Ezra returned to the hospital at 8:30 p.m., having endured all he could of a truly horrendous production of "Carmen." To his surprise, though, he found no one sitting with Vin. He’d thought Josiah was supposed to be here, and knew without a doubt Chris would be. And while it was conceivable that one or the other might have stepped out for a few minutes, he could not imagine anything that would take them both away from Vin’s bedside at the same time. Alarmed, he quickly left the room and grabbed the nearest nurse, and was directed to the waiting area.

He stopped short at the sight of an obviously distraught Larabee hunched over in a chair, his head in his hands, while Josiah, with a large hand on his back, seemed to be comforting him. For long moments he simply stood there and stared, shocked at his teammates’ appearances. They looked like they’d been through the wringer. Twice.

He felt more than saw Dr. Stone at his side. "Good Lord, what happened here?" he asked softly, his jade gaze never leaving Larabee.

She sighed and ran a hand through her short dark hair. "Vin had another delusional episode," she explained quietly. "And this time Chris wasn’t able to quiet him. He got violent, didn’t recognize Chris … We had to sedate him." As Ezra winced, she added, "But I think the hardest part for Chris was hearing Vin screaming for him, never knowing it was Chris holding him."

"Merciful God," Ezra breathed, bowing his head and closing his eyes. Knowing the depth of the friendship between the two, he could easily imagine how that must have hurt Larabee.

"He needs to go home," she said firmly, staring up at Standish. "He’s exhausted and on edge, and that’s not helping Vin." Her dark eyes shone with determination. "I don’t care how you do it, but I expect you and the others to get him out of here. If I thought there was any chance of it happening, I’d say I don’t want him back until tomorrow afternoon. Don’t worry," she added quickly, raising a hand to forestall Standish’s inevitable protest, "I know better than that. I’ll settle for 10 a.m. But if I see him back before then, I’ll have him banned from this floor for twenty-four hours. Do you understand?"

Ezra swallowed uneasily, his gaze returning to his boss. "If I give you my gun, will you shoot me?" he asked softly. "It’s bound to be less painful than deliverin’ your ultimatum will prove."

7~7~7~7

"She said what?" Chris snarled, rounding furiously on Ezra and impaling the man with his burning green glare. Predictably, his helplessness and frustration found their outlet in anger.

Standish merely sat back in his chair and toyed idly with a cufflink, his face as unreadable as ever. Dr. Stone had allowed them use of the doctors’ lounge – probably to avoid bloodshed in the corridor – and Ezra had called for backup. He knew he could count on Josiah’s support, but the big man was in little better condition than Larabee, having already spent much of the day here. He would need fresh strength to pry Chris away from Vin’s side, and someone who would not balk at doing it. So he had called in Nathan, knowing the man could be as unyielding as stone where the health of even one, much less two, of his friends was concerned.

Maude Standish’s darlin’ baby boy was not at all above stacking a deck when he felt his best interests – or physical well-being – were at stake.

"She said, and I quote, ‘If I thought there were any chance of it happening–’"

"All right, all right, I heard the first time!" Chris growled, resuming his pacing about the lounge. "Who the hell does she think she is–"

"Vin’s doctor, for one," Nathan said calmly, "and the chief of trauma, for another. Sorta gives her the same authority bein’ supervising agent in charge gives you. And," he raised his dark gaze to his boss, "she is right, Chris. You’re drivin’ yourself to a collapse, and that’s not helpin’ Vin. As close as you two are, you pick up on everything each other is feelin’. And he just isn’t strong enough to deal with everything you’re feelin’ right now! You’re tired, you’re scared, you’re frustrated, you’re angry … You think he ain’t got enough of those things in himself that he has to feel ’em comin’ from you, too?"

"And just how the hell am I supposed to feel, Nathan?" Chris ground out through clenched teeth. "How the hell am I supposed to look at him, to see what those bastards did to him, and not feel those things? Goddamn it, that’s Vin in that bed–"

"I know that," Jackson said quietly, firmly, his gaze never leaving Chris. "We all know that. And we all feel the same way. You think any of us can look at him and not hurt for him? Not wonder what we could’ve done different to help him? Hell, I wish I had a dollar for every time one of us has gone through the ‘if only’ routine! I’d be takin’ Rain ta one’a them fancy restaurants Ezra’s always talkin’ about instead of Rudy’s Rack-o’-Ribs! But at least the rest of us’ve got the sense to keep that shit away from Vin, because we know he don’t need it!"

"Good Lord," Ezra drawled in horror, fixing a stricken gaze upon Nathan, "you don’t actually take that delicate and delightful young woman to Rudy’s? And here I thought you loved her!"

Jackson shot a glare at Standish, then softened as he read the true intent behind the Southerner’s words. "She likes the sauce," he answered, smiling slightly as he released his anger. "Rain appreciates a little spice in her life." He narrowed his eyes suddenly. "And just how would you know about Rudy’s, anyway?"

Ezra lifted one chestnut eyebrow. "I read the monthly health inspection reports in the paper," he quipped lightly. "If you must frequent that establishment, you’d do well to avoid the salad bar. I hear one inspector required extensive counseling after his experience there."

Nathan grinned. and nodded. "I’ll keep that in mind."

"Can we please get back to Vin?" Chris grated.

"We can," Nathan answered coolly. "You can’t. You’re leavin’, remember?"

Fury burned in Chris’s eyes. "He needs me–"

"Yes, he does," Ezra agreed, sitting back and raising his gaze to Larabee’s taut face. "But not like this." For once, there was no distance, no pretense of cool indifference in his manner. Instead, there was the very real, and very obvious, concern for a friend. For two friends. "Take a long, hard look at yourself, Chris, and tell us just what good you are to Vin in your current state. How in the name of God do you expect to help him through his fear when you can’t even get past your own?"

The words hit hard, exactly as Ezra had intended, and stripped Chris of his anger, and his strength. A harsh, heavy gasp escaped him and his whole body sagged. Feeling now the full weight of his exhaustion, he dropped into the nearest chair and buried his head in his hands.

"We’re not sayin’ you can’t be with him, Chris," Nathan said gently. "Hell, we know as well as anybody that, of us all, it’s you Vin needs the most. You’re the one he calls for, you’re the one he reaches for. It’s your voice he needs ta hear tellin’ him he’s safe, that everything’s all right. But to take care of him, you have ta take care of yourself first. Because what he needs most from you is strength. An, right now you just don’t have any ta give him."

Chris sighed heavily and raised his head. "I know," he breathed, his eyes bleak. "You’re right, Nate, I’m not helpin’ him like this." He grimaced and ran a shaking hand through his hair. "I guess this last episode proved that, didn’t it?"

"It wasn’t your fault, Chris," Josiah said quietly. "You–"

"It was my fault, Josiah!" he insisted. "I’m the one who grabbed him, who started shakin’ him, yellin’ at him …" He winced and turned anguished eyes upon Nathan. "I just … wanted him to come back!" he said harshly, appalled at what he’d done. "But I scared him … he thought I was one of them … Jesus, he was callin’ for me!" he whispered strickenly. "I was right there, and he was screamin’ my name, beggin’ for me to come–" His voice broke, and he could not go on.

