"Here I stand . . . happy man . . . here I stand . . . happy man . . ."

Peter looked around as Davy stepped into the room, worry making lines across his handsome face. "'Ow's he doing?" the smaller man asked, his voice grim.

Peter just shook his head. "Not good. His fever's gone up."

"Maybe we should take him to the hospital?"

Peter reached down and took a small rag out of the bucket of ice water he'd placed by the bedside, running the cloth over Mike's forehead. "I don't know if we should move him."

"If we don't take him, he could . . ." Davy cut himself off, unwilling to say the word.

Peter pursed his lips, his hand clenching into a fist. Water streamed from the cloth onto the sheets. "He won't. I won't let him."

Davy sighed and seated himself on the chair opposite Peter. He watched in silence as Peter continued blotting Mike's chest and forehead with the ice water. Mike just moaned, his eyelids fluttering as he ceaselessly mumbled the same phrase over and over. "Here I stand . . . happy man . . ."

Peter suddenly paused, hand still resting lightly on Mike's chest. "Davy . . . maybe this is worse than what we thought. He's not getting any better." He paused, the looked up, his face uncertain. "This all started after the party . . . you don't think he . . . took something, do you?"

"What do you mean, 'took something'?"

"You know, like . . ." Peter lowered his voice, looking around before continuing, as if he was afraid someone would hear. " . . . drugs."

Davy shook his head vigorously. "He wouldn't. Not Mike."

Peter nodded grimly, his hand slowly moving back down to the bucket of water at his feet. "No . . . not on purpose."

Davy sucked in a sharp breath, hand snapping shut into a fist, sheets caught in his merciless grip. "You don't think someone would . . ."

"I don't know," Peter said dully. "We weren't with him the whole time."

"Micky was."

"Where is Micky?"

"Shopping. We're out of food."

"Figures."

"'E's picking up some more aspirin too. There's only a little left."

"The aspirin wasn't helping anyway."

"We can ask 'im when 'e gets back. Maybe 'e saw something."

"Maybe." Peter sighed and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes.

Davy's hand wandered down to Mike's and he grasped it gently, almost with a mother's touch. "Come out of it, Mike," he whispered, "We need you."

Micky burst into the pad with characteristic vigor, arms laden with shopping bags. The severity of their situation wasn't lost on him - in fact, he was more worried than he'd ever been. But he forced himself to put on a happy face, to keep life as normal as possible. "Hey guys?" he called, a false note of cheer in his voice. "I'm back! I got the stuff! Where is everyone?"

He headed straight for the downstairs bedroom, knowing that the others were sure to be there, sitting with Mike. He paused for a moment, gathering his strength. It was so hard to face them - to see Mike so small and helpless. Why hadn't he gotten better? What was wrong with him, why did the fever keep going up? And what the hell did "happy man" mean?

"Guys?" He stepped into the room, a noticeably fake smile plastered on his face. "So has he woken up yet?"

Peter didn't even look up. He just shook his head. Micky rooted through the bag until he grasped a small bottle of aspirin, then handed it to Davy. "It's been four hours, hasn't it? He needs another hit."

Peter looked at him sharply. "That's not funny, Micky."

Micky drew back, shocked at the venom in Peter's normally serene voice. "What . . . ?"

"Micky, you were with 'im at the party weren't you?" Davy asked, his voice pleading.

"Well, most of the time . . . but what does that have to do with - ?"

"Did he . . . do anything odd?"

"Odd?"

"Yeah."

"Not . . . I don't think . . . what?"

"Did he take anything?" Peter asked bluntly. "Was there anything going on at this party that we didn't know about?"

"No! Not . . . from what I saw . . . you know he's not into that stuff, man . . . I'm not into that stuff."

"Well something's up. He got sick after the party, and he hasn't gotten better. As a matter of fact, he's been getting steadily worse."

"We're thinking about takin'im to the hospital," Davy added.

"But if it is drugs . . . he'll get in trouble! Besides, I already told you. He wouldn't do anything like that!"

