charlie, please!"

He just laughed, both hands now locked around Mike's throat . . . squeezing.

Susan ran down the steps and slammed into him, jarring Mike from his grasp. Screaming like a banshee, she tried to find any purchase point on Charlie's body that she could, desperate to cause him pain. Mike fell, half on top of Peter, and lay unmoving, his face puffy and bleeding, his neck covered with purple splotches of all-too familiar shapes.

She was beating on Charlie, sobbing, screaming, kicking . . . her hands were balled up into painful, tight fists, colliding repeatedly with Charlie's squirming body. Still, he laughed. And he grabbed her wrists . . .

"'Ey! Let 'er go!"

Davy appeared out of nowhere, and Susan would later say that he looked like an angel as he leapt upon Charlie's back and locked him in a bear-hug, pinning his arms to his sides. And then Micky was there, unleashing a primal battle-cry and ramming his head into Charlie's stomach, forcing the air from his lungs with an audible "whoop."

Susan stumbled backward, wild-eyed, as the two boys fought a rapidly losing battle. They were quick and scrappy, able to hang on to him, but Charlie fought with an animal rage and a seemingly inhuman strength. It took up most of their effort just to stay even with him, let alone fight him. Charlie threw his arms up with a roar and sent Davy flying off his back to crash into the couch and tumble head-over heels to the floor. He lay there, stunned, shaking his head to clear it. Micky backed away, grabbing Susan and pulling her behind his back for what little protection he could offer. Charlie just grinned, the blood from his own broken nose coating his teeth and giving him a gruesome, vampiric appearance. "You stay away," Micky warned, his voice trembling slightly.

"You can't protect her," Charlie taunted, stepping ever closer. "Long-haired freak."

"You want her, you go through me."

Charlie didn't even bother to respond. He lunged, his shoulders lowered to the ground. Micky let out a pained cry as Charlie grabbed him around the midsection and literally threw him across the pad. He hit the wall and landed hard on his back, the wind knocked out of him.

It was over. Susan drew in hitching, sobbing breaths, still backing away, not quite ready to submit even as Death grinned at her through her husband's battered face.

"Come here, Suzie," Death leered, reaching out to her. "I want to talk to you."

Something snapped. With a high-pitched, gurgling cry, Susan grabbed the first thing her hands came into contact with - and struck. Charlie flinched and his hands flew to his head, his eyes widening with shock as his fingers came away wet with blood.

The shock turned to rage. "You slut bitch!"

She hit him again. And again.

"Bitch . . . slut . . . shoulda killed you . . ."

With each word he said, she struck. Now he was the one backing away, and she was the one roaring in primal rage.

I am woman. Hear me . . .

Screaming. Crying. Lashing out.

"Susan, stop!" Micky's voice broke through. "Stop it!"

A hand grabbed her wrist, arms wrapped around her from behind, and the wooden maraca she had clutched in white-knuckled fingers fell harmlessly to the floor, rolling to rest beside Charlie's motionless body.

"Susan . . ."

The policeman relinquished her into Micky's shaky embrace.

"It's over."

"Susan Duffer?"

Susan looked up with teary eyes and let out a sharp gasp when she saw a young policeman standing above her with a no-nonsense expression in his eyes. She stood shakily, and looked gratefully at Micky as he rose with her and put an arm around her waist to support her. "Yes, sir?"

"I'd like to speak with you alone," the young man said quietly, his light blue eyes sympathetic, "If I may."

"Actually," she managed, "I'd like it if Micky and Davy could stay with me." Davy's arm slid around her from the other side, and she relished the feel of their warmth and support.

The policeman nodded and shrugged slightly. "Alright." He motioned for them to return to their seats, and then took a seat directly in front of Susan. "Mrs. Duffer, my name is Sergeant James Bailey, I was one of the men at the scene of your . . . incident."

"Yes," she nodded faintly. "I remember you. You grabbed my wrist."

"Yes ma'am. Have the doctors spoken to you yet regarding your husband's condition?"

"No, I haven't heard anything. And please call me Susan."

"Well . . . Susan . . . I'm afraid I'm the bearer of some upsetting news. Mr. Charles Duffer was pronounced dead about twenty minutes ago."