Nathan rose to his feet and went to him, laying a strong, dark hand on his bowed shoulder and squeezing comfortingly. "It wasn’t your fault, Chris," he said quietly. "Only ones to blame here are the bastards who did this to Vin. But we’ve gotta be patient with him, give him the time he needs for healin’. We can’t force him back, no matter how much we want to. Right now, between his head injury, his fever and the sheer trauma from what he’s suffered, he doesn’t know where he is or what’s goin’ on. Won’t know until his mind clears up. And there’s not a drug or a machine in the world that can do that for him. I wish ta God there was, but there just isn’t. Only thing that can do that now is time. He’s got ta have time ta heal, and we’ve got ta give him that time." He fixed dark, sorrowful eyes on Larabee. "As much as we’d like to, we can’t take this from him. It’s somethin’ he’s gonna have ta fight through himself."

Chris closed his eyes and hung his head. "With what?" he asked softly, bitterly. "What the hell’s he supposed to fight with, Nathan? You’ve seen him! He just hasn’t got anything left!"

"He has the same spirit he’s had all his life," Josiah said quietly, reaching out to lay a strong but infinitely gentle hand on Chris’s other shoulder. "The same spirit that’s gotten him through every other time he’s faced impossible odds. And," he swept wise blue eyes over the men gathered about the table, "he’s got us. And that’s a helluva lot, in my book."

"It had better be," Chris whispered hoarsely, "because I don’t know how much more he can take. It took all he had just to survive those three days, Josiah. He’s got nothin’ left now. Those bastards took it all away."

Ezra saw the pain, the fear, in Chris’s gaunt, exhaustion-lined face and knew he could not take much more, either. The legendary Larabee endurance was at its end, the steel at his core gone. The man was unraveling before their eyes.

"Chris," he called quietly, the earnest entreaty in his voice immediately bringing Larabee’s gaze to him, "you have to leave. Vin needs you, but not like this. Let me take you to my townhouse. I can provide a fine meal and a decent bed, rather than that torture device that will surely cripple you if you spend one more night in its cruel confines."

The protest escaped him before he could stop it. "But Vin–"

"Is sleeping," Ezra cut in firmly, dispensing with his boss’s objection. "He’s been sedated. And if I thought we would survive the attempt, I would ask Dr. Stone to do the same to you. However, I do have at home several fine liquid sedatives which, if needed, will serve the purpose more than adequately. Your body needs a break, Chris, and your mind needs a break. And you need time and distance to manage your own emotions before you can possibly hope to deal with Vin’s." His jade gaze bored into Larabee, willing him to understand. "Or would you rather neglect yourself and risk doing even more harm to Vin simply because you can no longer control yourself?"

Chris swallowed hard. He knew they were right, knew it with every bit of intellect he possessed. In his heart, however, he remembered Vin calling for him, reaching for him …

"If he wakes up, finds himself alone–"

"He won’t be alone," Nathan assured him. "Buck’s comin’ later tonight, and I’ll stay until he gets here. You’re not in this alone, Chris, and you’re not the only one who can help Vin. You’re the best one, I’ll grant you, but you’re not the only one. He’s our friend, too, and we want ta help. We need ta help. And you need ta let us."

Chris stared at Nathan for long moments, forcing himself to see the reason in the medic’s arguments. When at last he did so, he gave a single, terse nod of acquiescence.

Ezra exhaled softly in relief. "Well then, I believe we have a plan. I shall take charge of Mr. Larabee, see that he is showered and fed and then, in the ever so eloquent words of Mr. Tanner, ‘chunk his sorry ass inta bed.’ And I shall endeavor to prevent him from setting foot in these hallowed halls of healing until at least ten in the morning."

Chris glared at the undercover agent. "You can’t–"

"To appropriate yet another of Mr. Tanner’s quaint Texas colloquialisms," Ezra said with a slight smile, "hide and watch."

Chris glowered menacingly at Standish, but chuckles sounded around the table, and he knew he was beaten. "All right," he grated, "10 a.m. But not a minute later. Is that understood?"

All at the table nodded resignedly. It was, they knew from long experience, the most they could hope for.

7~7~7~7

To the relief of everyone concerned, the rest of the evening passed without incident. The sedative kept Vin quiet, seemed even to subdue his nightmares. Though they still plagued him, he only tossed weakly instead of thrashing, and the cries of earlier had been reduced to faint, breathless murmurs. Still, it hurt his friends to see even this slight evidence of his torment.

Josiah, though tired to his bones, could not bring himself to leave Vin, was held in place by his need to help the soul in torment. He used his voice to soothe the younger man’s agitation, keeping it soft and pitching it low, infusing it with a wondrous resonance. Like the deep rumble of summer thunder it rose from his chest and rolled through Vin’s battered mind, reaching him even through the roiling chaos of pain and fear, silencing the harsh voices screaming in his head and lifting him far above the cruel, abusive hands. Josiah talked until he saw the young man grow still and relaxed, until he saw peace mirrored in that bruised face, all the while relating every story he’d ever known in that smooth and sonorous baritone.

Nathan lacked Josiah’s magical voice, but possessed soothing and healing in his touch. Hands that were incredibly strong and incredibly gentle held the younger, smaller man when he struggled, then stroked and bathed him back into restfulness. When Vin reached feverishly for something or someone to hold, Nathan’s hand was always there, the generous medic providing an unfailing lifeline for the man mired in the darkness that held him fast.

The two men sat their vigil in the small room, weaving their healing spell with voice and touch, while under their watchful eyes their wounded friend finally slept in the peace he so deserved.

7~7~7~7

Buck came in a little before 11 p.m., and sent Nathan home to be with Rain, who would be leaving town Monday on an extensive business trip. Josiah was on a search for coffee, and Buck assured Nathan he’d make Sanchez leave if he had to call hospital security to do it. When Nathan left, Buck settled himself in the chair and pulled out his latest copy of Men’s Health magazine, studying the tips on how to increase male endurance.

Josiah appeared about ten minutes later and talked with Buck about Chris. Both men knew what this was doing to Larabee, knew how his helplessness in the face of Vin’s suffering was tearing at his soul, and were deeply worried about how he would be affected if Vin didn't pull out of it soon. Normally, the task of caging and taming Larabee’s demons fell to Tanner, and the Texan, in his quiet, unassuming way, managed somehow to exert a powerful calming influence upon the volatile older man. Now, though, with Vin under assault from his own demons, that task would fall to Buck, Chris’s oldest friend and the one who had seen him through so many dark times already.

The two big men stood together near the door, their voices rising and falling in the heavy silence, their powerful frames casting massive shadows in the eerie half-light of the small room.

And neither of them saw the blue gaze fixed in terror upon them.

7~7~7~7

The preacher.