"Well, what did he eat, what did he drink?"

"Well, he had some drinks, I don't know . . . Coke . . ."

"Coke?"

"Cola, man, cola."

"Who gave it to him?"

"I don't know! C'mon Pete, I can't watch him every second - "

"Dammit Micky!"

Micky's almond eyes widened in shock. Sweet, gentle Peter never used language like that. Never. "Well . . . I guess Jeanie did. She and Sam were with us a lot."

"Jeanie . . ." Davy looked at Peter, eyes grim. "Makes sense. I 'eard she was into some o' that really heavy stuff."

"Are you saying you think he's . . . high?"

"More than high, Mick. 'E's withdrawing. Look at'im. 'E's shakin' like a newborn colt."

Micky shivered involuntarily, taking in Mike's pale and sweaty face. "So what do we do?"

Peter shook his head. "I don't know, Mick. I really have no idea."

"Jeanie!" Davy pounded viscously at the door to apartment 4B, causing it to rattle on its hinges. "Jeanie, open this door!" His voice was gravelly with rage, his nerves wound so tight he didn't even feel it as he scraped his knuckles raw on the coarse wooden door.

The door swung leisurely open, revealing a tallish girl with long, stringy, faded brown hair lounging casually against the frame. She wore nothing but an oversized white T-shirt, through which could clearly be seen the outline of a skimpy pair of red bikini panties. Her hair was completely disheveled, and her eyes were slightly bloodshot and red rimmed.

As he took in her state of undress and her casual demeanor, his temper flared. "Which one of you did it?!" he half yelled, half growled.

"Sam, it's for you," Jeanie croaked, cautiously backing up. The anger in Davy's normally love-struck eyes was enough to shock her sober.

Sam came to the door, barely dressed in a pair of thin boxer shorts, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He looked derisively at the short English man. "Yeah?" he asked rudely.

Davy snapped. "YOU DRUGGED MIKE!" he bellowed, as he leapt at Sam, his hands locking around his throat.

"Ggrat! Hngght!" Sam could only manage a surprised croak as Davy poured his rage and frustration into a death grip around his windpipe.

"Davy!" Jeanie screeched, "Let him go, what are you doing?!"

"WHICH ONE OF YOU DID IT?!"

"Did what," she cried again, desperately trying to pull Davy away from her rapidly weakening boyfriend.

Davy glared down at Sam's bluish face, reveling in the pleasure he felt as the other man's life ebbed away below his fingers. "Which one of you drugged Mike," he repeated, dragging out the words through gritted teeth.

"Please Davy!" Jeanie was sobbing now, "You're killing him!"

"AND YOU'RE KILLING MIKE!" he roared, violently releasing Sam.

"I did it," Jeanie babbled, throwing her arms around Sam and dragging him bodily away from Davy. "I'm sorry, I was just fooling around - "

"IF HE DIES - !"

The anger seemed to evaporate from him, his face going pale all at once as his words finally sunk in. "If he dies . . ."

Davy stood, stepping back toward the open doorway. His brown eyes were hard and cold, his voice flat. "Next time I won't let go."

He stalked out of the small apartment, casting one last contemptuous glance behind him. "You can bloody well bet on that."

Dej� vu. Peter nodded a bit to himself as he finally realized what he'd been feeling. "Huh."

"What?" Micky asked, looking up at him.

"Dej� vu," he explained. "An few hours ago, Davy was sitting there . . . just like you are now."

"Oh."

"See, I expect Davy to be quiet. Not you."

Micky shifted uncomfortably, sensing that something not-so-pleasant was about to happen. "What makes you say that," he asked, trying to keep his nervousness out of his voice.

"Because you're not the quiet type. You've been sitting so still for the last hour . . . it's pretty obvious what's wrong, but I'm starting to worry about you."

Micky laughed nervously. "Worry about me? What are you talking about, worry . . . I'm fine."

"No you're not."

"Sure I am."

"Micky, you're not yourself, I've never seen you this quiet. You never sit this still for so long."