Susan blinked. She sat there waiting to feel something - anything - but nothing came. Davy gripped her hand a little tighter.

"Have you come to arrest me?" she asked calmly.

The young officer shook his head. "No ma'am. The official report will read that Mr. Duffer was killed in an act of self-defense."

"Self-defense," she repeated slowly, letting the words roll around on her tongue.

"We'll need you to sign a statement, Mrs. . . . er, Susan . . . if that's alright."

"Self-defense?"

"Yes ma'am."

"I don't understand."

Officer Bailey glanced around subtly and then leaned forward, resting a reassuring hand on Susan's knee. The formal air disappeared and he let his accent - a southern drawl painfully similar to Mike's - come through. "Miss, there ain't a man or woman alive who'd blame you for what you did. We saw what he did to your friends, he gave you no choice. The report says self-defense, and you'll do a lot better if you remember it that way too." He smiled slightly, a sad smile. "If you have to remember it at all."

Susan smiled back, and squeezed the officer's hand. "Thank you, Officer Bailey. Thanks to all of you."

"We just do our job ma'am," he replied, impeccable manners and indistinguishable accent back in place. Then he stood, and, with a nod and a tip of his hat, walked away.

"Well," Susan breathed after a long moment of silence. "Self-defense . . ."

"That's good, Susan," Micky reminded her, and Davy nodded his agreement. "That means you can go on with your life!"

"Go on with my life?!" Susan laughed bitterly. "I've just killed my husband!"

"You heard what the officer said, Susan, you couldn't help it!"

"I could have helped it," she shuddered, once again seeing Charlie's bloodied face in her mind's eye. "I could have stopped."

"Excuse me?" Officer Bailey cleared his throat as he stood before them once again. "I've just been told that your friend Michael Nesmith has come to and is being allowed visitors, if you'd like to come with me."

"He's awake?" Micky's face lit up and he grinned widely, Susan's comment all-but-forgotten. "Really?"

"Can Susan come too," Davy asked hopefully.

"I'd suppose so," the officer answered. "If she'd like."

Susan nodded. "Yes, I'll come."

They followed Officer Bailey back through the swinging doors marked EMERGENCY and down a long hallway, stopping in front of room 145. "In here," the officer told them, motioning to the closed door. "As I understand it, he'll be released later today, so if you wanted to bring him some clean clothes . . ."

"Okay, thank you," Davy nodded. "We'll do that."

Officer Bailey tipped his hat again and walked off. Susan took a deep breath and turned to Davy and Micky. "Maybe I should go in alone first."

"What? Why?"

"Someone's got to tell him about Peter."

"You don't have to tell 'im," Davy began, but Susan shook her head.

"No, Davy. He'll be wondering if I'm alright . . . and besides, he'll take it better from me, I think. I'll tell him."

"Are you sure?" Micky looked at her with sad, haunted eyes. "It won't be pretty."

"I know . . ." Susan felt the tears rising anew. "I wouldn't expect it to be. I'll be alright."

Micky and Davy looked at one another, then nodded in silent agreement. "Alright," Micky said aloud. "If you're really sure."

"I'm sure." Susan smiled thinly and without humour. "Wish me luck."

And she pushed open the door and walked in.

Micky leaned back against the wall of the corridor, crossing his arms on his chest, which Davy slid down to the floor and sat Indian-style, resting his head against the wall. They could hear the muffled voices coming from inside the room, and each wondered to himself what was being said.

Then a loud, anguished wail ripped forth from Mike's throat and they knew they didn't have to wonder anymore.

"Michael?"

Mike looked around slightly as the evening nurse tiptoed into the room and quickly gave her patient the once-over.

"You know visiting hours are over . . ."

He nodded, but refused to leave his perch. Instead, he simply turned his gaze back to the bed where Peter lay, his face pale and slack.

The nurse stepped up behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder. "The swelling in his brain has gone down, but he won't wake up tonight," she told him gently, "Why don't you go home . . . get some rest?"

He shook his head 'no' and shrugged her hand away, sitting forward in his chair and reaching out to brush a lock of hair from Peter's forehead.

"He won't go, so why don't you let me stay with him," came Susan's voice from the doorway.