Had ta be him. Didn’t nobody else have a voice like that, that great, ground-shaking voice that rumbled and boomed like thunder, pealing the promises of salvation but bringing only damnation.

Jesus, what did he want?

Couldn’t be anything good; never was with him. Maybe his hand wasn’t as heavy as the bastard’s, but he’d been known to raise it nonetheless. And even when he didn’t, his tongue could prove every bit as hurtful.

Oh, shit, what’s he sayin’? I cain’t understand what he’s sayin’!

There’d be questions; there were always questions when the Preacher came, questions they were supposed to answer. What had they learned in school that day? What had they learned in Bible study that evening? What had the Scripture passage been and what did it mean?

But I don’t know! I cain’t remember … Jesus, why cain’t I remember? Preacher’s gonna ask, he always asks, an’ I won’t know … Jesus, sweet Jesus, why cain’t I remember?

7~7~7~7

Buck bowed his head and ran a big hand over his face as he listened to Josiah. Chris was burying himself under a load of guilt again, whipping himself raw for one mistake. And Buck knew he’d have to step in before it got any worse.

"I’ll talk to him tomorrow," he said quietly. "We’re gonna have ta stop him from killin’ himself from exhaustion, make sure he doesn’t pull any more double and triple shifts here." He smiled wryly. "May have ta hogtie him, and one or more of us may get shot, but we’re gonna have ta take him in hand."

Josiah chuckled quietly. "Kinda makes you appreciate Vin a little more, doesn’t it?" He shook his graying head slowly. "Why that boy doesn’t have holes in him from ‘the Larabee glare’ I’ll never know. But he just sticks his thumbs in his belt, cocks his head and grins. And the harder Chris glares, the wider Vin grins. Then shakes his head and walks away. Never seen anything like it!"

"You never saw Sarah," Buck said softly, his smile turning wistful. "She’d just smile and shake her head, and poor Chris was dead in the water. She had that same quiet knack with him Vin’s got. Or maybe Vin’s got her knack, I don’t know. All I know is, I’ve seen two people in my life who can put Chris Larabee at peace with himself and the world. One’s dead, God rest her soul. And I ain’t about ta see him lose the other."

"From your mouth to God’s ears," Josiah said softly, fervently.

Buck shook his head. "Nope, gettin’ God’s ear is your job, preacher. Gettin’ Chris’s ear is mine. Now, you go on home, get some sleep. I’m here ta babysit Junior, not you."

Josiah smiled and reached out, clapping a strong hand to the younger man’s arm. "You’ve surely got a way with words, Brother Buck. Must be why the ladies all love you."

Buck winked. "Oh, there’s lots of reasons for that, brother. And if you’re real good, maybe I’ll share some of ’em with you. Now, git, before I call security and things turn ugly."

"I’m goin’," Josiah said. "I know how you hate ugly."

7~7~7~7

Buck stood at the foot of Vin’s bed and stretched, pressing his hands to the small of his back and trying to work out the kinks there. That damned chair played hell with a man of his size. He’d fallen asleep in it after his latest wrestling bout with Vin and had awakened to find painful knots in muscles he didn’t know he had. To make it worse, he’d somehow managed to twist and press the gun in his shoulder holster so deeply into his side he was sure he’d have a bruise.

Shoulda just left the damn thing at home …

He shrugged tiredly out of the rig and hung it over the back of the hated chair, then resumed his restless pacing about the room.

Damn, he wished they’d move Vin to a bigger one! Wasn’t enough room here for a man to stretch his legs. No wonder Tanner hated such tight places; he was starting to feel caged himself.

He glanced at his watch, then at the clock as if to make certain. Shit, only five o’clock. Chris wouldn’t be here for another five hours. And he could sure use some coffee.

He turned and looked at Vin. The young agent was still, quiet, likely exhausted after their latest tussle. Not that he’d really put up much of a struggle. Buck sighed and shook his head, deeply saddened by the sight before him. This frightened, fragile, broken creature wasn’t the Vin Tanner he knew. The Tanner he knew was quiet, even shy, but he’d whip your ass in a minute and make it look easy, wearing that lopsided, shit-eating grin the whole time. Either that, or he’d just shoot your ass and then go back to what he’d been doing before you pissed him off.

Buck missed that Vin Tanner deeply and wanted him back so much it hurt.

"Come on, son," he called softly, wandering back to bed and leaning over Vin, taking the still hand in his bigger one. "Come on back for ol’ Buck now. You’ve been like this too long. You’ve got t' wake up, get past them shadows in your head and get back to the folks that miss ya. It’s just too quiet without ya."

He snorted wryly at that. Quiet without Vin; without the quietest man he’d ever known, the man who excelled at one-word sentences, the only man alive who talked less than Chris Larabee. How the hell could a place be quieter without Vin than it was with him?

Because it wasn’t his voice they were missing. What they missed most, he realized, was the man’s mere presence. That deep, silent serenity that was Tanner’s alone, the center of calm in the bedlam about him, the unfailing stability that more than once had brought a more volatile teammate back from the edge of one precipice or another.

The sanity that more than once had saved that of his best friend, of Buck’s oldest friend …

Tears filled the big man’s eyes and reached out, gently brushing trembling fingers through Tanner’s lank, tangled hair. "Come on, Junior," he called softly, his voice full, "you’ve just gotta come back!"

As ever there was no response, and Buck bowed his head and closed his eyes, his broad shoulders slumping. He squeezed Vin’s hand, then let it go and straightened. In dire need of coffee, he walked slowly out of the room and into the hall beyond, tired to his soul.

7~7~7~7

Quiet. No more voices. Nothing.

Afraid of what he’d find, he opened his eyes, his eye – What’s the bastard done t' my eye? – and tried to look around without moving, without drawing attention to himself. But only darkness greeted him, and he froze as the familiar terror seized him.

Bastard was here, he knew he was here, had heard his voice. But he couldn’t see him in the dark. And if he couldn’t see him, he wouldn’t know what was coming … Before he could stop it, the panicked cry escaped him. But he quickly bit down hard on his lip to silence it and tasted the blood that flowed into his mouth.

Still biting his lip, little caring about the blood or the pain, used to both by now, he curled onto his side and huddled beneath the covers, trying desperately to hear something, anything, that would warn him of the danger lurking in the dark. But he heard nothing, which only increased his terror.

He tried to remember why the bastard would be waiting, tried to remember what he’d done wrong this time. And all at once it came back to him. The preacher! He’d heard him, seen him, seen the two of ’em together … That had to be why he hurt so. Bastard had asked, and he hadn’t known …

And now he’d be coming back to finish what he’d started …

"No!" With a harsh, anguished cry he struggled to sit up, forcing his hurting body to move against its will. He managed to raise himself upright, but nearly fell forward as pain and dizziness crashed through him in heavy waves. Stubbornly he fought against them, made desperate by fear.

His head throbbed mercilessly and every breath sent shards of pain stabbing through his chest. He tried to raise a hand to his chest but couldn’t. It was caught, and he could feel something wound around it–

The panic surged cold and hard as he tried to move his arms again. Tied! Jesus, he tied me up!