"Well, he's sick, he doesn't need me making a whole bunch of noise . . ."

"Oh come on, Micky, he doesn't even know we're here, it wouldn't matter if you fired a cannon in his ear, it wouldn't disturb him."

"Here I stand . . . happy man," Mike muttered, as if illustrating Peter's point.

"Yeah, well . . ." Micky flushed and turned away. "Excuse me for trying to be considerate."

"Aww, Mick, I'm sorry . . . I was just . . . I'm worried about you, that's all. Do you . . . want to talk . . . ?"

Micky furrowed his brow, eyes becoming impossibly small. "Talk? What're ya - talk?"

"Yes, Micky, talk." Peter sighed, folding the cold compress into a small rectangle and placing it on Mike's forehead.

"Talk . . ." Micky paused. "Well, uh . . . maybe . . . but not now. Everything's too . . . weird, right now. Y'know?"

"Sure," Peter smiled. "Whenever you're ready."

"Okay," Micky agreed, leaning back in his chair. They sat there in companionable silence for a few minutes, listening to Mike's nonsense ramblings. Now he was talking about laughing porpoises.

"Well okay Pete, if you really wanna talk . . ."

Peter rolled his eyes and sat back, folding his arms across his chest. "I really think it'd help me, Mick."

Micky shot him a grateful look, then immediately dropped his eyes back down to his lap, wringing his hands between his knees. "I just . . . it's just so hard," he began, his voice unusually soft. "I was scared, you know? I didn't know what to do when he got so sick . . . and Davy was acting so weird . . . you'd think he was dying or something! I thought he just had a bit of flu, that's all, but . . . now you're saying he's OD'd on something, and you know what happens to people when they OD. People die, Peter, and . . ." He bit his lip, searching for the words. "I just wanted things to be normal. It's a lot easier to be silly than it is to be . . . to be sad and frightened, but I am frightened, and I hate it! I . . . I just didn't want it to show."

Peter reached across the bed and laid a hand on Micky's arm. "You shouldn't be afraid to show your feelings, Mick, especially not around us. We're family. And besides, we're all feeling it. Davy's . . . I've never seen him this wound up. He was so angry earlier . . . I saw him on the beach, just hurling stones out into the ocean. And I'm feeling it too. I can't tell you how scared I was . . . how scared I still am." He smiled a bit. "But he is getting better. His fever's let up a bit."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. So don't worry, Micky. You don't have to put on any acts for us."

Micky smiled, feeling a great weight lift from his chest. "Thanks, Pete."

"No problem." Peter stood and stretched. "Listen, I think I'm gonna go for a walk on the beach. You seem like you could use some time to yourself, and I think Davy can use the company. Why don't you keep an eye on Mike?"

"Uhm . . . sure. I don't think he's gonna wake up any time soon, huh?" he half-heartedly joked, nodding his head at Mike.

"Yeah," Peter chuckled, raising his eyebrows. Then he suddenly turned serious. "But you know . . . if anything should . . . go wrong . . . do what you need to do. We'll know if you're at the, ah . . . hospital."

"Thanks, Peter. I'll take care of him." He watched as Peter walked out of the room, and listened to the front door gently close. Turning his attention back to Mike, he furrowed his brow as Mike's face twisted in an expression of . . . pain?

He began to toss his head back and forth, his mumblings getting louder and more frantic, his fists clenching at his side. "No . . . no, please . . ."

"Ah . . . Peter?" Micky called out nervously, even though he knew Peter couldn't hear. "Pete, something's going on here . . ."

"Micky . . . ?" Mike's eyes fluttered open and he fixed a glassy-eyed stare on Micky. "No . . . Micky, you're dead," he moaned. "I saw you die . . ."

"Die? No way, Mike, I'm fine, see?" Micky grasped Mike's hand in his own. "Look, see, I'm okay . . . and so are you . . ."

"No . . ." Mike shook his head, clutching Micky's hand as if it were a life preserver. "The bridge . . . mermaids . . . I'm sorry . . ."