Mike turned his face to her, but quickly dropped his gaze as Susan's eyes met his own. The nurse frowned a bit. "I'm not supposed to - "

"The doctor told us that Peter needed people around him," Susan argued logically, "That should hold true even after visiting hours."

"I guess . . ."

"Please?"

The nurse sighed and gave Susan a tired smile. "Okay, okay, you can stay. Just be sure to keep quiet - "

"We will," Susan assured her. "I'm naturally quiet, and Mike - well, normally I'd worry, but he's mute for the time being, so . . ."

The nurse giggled slightly at the joke, but Mike didn't react at all. Susan sighed and regarded him worriedly. "Thanks," she said distractedly as the nurse exited the room. Then she pulled up another chair and sat down next to Mike, draping her arm around his shoulders. "How're you feeling?"

No response. He didn't move, didn't blink. His eyes stayed riveted on Peter's stoic face, as if he were willing him to open his eyes.

She squeezed him gently, pulling him a little closer to her. "It wasn't your fault," she told him for the third time, "despite what you think. Charlie was . . . he was insane, he didn't care who he hurt."

Mike shook his head and reached out to take Peter's limp hand in his own. He squeezed the thin fingers gently and she saw the tears beginning to roll down his cheeks.

"Oh Mike. . . ." Susan brought her chair ever closer and rested her head on his shoulder, her arm still wrapped around him. "Don't do this to yourself . . . please . . ."

It seemed to Mike as though he was in some sort of tunnel. Everything felt hollow and intangible - even Susan's warm body beside him felt wrong somehow. His throat burned every time he swallowed - a painful reminder of Charlie's fingers digging into his windpipe, and the result of his own anguished scream tearing through what was left of his fragile vocal cords. But that pain was nothing compared to the raging emptiness he felt deep inside.

Susan was talking to him, but the words didn't make sense. They just blurred together and flew over his head like all other noises except the mechanical beating of Peter's heart.

Then, as Susan pulled him close and rested her head on his shoulder, a voice broke through the void. Low, grating laughter. And he turned pale and looked up - into the cold dark eyes of his father.

"Micky, Davy . . .!"

They were approaching Peter's hospital room when Susan jogged up to them, her face drawn with worry.

"What is it," Micky asked fearfully, clutching the duffle bag full of clothing he held to his chest. "It's Peter isn't it? He's gotten worse, or . . . or - "

"Oh God, no! No, he's fine, there's . . . there's no change."

Micky and Davy both let out sighs of relief, but Susan wrung her hands and glanced nervously back at the open doorway. "It's Mike . . . something's wrong, he's acting strangely."

"'Ow d'you mean?" Davy asked warily, stepping toward the room slowly.

"He's gone all pale and shaky . . . he's staring at the wall . . . no, through it, really. I think he's . . . I think he's seeing things."

"Seeing things? Oh man . . ."

Micky hurried into the room and to Mike's side, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Mike? Hey Mike, what're ya doin'?"

Mike didn't answer. He was just as Susan described him, staring at nothingness with abject terror, his lips moving silently as he shook his head slowly . . . "No," he seemed to be saying, "No, please . . ."

"Mike?" Davy repeated, moving to his other side and waving a hand in front of his face. "Mike, snap out of it!"

"Davy," Susan whispered, her eyes wide and tear-filled, "I think something's really wrong with him."

"I'll snap him out of it," Micky said decisively, with a bravado he didn't quite feel. He knelt down in front of Mike and placed both hands on his shoulders, staring into his eyes. "HEY MIKE!"

Mike jumped slightly, and his eyes finally focused on Micky.

"Told ya," Micky said, smiling slightly at Susan, then he turned his attention back to Mike. "You okay Mike? What's the matter?"

Mike hesitated, his eyes flickering from Peter to Davy to Micky and to Susan, then back to the empty space that had held him captivated. He swallowed hard, then grimaced in pain as the action sent pain shooting down his throat. After a moment, he shook his head and waved his hand as if to dismiss their questions.

"Mike . . .?" Susan approached him as Micky stepped away, and she slowly pulled him into a hug. "God, you scared me . . ."

He returned the hug hesitantly, his eyes still flickering back to that spot on the other side of the room.

"How I wish you could talk," she murmured into his chest. "I wish you could tell me everything that's bothering you."