He felt the bonds then, tangled about his arms, snaking over his chest, and another cry escaped him. Shaking violently, gasping harshly, painfully for breath and hurting terribly in every part of his body, he fought and clawed frantically against the bonds, but only tangled himself more in them.

Terrified, he ripped at the bonds. But they pulled at his skin, causing him more pain, and another cry escaped him. Then, to his horror, he heard the voice, and knew the bastard was coming back.

NO! No more! Not again! He knew he couldn’t take anymore. Not after what’d been done to him already. He had to fight …

And then he remembered. His only hope. His only salvation. If he could just get to it …

He gave one last rip at the bonds and felt them tear free, felt the pain of that tearing but didn’t care. He had to get to it, had to save himself, had to stop the pain …

"Oh, God!"

The anguished howl escaped him as he forced himself out of the bed, as his battered body refused to take any more abuse and collapsed, throwing him against a chair before dropping him to the floor.

Pain flooded him in hot waves, tearing sobs from him, and he curled into himself, racked by that ceaseless agony. Through his own cries, though, he heard the voice again, nearer now, saw a shadow looming through the darkness, and reached wildly in terror for something with which to protect himself.

He swept his arm out again, hit the overturned chair and hissed in pain as his hand collided with something hard. Then, reflexively, he grabbed at whatever he had hit …

And felt the gun in his hand.

His cry of pain and terror turned into a growl of rage as he closed his fingers about the gun, forced himself to sit up, and raised the weapon, his salvation, to the big man bearing down upon him.

"Git back!" he snarled, aiming the gun as best he could with his badly blurred vision. "Git back, or I’ll kill ya!"

7~7~7~7

Buck smiled at the pretty young nurse as she handed him a fresh cup of coffee. "Now, you truly are an angel of mercy!" he purred, his blue eyes alight. "You may just have saved ol’ Buck’s life!" He glanced at her name plate. "Leslie, is it? You know, I’ve always liked that name. I–"

"My husband likes it, too," she cut in with a smile, having been warned all about the handsome and charming rogue.

He stared at her a moment, then cleared his throat. "Husband?"

She nodded. "Yep. In fact, you might know him." Blue eyes danced with wickedness. "Officer John Peyton of the Denver PD?" She glanced at her watch. "He should be here in about twenty minutes, if you’d like to meet him. He usually comes by before he starts his shift, so we can have breakfast together."

"Ah." He cleared his throat again. "Well, that’d be right nice. I … Denver PD, you say?" She nodded, and he smiled weakly. "Fine bunch they are, too. Gotta respect the boys in blue–" He broke off as he heard the sharp cry from the room behind him. "Shit, Vin, not again!" He handed the cup back to her. "Can’t leave that boy alone for a minute! ’Scuse me, darlin’." He bobbed his head, then turned and hurried back to his partner. "I’m comin’, Junior!" he called. "Don’t start the nightmare without me!"

Leslie dropped the full cup into the nearest trash can and hurried after Wilmington, as familiar as every other floor nurse with her patient’s nightmares. They were growing increasingly violent, and though he had not truly hurt himself yet, she knew the danger was always there.

Just as she and Buck entered the room, a loud crash sounded, followed by another scream, and the two stopped in their tracks in horrified surprise. Tanner was out of bed, had climbed or fallen, and lay huddled on the floor, sobbing.

"Jesus, Vin!" Buck shouted in terror, his heart slamming into his ribs. "Leslie, get some damn light in here! Shit, son, what the hell’re ya tryin’ ta do?" When he could move again, he rushed forward and reached for the younger man, to get him back into bed. "Vin! Goddamn it, boy, just what the hell–"

But he released Vin and stepped back in absolute horror as Tanner rolled over and pointed a gun – his gun – at him.

"Git back!" Vin snarled, holding the gun with a terrifying steadiness. "Git back, or I’ll kill ya!"

Buck lifted his hands shoulder high and slowly moved backward, his gaze riveted to his gun. He had never been a coward, had faced armed men without panic countless times before. But right now he was downright terrified. Because, half-dead as he was, that was still Vin Tanner holding that gun, and it was as deadly a sight as Buck had ever seen.

"Easy, son," he soothed, wincing at the quiver in his voice. "You just relax now, take it easy. You don’t wanta do anything you’re gonna regret later."

Vin stared at the big man, confused, frightened and in pain. He could see better – the light helped – but still couldn’t see clearly, couldn’t think clearly. And the terrible pain in his head reduced every sound to a senseless, hurtful buzzing.

"Shut up!" he rasped weakly. "Jist shut up! I ain’t … I ain’t gonna letcha … hurt me no more …" He winced and licked his lips, then unwound one hand from the gun and pressed it to his chest as the pain there grew steadily worse. "I done took … all I c’n take from ya. I ain’t … gonna letcha beat on me … no more."

Buck stared at the younger man for long, long moments, willing his fear to recede, knowing he had to stay calm. Vin was, he realized, literally scared out of his mind, had absolutely no idea where he was or who Buck was, and thought he was fighting for his life. But whatever else was going on – or not going on – in his mind, he was still Vin Tanner and he still held a gun. And Buck was willing to bet that whatever else had gone out of Tanner’s head, the knowledge of how to use that gun had not.

And then there was Leslie to worry about. He knew the nurse was still in the room, knew she was right behind him. What he didn’t know, however, was whether Vin saw her, whether her presence had registered in his mind, whether he considered her a threat. As he obviously did Wilmington. Buck couldn’t – wouldn’t – risk doing anything that might bring harm to her.

Most of all, however, he was frightened for Vin; the young agent was in bad shape. He had pulled out every IV they had stuck into him, including the central line inserted under his collarbone to deliver fluids into the main vessel going to his heart. It had been stitched into place, and a widening bloodstain at the throat of his hospital gown marked where he had torn it loose. Buck could see other crimson stains spreading across Vin’s chest and sides, and knew more than a few of the knife wounds had been pulled open as well.

"Don’t do this, Vin," he urged quietly, his gaze never leaving Tanner’s face. "You’re hurt, you need help. Why don’tcha just put the gun down and let us help you? We can make your hurtin’ stop."

Vin groaned and raised a shaking hand to his head as the pounding there increased. Jesus, he was so tired! And he hurt so; hurt somethin’ fierce. Would be nice not ta hurt no more–

"No!" he cried hoarsely. "No, you’re lyin’!" He stared at the big man before him, knowing all too well how quickly, and how brutally, the bastard’s strength could be turned upon him. "Y' don’t care … ’bout helpin’ me," he rasped. "Y' never have. All’s ya do … is hurt me … But y’ain’t hurtin’ me no more!"

Buck winced deeply at the words and slowly lowered his hands, gazing sadly at the battered and bleeding young man before him. "I wouldn’t ever hurt you, Vin," he said gently. "But I’d sure as hell like ta get my hands on whoever did!"