"You're not making any sense . . . Mike, look around, man! You're sick, you're imagining things."

Mike reached up and gently cupped Micky's face in his hand. Micky had to force himself not to flinch back from the intense heat emanating from Mike's body. "You're . . . you're really here?"

"Yeah Mike, I'm okay - "

"Don't jump, please . . ."

"I won't. Look, see? I'm . . . I'm fine, no jumping."

"Mermaids - "

"There's no mermaids, man. Look, just hang on, okay? I'm gonna go get Peter - "

"No! Oh God . . ."

"What - ?"

"I can't . . . he hates me!"

"Peter doesn't hate you - "

"I yelled at him . . ."

"When? I mean . . . Mike, you've been sick." He backed away toward the door. "Just relax, okay? Don't worry - "

"The box . . ."

"Just . . . sit tight, okay?"

"Don't leave me! The box . . . !"

"What box, there's no box. Look, you're in Davy and Peter's room, man, it's not a box - "

"Don't laugh - "

"I'm not laughing - "

"Don't never laugh at no cripples."

"You're not a cripple - "

"Tell him he's not the Dummy! Tell him I'm sorry!"

"Who - ?"

"Please, Micky . . ." Mike's eyes closed again as all the strength seemed to leave his body. "Don't jump . . . don't . . . I'm sorry."

"I . . ." Micky stood there, open-mouthed and confused as Mike drifted back into unconsciousness. Then, he turned and ran.

"He was talking about mermaids," Micky babbled, bodily dragging Peter and Davy back to the pad. "And he kept saying he was sorry, and he told me not to jump - "

"But Micky, he's been saying all kinds of weird things," Davy objected, "Evah since the party - "

"But he was awake, Davy! He was looking right at me!"

"Are you sure he saw you?" Peter asked. "Maybe he didn't really know what was going on."

"No, Pete, he was talking to me, I swear it! He was really upset about something!"

They reached the pad and burst inside, heading straight for the sickroom. Mike lay there, just the way Micky had left him - very still and quiet.

"His fever's still pretty high," Peter noted, placing a hand on Mike's forehead. "Mike . . .? Mike, can you hear me?"

Mike moaned slightly, pulling away from Peter's touch. "No . . . don't . . . I'm sorry . . ."

"Sorry for what?" Peter asked him quietly, gently.

Mike's eyes opened and he fixed a tear-filled gaze on Peter. A perfectly lucid gaze. "I'm sorry, Peter."

Micky nudged Davy, his eyes going wide. "You see?!" he whispered. Davy just stared.

"Sorry for what?" Peter asked again, taking Mike's hand.

"You're not a Dummy . . . I never meant to hurt you."

"You didn't hurt me, Mike - "

"Please, Peter . . . forgive me . . ."

"I - "

"Do it Peter," Davy said quietly. "He needs to hear it. Just say you forgive him."

Peter gazed down at Mike and solemnly wiped an errant tear from his cheek. "I forgive you, Mike. It's okay."

"You're not a Dummy - "

"I know. It's alright." He hugged Mike gently, and once again took his seat by the bed. "Go to sleep Mike, everything will be okay."

"The porpoise is laughing . . ."

"It's alright, just go to sleep."

"Living is a lie."

"Oh, for cryin' out - "

Mike cut himself off with a frustrated sigh and scowled a bit as he crumpled his newspaper into a tight ball. It seemed he'd been trying to read the same sentence for the past hour and still wasn't getting anywhere.

He glared down at his shaking hands and the ink that had rubbed off onto his fingers with distaste. "Peter, where's my lunch," he snapped loudly, then cringed a bit. There was really no need to take his frustration out on Peter, was there? "That is, I mean, is the soup ready yet," he called again, this time in a much calmer voice.

"Almost," came the answer. Peter poked his head into the room and eyed the destroyed paper. "What happened in here?"

"I'm sorry, Peter, I just got upset. My hands were shakin' and I couldn't hold the paper still . . ."