"We know what's bothering him," Micky said quietly. "You feel guilty about Peter, don't you?"

"Yeah," Davy agreed grimly. "We know you too well, Mike, you've got to be blaming yourself."

"So stop it right now," Micky ordered, his voice unusually serious. "It wasn't your fault, man! So you wanted to help Susan, we all did! How could you have known Charlie would come to the Pad? You thought she'd be safe there, but so did we! Man, if we had a problem with it, we'd've said so. And besides . . . Peter'll be okay, and Susan's safe now . . . didn't you say if you knew she was safe you'd feel better?"

"No," Susan answered for him. "He said if he knew he'd helped me to be safe . . ." She pulled away slightly and looked tearfully up at Mike. "You did help me, Mike. I know you feel badly about how things happened, but . . . if it hadn't been for you, Charlie would have gotten to me that night at the Vincent Van. You took me in without a second thought, and I'll never forget that. You reminded me what it was like . . . not to have to be afraid all the time. Don't you think that's worth something?"

He was still unfocused, face drawn and grim. Then, finally, he nodded slightly and managed a smile. Micky and Davy exchanged grins and Susan hugged him tightly, murmuring in his ear. "Please don't blame yourself. If anyone is to blame, it's me. Maybe we can get through this together."

And he nodded for her sake, but the spectre of his father still loomed.

"No . . . not again. I don't want to see this again . . ."

And it was no longer Charlie standing there taunting him, but his own father, glaring down at him with empty black eyes. "Come here, Bobby . . . I want to talk to you."

"No!"

He woke with a start, hands outstretched to ward off an unseen threat, his scream no more than a dry whisper.

"Goodness!" someone yelped, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Musta been some dream!"

He blinked to clear his vision. He could still see his father standing above him - the image wouldn't fade, but the laughter slowly receded into nothingness.

The morning nurse was regarding him curiously, her hand still resting on his shoulder. He forced his eyes away from his father's laughing face and nodded slightly, stretching out his legs and shaking the cramps from them.

The nurse, a plump woman with a pleasant, freckled face, patted his shoulder gently, then turned back to her duties, bending over Peter's bed and checking his vital signs. She fluffed the pillow beneath his head and spoke conversationally. "We were wondering if you'd stay here all night. Flora and I had a bet on."

He didn't bother to acknowledge her. Instead, he moved his chair back to allow her better access to Peter's bed. "He's doing better," she told him as she adjusted Peter's sheets and retaped his I.V. "Now all we have to do is fix you up."

She turned to him and knelt before him, placing warm fingers on either side of his neck. "Do we have a voice this morning?"

He shrugged.

"It'd help if you tried speaking," she suggested patiently. "Say, 'Hello, Gloria'."

"Hello Gloria," he managed, his voice no more than a faint croak.

"Well, there you go!" She grinned at him as she stood. "Your voice is coming back just fine! Does your throat hurt?"

He shrugged again, noncommittally, and Gloria gave a stern but friendly glare. "Does your throat hurt," she repeated, her tone and expression daring him not to respond in some form.

"You deserve to hurt," his father whispered, crossing his arms and glaring at him as he leaned back against the wall. "You deserve a lot worse than a sore throat."

Mike gulped, his eyes flickering over to his father's lanky form, but he forced his eyes back to Gloria and shook his head 'no', even as his throat exploded in new pain.

"Some friend you are," his father jeered. "You almost got him killed, and over some girl. All of this is your fault."

"Alright," Gloria said doubtfully as she turned to go. "I'll be back in a few hours to check on your friend, but if you need anything, you can push the call button, okay?"

He nodded distractedly, eyes focused on his father's lanky form as he folded his arms across his chest and leaned casually against the wall, smiling thinly. "Well? What have you got to say for yourself?"

Mike opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out but a pitiful squeak. His father laughed outright.

"I thought not. Little mouse."

I can't talk, you know that, Mike thought indignantly, and was shocked when his father seemed to hear.

"Can't talk," the man snorted cruelly, "What difference does it make? You got nothin' worthwhile to say."

I got things to say . . .

"No one wants to hear it, Bobby. You ain't nothin' but a failure. Your mother called herself raisin' a man . . . you ain't a man, you're just a little mouse. Squeak squeak!"