Vin didn’t understand the words, only barely heard them. His head and heart were pounding fiercely, and just breathing was sheer agony. Feeling himself weakening, he pushed himself back against the wall, needing its strength and support. He rested his badly aching head against it, exhausted. But he never lowered the gun.

Leslie was watching him intently, trying to determine how badly he had re-injured himself. His bleeding worried her; while not heavy, it was steady, and he couldn’t afford the loss. His breathing was clearly labored, and she suspected his fall had further damaged his broken ribs.

Maybe even driven one into his lung …

She started toward him, but Buck reached out and grabbed her, stopping her short. "Don’t," he said tersely, holding her firmly. "We don’t wanta do anything that’s gonna startle him or make him feel more threatened than he already does, okay?"

"But he’s hurt–"

"Yes, ma’am, he is," he agreed softly, "and probably in more ways than we know. But as long as he’s got that gun, there ain’t a blessed thing we can do to help him. You understand?" When she nodded, he smiled at her. "Good. Now let’s see if we can’t do somethin’ about that gun." He turned back to Tanner. "Vin," he called quietly, "son, you ain’t lookin’ too good right now. Why don’t ya put that gun down, let me help ya? You’re all torn up–"

"Shut up!" Vin spat. "Jist shut up!" God, why wouldn’t the voices quit screamin’ in his head? Why couldn’t he see better? "I know what you’re tryin’ ta do! I ain’t as stupid as ya think. But I ain’t gonna letcha beat on me no more. I’m tired of it, tired’a hurtin’." He licked his bleeding lips and winced at the pain. "I don’t wanta hurt no more!"

The soft, pained rasp tore at Buck’s heart and brought tears to his eyes. "I know ya don’t, son!" he said quietly. "And I don’t wanta see ya hurt no more. But this … this ain’t the way ta solve anything, Vin, you know that. That gun will only cause a whole new world of troubles for ya."

He swallowed hard. "’S all I got," he croaked defiantly. "I know ain’t nobody comin’ ta help me. Nobody ever comes! ’Cause there ain’t nobody who cares. Ain’t nobody who gives a shit what happens to a stupid bastard like me!"

The words broke Buck’s heart. What Vin was going through right now had nothing to do with Castro or Monroe, he knew with a hideous certainty. The young man was caught in some other hell, some other part of his past when some other bastard had beaten him.

Sweet Jesus, how often had it happened?

"That’s not true, Vin," Buck insisted softly. "You got all kindsa folks who care about ya, and I’m one of ’em. I’m real worried about ya, son. You’re hurt pretty bad, and you need help. Why won’t you let us help you?"

Vin closed his eyes briefly, growing more confused by the moment. That voice was so gentle, so soothing, nothing at all like the harsh, hateful one he remembered. The one he kept hearing. But he’d heard him talking to the preacher, had seen them together …

Jesus, his head hurt!

"Buck?" Leslie called softly, struck by a sudden thought. "Earlier, I wasn’t lying. My husband is a cop, and he is coming. He should be here soon."

"Shit." He closed his eyes and bowed his head. That’s all they needed. A cop walking in to see his wife being held at gunpoint by a delusional patient. God, what else could happen?

"Hey, Buck?"

He actually thought he’d throw up at the sound of JD’s voice. Then, in a flash, thought returned. "JD, don’t come in here!" he said as loudly as he dared and as firmly as he could. "D’you hear me, kid? Do not come in this room!"

The young agent stopped short in the doorway, held in place by the tone of Buck’s voice. Instinct screamed at him that something was terribly wrong, and he obeyed it, and Buck, without hesitation. "What is it?" he asked quietly, his gaze flying to Wilmington. He could see the big man, could see the nurse, and noticed the room was much brighter than it should be at this hour. Beyond Buck, he could see the bed, but no sign of anyone in it. "Where’s Vin?" he asked softly, a note of fear creeping into his voice.

Buck never looked away from Tanner’s huddled, bleeding figure. "He’s here, kid. Sittin’ down on the floor, lookin’ right at me. And just what the hell are you doin’ here at this hour, anyway?" he demanded suddenly. "Thought you and Casey had a date last night … Goddamn it, boy, if you’re just now gettin’ that girl home–"

"Jeez, Buck, settle down!" JD snapped in irritation. "I got Casey home about midnight …" Color flooded his cheeks. "Then I sorta fell asleep on her couch," he muttered in a low voice. "Figgered I’d just stop in and see Vin on the way home … So what’s wrong, Buck?" he asked, his fear returning. "Why won’tcha let me in the room?"

"Because the fewer people we got in here, the better," Wilmington answered evenly. "I need ya ta do a few things for me, okay, son?"

JD swallowed hard and shivered, noting the strange, forced calmness of Buck’s voice, the way the man never moved, never looked around. "Y … yeah, sure, Buck," he answered nervously. "Like what?"

"First of all, you gotta stay calm. We got us somethin’ of a situation here, and it’s got ‘ugly’ written all over it."

"Wh … whatta ya mean? What kinda situation?"

Buck allowed himself a slight, wry smile. "How ’bout one where the patient is armed?"

"Oh, shit, no!" JD yelped in shock, his hazel eyes going impossibly wide. "How the hell did he get a gun, and who’s he got it on?"

Buck experienced a sudden twinge of embarrassment. "Well, kid, y’see … he, uh, he sorta took mine, and now I’m starin’ right down the barrel. Never noticed how big the damned thing is until now!"

JD took a step forward without thinking. "He’s got a gun on you? But why–"

"Get back!" Buck growled fiercely, sending the young agent jumping back. "He’s scared, JD." He lowered his voice back to is former quiet, soothing pitch. "He doesn’t know where he is or who we are. Thinks I’m tryin’ ta hurt him, thinks I’m some bastard who used to beat the shit out of him … He’s only tryin’ ta protect himself."

JD went white, well aware of how good Vin was at protecting himself. "Buck–"

"It’s all right, kid," Wilmington assured him, his voice taking on the gentle tone JD knew so well. "It’ll be all right, so long as you do what I say. You with me?"

JD swallowed and nodded, forcing himself to be calm and think. "You know it."

"All right, here’s what I want you to do. First of all," he winced, hating this but knowing he had no choice, "we have to alert security. Get folks away from this room. But tell ’em Vin’s one of our agents and that we’ll handle this, all right? I don’t want some goddamned sniper hidin’ behind the nurses station waitin’ to take him out. You hear me?"

"I hear ya."

"Good. Second thing, or, hell, maybe we’d better make it first … Call Ezra’s place, get Chris over here now. Got that? Chris is at Ezra’s. I figure if anybody can get to Vin, Chris can. Then get Dr. Stone … Oh! And be on the look out for an Officer John Peyton of the Denver PD. Leslie here is his wife, and I don’t want him panicking, either. We need everybody to stay as calm as they can. Okay, kid, you got it?"

JD nodded slowly, his eyes huge, his heart hammering wildly. "Yeah, Buck, I got it," he said, startled to hear the steadiness of his voice. "Chris; security; Dr. Stone; Officer John Peyton, DPD. I’m on it. You just … be careful, okay?"