Peter shook his head disaprovingly. "I would have read it to you."

"The whole paper?" Mike snorted rather rudely. "No way, man, you'd lose your voice after the third story. Besides, I don't want you readin' to me. Matter of fact, I don't want you cookin' for me, an' bringin' me stuff . . ." He crossed his arms and slouched down in the bed with a dark glower. "Of all the rotten things that could happen to a person."

"I know you're frustrated, Mike," Peter said patiently, stepping into the room and taking a seat on the edge of the bed, "But you're doing a lot better than you were. The shaking will stop soon, and then we can get back to normal."

"I know, Pete, I'm sorry. I'm just so tired of lyin' around, doin' nothin'! It's a nice day, and I can't enjoy it. It's a good newspaper, and I can't enjoy it. I can't play my guitar, I can't even make my own lunches. I feel like a . . . like a . . ."

"Like what?"

"Oh, I dunno. Forget it, Pete." Mike wrinkled his nose and sniffed at the air. "Is somethin' burnin'?"

Peter gave a start and shot out the door. "The soup!"

Mike had to chuckle at that. "Same ol' Peter."

Peter raced into the kitchen and turned off the fire under the soup, hurriedly pouring it into another pot. He took a cautious spoonful and sipped at it, noting with much relief that it hadn't burned enough to ruin the taste. He prepared a small bowl of it for Mike, then cut the ham and cheese sandwich he'd been making and placed half of it on the tray along with the soup. To finish off the meal, he poured a tall glass of milk and carefully folded a paper napkin into fourths.

Once he finished, he stood back and swept a critical eye over the meal. It would do, he decided. It might be a bit too much, but whatever Mike didn't eat, he'd just put away for later.

"Wha' you doing," Davy asked suddenly from the living room. He'd been talking on the phone to his latest girlfriend for the better part of an hour.

"Oh, just finishing up Mike's lunch. He's feeling a little better today," Peter smiled.

Davy made a discouraged face. "Yeah, if you wanna take his grumbling for a good sign." He turned his attention back to the phone. "Wot was that? Oh, we were just talking about Mike. Yeh, the one with the hat. 'E's been sick."

Peter shook his head a bit and gathered up the tray, heading toward the downstairs bedroom where Mike waited not-so-patiently for his lunch. Despite his complaints, Peter found it difficult to find fault. After all, Mike wasn't used to being so helpless. He was itching to be out of bed and on his feet again, so of course he'd be a bit irritable. It seemed he'd been biting back on his temper quite a lot since he'd been alert, too, so he was at least trying to be courtious.

Peter was halfway to Mike's door when there was a knock on the door. He stopped, tray still in hand, momentarily frozen by indecision.

"I got it," Davy offered. "Could you please hang on again, Luv? There's someone at the door."

"Thanks," Peter gratefully sighed, and continued on his way.

Davy stood and stretched, then headed to the door and threw it open, the friendly greeting dying on his lips as his eyes lit upon . . .

"Jeanie," he growled, all humor vanquishing into hatred. "What the hell are you doin' 'ere?"

In the bedroom, Mike and Peter's eyes met for a split second, and then Peter was out the door like a shot. "Jeanie! And Sam! Hi, umm . . . what are you doing here?"

Davy was clutching the doorknob so hard that his knuckles had turned white. His entire body was tensed in anger, and he glared up at the two visitors with such malice that even Peter had to suppress a shudder. Jeanie was wide-eyed, her own gaze holding only naked fear. Sam gulped and stepped behind his girlfriend, his hand flying up to cover his throat . . . where he still wore faint marks from Davy's fingers.

"We . . ." Jeanie lifted her eyes to Peter's, her tongue flicking out to wet dry lips as she spoke. "We . . . we wanted to see how . . . how Mike's doing," she answered in a weak and trembling voice.

Davy's grip tightened on the doorknob as he glared harder at them. "'Ow dare you come'ere? You nearly killed him, and now you want - "

"Davy," Peter interrupted quietly, "Why don't you go see what Micky's up to?"