Mike just stared, his fists clenched at his sides, his face slowly heating up with anger and embarrassment. Then, finally, something inside him snapped.

I ain't a mouse. He stood up to his full height, facing the ghost of his father with his head held high, determination and confidence flashing in his eyes. I am a man. I started bein' a man the day you left.

"You think so, do you?"

I know so. You messed up, Dad. He said the title mockingly and was rewarded by the look of anger that crossed his father's face. You reminded me of somethin' I guess my guilt and my fear made me forget. My mother raised me, and she raised me right. She taught me how to be a man, not you.

"No woman can teach a boy how to be a man, you learned from me."

Yes, I learned from you, he nodded slowly, not even flinching as the oily grin returned to his father's face. I learned how to be mean, cruel, and spiteful, and I learned how to be afraid. But I also learned that I don't want to be like you . . . and I'm strong enough that I don't have to be.

His father pushed himself away from the wall and snarled at him, baring yellowed teeth. "We'll see," he said, his voice low.

"Yes, we will." Mike's own voice, strong and sure even in its hoarseness, echoed off the whitewashed walls, and the spectre faded away, leaving him standing alone in Peter's hospital room, glaring with defiance at nothingness.

Susan shifted slightly in her chair and sighed, stretching her legs out in an attempt to get the feeling back in her toes. Her lower back ached terribly and her backside was numb from sitting in the same position for so long, but she didn't want to leave. The doctors had said Peter could come to any time now.

Someone knocked on the frame of the open door and she looked around, face lighting up as she saw the visitor. "Mike! Hi!"

He smiled and strolled over, raising a questioning eyebrow at Peter.

"No, he's still unconscious," she responded. "But the doctors think he'll wake up sometime today."

Mike nodded and squeezed her shoulder gently before pulling up another chair and taking his seat. Susan felt her stomach lurch as she caught sight of the yellow-greenish marks on his throat - all that was left of the fading bruises from Charlie's brutal attack. "How's your voice," she asked softly, and he shrugged flippantly, his mouth quirking into a tiny smile. "Haven't you tried it yet today?"

He shook his head 'no' as he leaned back in his chair, crossing his ankles and making himself comfortable.

"Why not?"

Another negligent shrug, accompanied by a mock-annoyed glare.

"Give it a try, at least," she begged, and he rolled his eyes again and sighed exaggeratedly before clearing his throat and opening his mouth to speak.

"Good morning Susan," he croaked. His voice, though it was an octave too low and a bit gravelly, was almost at normal volume.

A grin lit up her face. "You're healing! You'll be back to normal in no time!"

He nodded with a satisfied smile, then chuckled slightly as his stomach growled loudly. He stood and motioned to the door, a question in his eyes.

"What?" she asked, knowing full well what he meant but determined to make him speak it aloud.

He sighed and rolled his eyes again. "Breakfast?"

She smiled at him but shook her head. "No thanks. But bring me back something small?"

He nodded and waved slightly as he left. Susan turned back to Peter and leaned forward, stroking his cheek with the back of her hand. "I probably should have waited for him this morning," she said conversationally, "but I woke up so early . . . I just decided to take the bus over first thing.

"I'll be so glad when you're finally okay, Peter. It's been so long, we were afraid . . . well, it's over now, but there was a time when we thought we'd lose both you and Mike. He was acting so strangely . . . talking to walls and empty air. He felt so guilty over what had happened . . . he really does feel responsible for all of you.

"Micky called him 'Papa Nez' the other day, and you should have seen the way his face lit up, even as he tried to hide it." She smiled a bit at the memory. Mike had managed to keep his face neutral, but his eyes had widened ever-so-slightly and begun to shine with a joy and radiance that nearly left her breathless. Micky had caught it too - he'd taken to calling Mike 'Papa Nez' more often than not.

"I think he's been spending all this time trying to make up for what his father did," she mused aloud, the thoughts just beginning to form in her head. "Maybe he feels that by being like a father to his friends, he's slowly erasing his own father's sins. Of course, in his own mind, he's just doing the right thing."

She paused with a sigh and shrugged a bit. "I know I haven't known him very long," she added, almost by way of apology, "But that's just how he strikes me."