"Hell, son, I’m always careful!" Buck snorted. He sat down on the floor and settled in for a long wait. "But right now, I’m just hopin’ I’m lucky!"

7~7~7~7

Vin frowned, trying to follow the voice that filled the room, his head, but repeatedly losing the thread of the words. Bastard always did this to him, hit him until he couldn’t think, then hit him some more for being stupid.

But not again. Bastard wasn’t ever gonna hit him again.

But, Jesus, he was tired! And his head hurt so … He let it fall back against the wall, feeling it grow heavier by the moment.

And it was so hard ta breathe …

He wanted desperately to lie down, to curl up and cry or scream at the pain, but knew he couldn’t. The minute he let go, the bastard would be on him. And it’d be over.

’Cause the next time, the bastard’d kill him.

He thought about that for a moment. ’Least there wouldn’t be no more pain then. No more fear. And he wouldn’t be alone.

Mama’d be there.

7~7~7~7

Buck stopped talking and stared in anguish at the tears coursing down that bruised face, his heart clenching painfully at the soft, tortured words falling from those broken lips.

"Oh, God, Mama, why’d ya go and leave me? Why didn’t ya take me with ya? Why cain’tcha come git me now?"

It took everything Buck had in him not to go to the younger man and take him in his arms as he would a child. "Jesus, Vin!" he whispered softly, his own face wet. "Oh, God, son, what’ve they done to you?"

Leslie had her arms wrapped tightly around her chest, her eyes filled with tears. "He needs help!" she said in a shaking voice. "He’s bleeding, and he’s in pain … Why won’t he let us help him?"

"Because, darlin’, this boy’s not used to folks helpin’ him," Buck answered with a sudden flash of anger. "He’s more used ta folks hurtin’ him, goin’ outta their way ta hurt him. We can’t do anything for him right now except keep him calm and wait for the one man I’m bettin’ can help him." He glanced over at her, saw the compassion in her eyes, and smiled slightly. "You’re a brave lady, Leslie. And a kind one. Your husband’s a lucky man."

She smiled at him. "Be sure and tell him that when we’re outta this. Doesn’t seem to believe it when I say it."

He grinned and winked. "Why, then, he doesn’t deserve ya, and I’ll be more than happy to take ya off his hands!" She laughed, and he nodded. "There, that’s a sound to warm a man’s heart. Don’t you worry, darlin’," he said firmly, reaching over to take one of her hands in his and squeezing it reassuringly, "we’re gonna get you outta this. Gonna get us all outta this. Vin’s a lotta things, but he ain’t a killer."

"He sounds like a scared kid," Leslie said softly, staring sadly at the man huddled against the wall. "I’ve heard … the things he’s saying before. From kids brought here …" Her eyes went to Buck and searched his face, seeing clearly the pain in his eyes. "That’s what he’s remembering, isn’t it? His own past … He was abused."

Buck bowed his head and nodded. "Seems that way," he breathed. "Vin doesn’t talk much about his childhood, but from what little he’s let slip we know it wasn’t easy. And we’ve suspected he was abused …" He raised his head and looked again at Tanner. "Somethin’ in what Castro and his animals did to him musta triggered memories of those other beatings … Shit, no wonder he’s been havin’ nightmares!" He looked at the pretty young nurse. "Maybe I can talk him into letting you go–"

"No." She cast a determined stare at Buck. "If this lasts much longer, he’s gonna pass out from one cause or another. And when he does, he’ll need help immediately. So I’m staying."

Wilmington shook his head and grinned slowly, admiring her courage and dedication. "You met Nathan Jackson yet, darlin’? You two got an awful lot in common!"

7~7~7~7

Buck wondered how Vin could hold that gun so steady when he could barely sit up. He’d lost so much blood, was having such trouble breathing …

"Come on, son," he urged gently, "let’s end this now, before somebody gets hurt."

Vin closed his eyes briefly and struggled for breath that never fully came. "Don’t … don’t wanta hurt … nobody! Jist … jist don’t want … nobody hurtin’ me. I cain’t take no more!" he rasped in torment.

Buck’s heart ached for the younger man, for the hell he’d lived through once and was being forced to live through again. "I know, Junior," he said sadly. "Hell, I don’t see how you’ve taken this much!"

Vin tensed, and leaned forward as one word penetrated the confusion in his mind. Junior? The bastard never called him that. But … somebody did …

He flinched and raised a shaking hand to his head. Buck …

No! Buck wasn’t here; nobody was here.

Jesus, he was tired! Too tired; in too much pain. If he could just … stop the pain …

He dropped his clouded gaze to the gun he could just make out. It’d be so easy. And nobody’d mind, ’cause nobody cared …

Buck heard the soft whisper, saw where Vin was staring, and felt his blood freeze. Of all the possibilities he’d considered, this had never been one. He tensed and knotted his hands into fists, never looking away from Vin’s face and prepared to fling himself across the distance between them. Whether he got hurt in the process wasn’t important; all that mattered was the young man who craved release from his pain.

"Vin?"

The voice – quiet, calm, gentle – cut through Buck’s horrified thoughts and brought a rush of relief surging through him. He almost cried out, almost collapsed, almost wept. He knew now everything would be all right, knew Vin would be all right.

Larabee wouldn’t have it any other way.

"Vin, can I come in?" Chris asked from just inside the doorway. "We need to talk, partner. I need to know what’s goin’ on."

That voice went through Vin as it had Buck, went through him clear to his soul and wrenched a soft cry from him. He was safe now. Chris would never let anybody hurt him.

Larabee walked slowly into the room, glancing first at Buck and Leslie to make certain they were all right, then fixing his whole attention on Vin. The younger man sat hunched against the wall, his legs drawn halfway up but leaning to one side, his head resting against the wall as if he couldn’t hold it up on his own. His skin was deathly pale under the bruises and bathed in sweat. Blood soaked into his hospital gown.

Despite everything else, though, he was holding that gun with an unnerving steadiness.

"Hey, Buck," Larabee greeted quietly. "Thought I told you ta stay outta trouble."

"Yeah, well, seems you forgot to tell Junior."

"I’ll remember next time. Wanta tell me what happened?"

Buck didn’t, not really, but knew he had no choice. Squaring his shoulders, preparing himself to take full responsibility, he said quietly, "Got uncomfortable tryin’ ta sleep with my gun on, so I took it off, hung it over the back of the chair. Then I went for some coffee." He grimaced at the sound of it. "Wasn’t thinkin’, I guess. Anyway, I heard him cry out and came runnin’ back in here. He’d gotten outta bed somehow and was layin’ on the floor, hurtin’. I went to help him …" He exhaled heavily and hung his head. "Next thing I know, he’s holdin’ my gun on me. It’s my fault. I got careless and this is what’s come of it."

Chris stared at him for long moments, studying him, reading him. He was sorely tempted to reprimand Buck for that carelessness, but he held his tongue. They were all tired, he knew, had all gotten complacent. It could have been any one of them sitting here. Vin was their friend and they’d let down their guard, forgetting that the sharpshooter had the survival instincts of a wild animal and was at his most dangerous when he was most desperate.