"But Peter, they - "

"I think I heard him calling you."

Davy opened his mouth as if to protest again, but Peter shook his head, his gaze steady. "Please?"

Davy shut his mouth with a snap and whirled around, stomping out of the pad and slamming the back door with such force that the walls rattled. Peter flinched and shrugged apologetically at Jeanie and Sam. "Wait there, okay?"

He picked up the phone and informed Davy's latest that something had come up and Davy would call her back later. Then, he stepped carefully into Mike's room. "Umm . . . Mike?"

Mike looked around at him, his face unreadable. "What do they want?"

"To see you. Are you up to it?"

Mike stared down into his soup bowl, his fingers tightening on his spoon. "Davy was pretty upset . . ."

"He was scared, Mike, of losing you. It's a lot easier for him to be angry."

Mike gave a deep sigh and carefully set the tray on the bedside table. "Send 'em in."

Peter nodded and stepped back outside, facing the two who still cowered in the living room. "He's there," he told them, motioning to the open door. "Go on in."

Mike looked up at them as they entered, and Jeanie bit back a gasp of shock. He really did look bad. He was even thinner than usual, and pale. Dark circles surrounded his eyes, and his hands, folded on the sheets in front of him, held a visible tremor.

She gulped as she stepped inside, then sat down in the chair a few feet away from the bed. She could feel Sam's presence behind her, and she took strength from his support. As if sensing her nervousness, Sam placed both of his hands on her shoulders and squeezed reassuringly. She cleared her throat and spoke.

"Um . . . hi, Mike."

"Hello." His voice was raspy and soft, but his eyes were as sharp and steady as ever. "What brings you here?"

"Well . . ." She looked away, unable to hold his smoldering gaze. "I was worried, you know . . ."

"That so?"

"Davy told us you were . . . sick."

"Uh-huh."

He was still staring at her, she could feel it. Her neck began to heat up.

"Look, Mike . . ." She forced herself to look at him, to face what she'd done. "I'm sorry." She swallowed hard again, and shifted in her chair. "I didn't mean for you to get hurt, honest! I was high, and . . . well, that's no excuse, but . . . I just want you to know why."

Mike was silent for a moment, but then he nodded and motioned for her to continue. "Alright."

"You see . . . you're always so serious, Mike. Micky and the others, they know how to have fun, but whever I saw you at a party, you'd just sit there, watching everybody. I never once saw you get up and dance, or anything. I just wanted you to have fun, that's all. I was thinking . . . what it would be like if you got high. I thought maybe if I gave you . . . a boost . . . you might loosen up a bit, so I got some of the stuff and I put it in your Coke. I never would have done it if I'd been sober . . . but I wasn't sober, and I thought it would be such a hoot. I'm sorry, Mike . . . I really am."

Mike didn't respond. He dropped his gaze down to his hands and just sat there, completely still. Jeanie shot a concerned glance back at Sam, but he could only shrug his own confusion. Finally, Mike looked back up at her, his eyes red-rimmed.

"Was it worth it?"

She gasped out loud at that, feeling the heat once again rise to her cheeks. "God, no! Mike . . . I swear, I didn't know this would happen! Davy's right to hate me, I nearly killed you, but I didn't mean to! Look at me, I'm sober. I'm sober now, and I plan to be for a long time. I haven't touched the stuff since Davy told us . . . it's not worth it, now or ever."

He was silent again for a moment, but then a tiny smile creased his face. "Good."

"Are we forgiven?" Sam asked suddenly, hopefully.

Mike thought about that for a moment. "I guess so . . . by me, that is. Davy, on the other hand . . ."

Sam shuddered involuntarily.

"We'll stay out of his way," Jeanie promised, climbing to her feet. On impulse, she ran to Mike and grabbed him in a hug, painfully aware of the feel of his ribs beneath his shirt. "I'm so glad you're alright."

"Me too," he responded, hugging her back. "Now get out of here, I'm hungry."