She stopped and thought quietly about that, letting her mind wander through everything that had happened while she was staying with them. "I've done a lot of thinking lately, about why things happen, and why people react to things the way they do. It all goes back to your question, Peter. Why did Charlie do the things he did? Why did I let him hurt me for so long? And why . . . why, when all was said and done . . . did I become as much of a monster as Charlie was?"

"You're not a monster."

Susan's hand flew to her mouth and she gave a sharp gasp as Peter's voice interrupted her thoughts. "Peter! You're awake!" She grabbed his hand, a grin springing to her face as his eyes slowly fluttered open.

"You're not a monster," he repeated weakly, his eyes focusing with some difficulty upon her face. "Why . . . why do you think . . ."

"Peter, don't strain yourself," she scolded hurriedly, "You need to rest!"

"Where . . ." His eyes flickered around the room, and he smiled a bit as he saw all the cards, balloons, and stuffed animals that surrounded him.

"You're in the hospital, Peter. You've been here for days. All of your friends have come by . . ." She gave him a mischievous grin. "I even met the famous Miss Buntwell."

"Miss . . . Buntwell . . . was here?" He was still weak, and it seemed to take an infinite amount of his strength just to say each word.

"Yes, she was," she nodded the answer. "She sat here with you for a good two hours, I think, and brought you a stuffed animal." She stood and crossed to the window, where she picked up a small stuffed tiger with a heart on its belly. "Here it is. It even has a little card attached to it. It reads, 'Get well soon, Tiger. Love, Miss Buntwell.'"

Peter gave a tired grin. "Rrrr," he growled, and Susan giggled at the sound as she handed him the animal. He hugged it close and closed his eyes, sighing a bit.

"You're tired, aren't you? You should go back to sleep, Peter, the guys should be here when you wake up."

He nodded just slightly without opening his eyes, and curled up slightly, drawing his knees up closer to his chest. "Susan . . ."

"Mmm-hmmm?"

"Is everyone okay?"

"Oh yes, Peter, everyone's fine . . . Charlie . . . won't be bothering us anymore."

"Did they arrest him?" he asked, yawning slightly.

"No . . . he's dead."

"Dead?" Peter's eyes flew open and he tried to sit up, but winced in pain as the movement sent agony lacing through his skull.

"Peter, lie down!" Susan yelped, jumping to her feet and physically pressing him back down on the pillow.

"Dead," he repeated, softer this time, but now wide awake. "How . . . how did he die?"

She suddenly found herself unable to look him in the eyes. "I . . . I killed him, Peter. I killed my husband."

He was silent, but she could feel his eyes upon her, could visualize the shocked and horrified look on his face.

"I didn't mean to," she continued, her eyes still downcast, "I only wanted him to stop . . ." She was begging now, begging him to understand what she had done. "He'd hurt you, Peter, we thought you were dead. And Mike too . . . and then he hurt Davy and Micky too, and I thought he was going to kill me . . . I didn't mean to, Peter, you have to believe me . . ."

"I believe you."

Startled, she looked up, not into a glare of accusation but into eyes shimmering with sympathy and compassion. "What . . .?"

"I believe you, Susan," he said again, reaching his hand out for hers. "I know you'd never want to hurt anyone."

Once again, she was unable to look him in the eyes. "But I wanted to hurt him, Peter. I wanted to hurt him the way he hurt you, and Mike - "

"And you. He hurt you, too, Susan."

"Yes," she agreed softly, tears rising to her eyes. "He hurt me too. But . . . I didn't have to do what I did . . ."

"Yes you did."

"You wouldn't have - "

"I might."

She gasped and lifted her head, staring at him with unabashed shock. "You . . .?"

"I wanted to protect you," he told her solemnly. "If I had been able . . . I would have done whatever I had to . . . to keep you safe."

"You did your best - " she began, but he interrupted.

"You did what you had to, to protect yourself. I know you didn't mean to kill him. I know you only wanted things to be okay. You're not a monster, Susan, he was."

With an inarticulate wail, she threw herself upon him, finally weeping out all of her guilt and anger, her face buried in his sheets, her hands clutching his as tightly as they could. He let her cry, letting his hand caress her back, murmuring into her ear.