Well, they wouldn’t forget again.

"We’ll talk about it later," he said quietly, no trace of anger in his voice or bearing. He glanced down at Leslie, rapidly assessing both her physical condition and emotional state. The eyes that met his were clear and calm, and he was impressed. "Your husband’s outside. Don’t worry, we’ll have you out of here in a few minutes."

She dismissed his concern for her with a shake of her head. "Vin’s the one I’m worried about. He needs help now. He can’t afford to lose much more blood."

"Then I guess I got here just in time." He turned his gaze back to Vin, wondering just how in the hell it had come to this. "He say anything?"

Buck sighed heavily and bowed his head, his handsome face lined with exhaustion, worry and pain for his tormented friend. "Shit, he’s said more than I ever wanted ta hear," he said quietly. He raised his gaze once more to Larabee, dark blue eyes raw with pain. "It ain’t Castro he’s rememberin’, Chris. It’s some other sonuvabitch who beat him on a regular basis. Probably when he was a kid. And for some reason, he thinks I’m that particular sonuvabitch." He winced and swallowed hard. "He sounds like a scared kid," he rasped. "Keeps sayin’ nobody’ll come, that nobody cares … He just wants ta stop hurtin’," he said, his voice breaking. "Just wants the world ta stop beatin’ on him."

Chris laid a hand on Buck’s shoulder and squeezed. "Don’t worry, we’ll get him through this," he promised. His deep green gaze traveled slowly over his old friend’s lined face and slumped body, searching for any sign of harm. "You all right?"

"Hell, I’m fine," Buck breathed, waving a big hand tiredly. "He’s the one in pain. I ain’t done nothin’ but sit here and pray … Chris," he said urgently, "you gotta help him! For a minute there, I really thought he was g … was gonna … end his pain," he finished weakly, unable to say the words.

Larabee’s head snapped up and his gaze flew to Vin as Buck’s meaning hit him. "I won’t let him," he whispered tightly. "I’ll take care of him."

"I know you will, pard. Ain’t no doubt in my mind."

Chris nodded and started slowly forward, but stopped abruptly as Vin turned the gun on him. "Easy, partner," he soothed, standing perfectly still. "I’m not gonna hurt ya. You know I’d never hurt ya, right?"

Vin lifted his head with an effort and frowned at the dark shape, wondering how Chris had gotten here, or if he were really here at all. Maybe it was just another lie … He laid his head back against the wall and licked his lips, feeling the solid weight of the gun in his hands and thinking again how easy it would be just to end it all now.

Nobody’d ever hurt him again …

"Come on, partner," Chris urged quietly, calmly, "you gotta put down that gun before somebody gets hurt. You’re safe now, Vin. You gotta believe me. Nobody’s gonna hurt you, I promise."

Vin laughed softly, bitterly. "Folks’re always promisin’ that," he rasped tiredly. "Cain’t tell ya how many times I heard them words. An' they’re always a lie."

Chris shook his head slowly. "I’m not lyin’, Vin," he insisted quietly. "I’ve never lied to you before, and I’m not about t' start now." He squatted onto his heels so that he was at eye-level with Tanner. "Why don’tcha start by tellin’ me why you have that gun," he said calmly. "What’s got you so scared that you think you have ta do this?"

Vin closed his eyes and swallowed as pain and weakness clawed at him. "Bastard’s … comin’ fer me," he breathed. "Heard the preacher … saw the two of ’em t’gether … But I don’t know … won’t know when he asks … Reckon I am stupid, like he’s always sayin’ … Cain’t help not knowin’! Things … jist git scrambled up in my brain … Maybe I am stupid, but that don’t mean he’s gotta hit me, right?"

"Jesus Christ!" Chris groaned, his heart torn by that plaintive voice. Buck was right; Vin had gone back into a part of his past where the kind of beating Castro had given him was a regular occurrence. "Jesus, Vin," he whispered, "what in God’s name has been done ta you?" He drew a deep, slow breath and raised his head, fixing sad eyes on his friend. "You’re right, Vin, he doesn't have any right to hit you. But you’re wrong about one thing – you’re not stupid, and no one has the right to tell you otherwise."

"Don’t know ’bout that," Vin murmured tiredly. The strength given him by his fear was rapidly waning, and the hand holding the gun was beginning to shake. "Cain’t think straight … Got all these voices screamin’ at me, askin’ me questions I cain’t answer … They’re all beatin’ on me … Somebody tied me up, Chris. Why’d they tie me up?"

Larabee ran a hand through his blond hair, trying to sort through the jumble of words and find some way of helping his friend. Vin was confusing episodes of abuse from his past with what Castro had done to him, was trapped in the various black hells that were his life. And Chris had to find a way to lead him out, before Vin killed someone. Before he killed himself.

"Listen to me, Vin," he said slowly, clearly, "you’re safe now. You have to believe that, all right? You’re in the hospital. A man named Charlie Castro recognized you while we were on a case, and he and his men hurt you. They took you away from us, they tied you up, and they beat you. But we got you back. We found you and made sure those men could never hurt you again. Castro’s dead, okay? He can’t hurt you ever again. I killed him myself. Charlie Castro’s dead, and you’re safe. Do you understand?"

Vin frowned, unable to make sense of the words. Castro … He didn’t know … or maybe …

Just tell me what Larabee knows, Tanner. The voice taunting him wasn’t the one from his oldest nightmare, but from a newer one. Come on, Vin. Tell me what Larabee knows about us, and I’ll make all the pain go away.

Fuck you, Castro. It was his own voice; weak and hoarse, but his. Ain’t nothin’ you c’n do t' me that ain’t been done already, an' by bigger assholes than you. So g’on, do your best. Kill me if ya want. ’Least I’ll die knowin’ Larabee’s gonna take you apart one bone at a time.

And then the beating started again…

Chris watched in horror as Vin cried out harshly and flinched violently, wrapping his arms tightly about himself as if to protect himself from hurtful blows. But he still held the gun, and if he squeezed that trigger, there’d be no saving him. Not with the barrel pressed against his chest …

"Jesus, Tanner, give me the goddamned gun!" Chris ordered in his patented "don’t-fuck-with-me" snarl. "Give it to me now, you hear me? I'm not about to watch you blow your insides all over the fuckin’ wall!"

Vin flinched more violently still, but did turn the gun away from his body. Then, with a thick,

tortured groan, he dropped the gun and slumped forward, leaning on one hand and pressing the other to his throbbing head.

"Vin!" Chris lunged forward and caught his friend just before he fell to the floor, then kicked the gun to Buck. "Get a doctor!" he ordered harshly, cradling Vin’s limp body against his chest.