Finally, her tears slowed, and she pulled away from him, scrubbing embarrassedly at her eyes. "Oh . . . I was . . . supposed to be . . . supporting you!" she managed, her breath hitching in her throat and making it hard to speak.

He shook his head, weary once again. "No . . . friends support each other."

"Go to sleep, Peter," was all she said, as she gently tucked him in. "You need your rest."

His eyes were already closing, but he fought it, gazing deep into her eyes, his fingers tangled with hers. "You're not a monster," he said again, unwilling to sleep until he knew she was alright.

"I know," she said. And she did.

Susan waved to Davy as he stepped out onto the beach, towel in hand. Micky had gone outside a few minutes before, but Davy had stayed behind to be sure that Peter would be alright. Only at Mike's insistence had he agreed to leave the nursing to them.

Susan smiled a bit. The nursing would be Mike's thing - he wouldn't let anyone do what he considered his duty. Even she had been hustled out of the bedroom as Mike tucked Peter into bed and made sure he was comfortable. He'd come in and out of the room several times now. First for a glass of water, then for a magazine, from which she assumed he was reading aloud, and finally for his guitar. She could hear the faint chords of a lullaby from inside the room, and Mike's newly husky voice softly singing the soothing words.

Finally, all was quiet and Mike exited the room, guitar in hand. He closed the door gently as he left and tiptoed to the bandstand, where he put the guitar away before joining Susan on the couch.

"Hi," she greeted him, smiling as he sat close beside her and rested his head on the back of the couch. "He's asleep?"

"Finally," came the weary answer. "He's in so much pain, Susan, and I can't give him any aspirin because of that damn head injury!"

She nodded grimly. "I know. Is it bad?"

"He was crying from the pain . . . he couldn't concentrate on what I was saying to him . . ."

"You're doing everything you can," she interrupted, placing a hand over his. "I don't want you getting weird on me again . . ."

That made him smile slightly. "Don't worry. That's over with."

They sat in silence for a few moments, and then she turned to him and asked, "Will you tell me about it? What you were thinking?"

He sighed slightly and pulled his hand away, only to grab hold of her more firmly, his thumb lightly stroking the back of her hand. "I felt guilty," he answered softly. "All I could think was that I'd let the guys down . . . especially Peter. I . . . I saw my father."

He paused, eyes growing dark and troubled. She gave his hand a squeeze and smiled reassuringly at him, but he barely seemed to notice.

"He was just as I remember him," he continued, shuddering a bit. "Cruel and heartless . . . he told me I was worthless, that everything that happened to Peter was my fault. It wasn't until he mentioned my mother that I finally realized . . . all this time I've been afraid of what I might become . . . afraid of what he taught me. But he didn't raise me, my mother did. And I learned a lot more from her than I did from him. I told him as much . . . and he went away."

Susan was quiet. It seemed there was much more to it than what he was saying, but perhaps it was too personal for him to share, even with her. "I'm glad you realized that," she finally said, impulsively hugging him around the waist. "I was afraid we were going to lose you . . ."

"No. Not to him."

"Do you . . . do you think it was really him? A ghost? Or just . . . just in your head?"

"I don't know," he shrugged. "And I don't guess it really matters anymore."

The subject was closed. They sat there together, her arms still around his waist, his chin resting on the top of her head. Then he spoke again, startling her.

"So, are you okay?"

"What . . . what do you mean?"

"I mean, you took Charlie's death pretty hard, and are you okay with what happened?"

She was stunned, silent. "I . . . I wasn't aware it was . . ."

"Obvious?" He laughed without humour, and pulled back slightly to look her in the eyes. "No, it wasn't obvious, but I knew. I knew you were bothered."

"Oh . . . I was upset, yes . . . but I'm alright now. I didn't mean for him to die, but he did, and . . . and that's that."

"That's that," he repeated, nodding slowly. "I suppose it is."

"I just want to move on," she clarified, resting her head on his chest with a sigh.

"You want any company?"

And she looked up into those deep brown eyes, and the world seemed to stop turning as their lips met in a simple, loving kiss.

Outside, at the bay windows, Micky smiled and stopped with his hand halfway to the doorknob. "It's about time," he uttered softly, and he turned and stepped back out into the sun.