Buck grabbed the gun and lurched to his feet, grabbing Leslie even as she started toward Vin. "Come on, honey. Gotta let your husband know you’re all right. JD!" he shouted, rushing for the door. "Tell whoever’s out there it’s over! And if I see one goddamned SWAT helmet, I’m gonna start shootin’ myself! Vin needs a doctor now!" He watched as Leslie stepped into the hallway and was immediately caught up in a long, hard embrace by a young man in police blues. "Lord, honey, I sure hope that’s your husband!" he chuckled, watching as the two engaged in a passionate kiss.

"What of Vin?" Ezra asked sharply, hurrying forward with Josiah and Nathan close behind. "I presume that since we have not heard the distinct report of gunfire there are no casualties?"

"Wouldn’t say that exactly," Buck answered grimly. As three shocked looks met his words, he sighed sharply and shook his head. "Nobody was shot, if that’s what you mean. But Vin’s in a bad way. Hurt himself climbin’ outta bed, broke open some stitches somewhere, pulled out all his IV’s … He’s confused as hell, scared as hell, hurtin’ like hell, bleedin’ like hell … Shit, the boy is in hell! Chris is with him now … JD, where the hell’s that doctor?" he roared. "Vin ain’t got all night, goddamn it! He needs help now!" As his bellow died away, his knees suddenly buckled. "Oh, shit–"

"Easy, brother," Josiah soothed, catching Buck in his strong arms just before he fell. He could feel the younger man shaking violently and knew the delayed reaction was finally setting in. "Come on, Buck, let’s get you off your feet. Reckon you’ve had a hard time."

"Ain’t nothin’ like what Junior’s havin’," Buck muttered, clinging to Sanchez and trying to get his own feet to move. "God, Josiah, you shoulda heard him!" he breathed as he dropped into a chair provided by Ezra. "What that boy’s been through … Nobody deserves a childhood like that!" he said harshly, angrily. "Somebody beat him. A lot. I reckon it was one of his foster fathers … And he thought – oh, shit – he thought I was that somebody. Got my gun … He was just tryin’ ta protect himself!" he said sharply, raising pained eyes to his friends. "He just didn’t wanta get hit again–" His voice broke and he bowed his head, burying his face in shaking hands.

"Good Lord," Ezra breathed, bowing his head and closing his eyes as sick horror washed through him.

He, like the others, had some knowledge of Vin’s childhood – orphaned at five, shuttled from foster home to foster home in Texas before finally running away to Denver and ending up on the streets of Purgatorio, learning to survive on his own in the hellhole that had destroyed so many others – but knew little more than that. Yet they all had their suspicions as to some of the torments he had endured in the course of that childhood. They had seen scars – old scars – upon his body, were familiar with his discomfort at being touched, had seen him startled – sometimes to the point of flinching – by an unexpected movement toward him, and knew to a man that nothing so enraged the usually easy-going man as did cruelty to the weak, the innocent, the helpless.

Because he himself had been victim to such cruelty …

"It’s gonna take all of us to get him through this," Buck breathed tiredly, sitting back and resting his head against the wall. "He ain’t got any strength of his own right now; it’s all been bled right out of him. Of us all, he’s the last one I ever thought I’d see broken. But that boy’s in there right now, shattered inta so many pieces that we may never get ’em all put back together. And it’s about the most heartbreakin’ damn sight I’ve ever seen."

"Is Chris with him?" Ezra asked softly, absently dropping a comforting hand to Buck’s broad shoulder.

Buck managed a slight smile. "Where else d’ya think he’d be? They’re gonna need a crowbar to pry Vin out of his arms."

"Well, then," Standish said with a quiet confidence, "I would say the pieces are being gathered as we speak. And as for strength," his green eyes swept knowingly over the four agents with him, "I have little doubt that what Mr. Tanner lacks on his own will be more than adequately provided by our unique little band. I believe that, between us, we possess shoulders broad enough to easily support someone of Mr. Tanner’s slight weight."

7~7~7~7

Chris watched Buck lead the young nurse from the room, heard the big man bellowing for help, and turned his attention to the barely-conscious man in his arms. "Vin?" he called softly. "You with me, pard?"

Vin tried to sit up, but couldn’t; tried to raise his head, but couldn’t. It hurt too badly; everything hurt. And it was so damned hard to breathe …

"Chris?" he whispered faintly. "That you?"

Larabee tightened his hold on the younger man, heedless of the blood covering him. "Yeah, pard, it’s me. How ya doin’?"

Vin coughed harshly, then groaned and pressed a hand weakly to his chest. "Hurt … some. Cain’t … cain’t breathe … Chris?"

"Yeah, Vin?"

"He gone?"

Chris frowned. "Who?"

Vin coughed again; the pressure in his chest was growing worse. "Bastard … was gonna hurt me. Had … had … ta stop him. Had ta do it, Chris!" he insisted weakly, needing his friend to understand. "He was … he was gonna … kill me this time. I knew … wouldn’t nobody help me … Nobody ever helped. Jist kep’ … sendin’ me back … so’s he c’d hurt me agin–" He tried to draw a breath, and coughed instead, tasting blood. A violent shudder ran through him and he reached for Chris. "Oh, Jesus, I’m cold!" he groaned. "Hurt so … Am I goin’ ta hell, Chris?" he asked suddenly.

Larabee frowned at the strange question. "Why do you ask?"

Vin licked his dry lips and swallowed weakly. "Preacher … said so. ’Cause’a what I done. But I had to. Weren’t no other way … Why’m I so cold?"

Chris tightened his arms about his shivering friend. "Because you’re bleedin’ and you’re probably in shock. Doctor’ll be here soon." Damn well better be, he added silently, or there’ll be another gun drawn …

"I done a wrong thing, Chris," Vin breathed, laying his hideously throbbing head against the strong, unyielding support of Larabee’s shoulder. "Done a wrong thing, an' now I’m goin’ ta hell. Preacher said." He shuddered violently as the chill sank ever deeper through him. "’Least it oughtta be warm there."

Chris looked up as Dr. Stone entered the room followed by two orderlies and felt a strong surge of relief. "Don’t worry, pard," he soothed, "you’re gonna be warm again real soon. Doctor’s here. She’ll take care of ya."

Vin struggled to raise his head and forced open his working eye, trying to see the doctor. But all he could make out were indistinct shapes, and two of them large. They were coming toward him, and immediately panic seized upon him.

"No!" he gasped in terror, fighting to pull himself from Chris’s arms as his brain screamed at him to flee. "No, not again! Ain’t gonna letcha hurt me no more!"

"Vin, stop it!" Chris ordered, trying to hold his struggling friend without hurting him. "Settle down, now. They’re just here to help–"

"No!" Vin cried, fighting weakly and in vain against the arms that held him. He remembered this, remembered a tall, slender man looming before him, backed by two others as tall as Buck and built like Josiah. The slender man had asked questions, had demanded answers, while the two big ones had hit him, had hurt him, taking pleasure in his pain.

"No, no, don’t!" he cried, trying to pull away, clawing frantically, but unable to break free. And all the while the two hulking brutes were coming closer, leering at him, reaching for him, ready to begin their abuse again …

"No!" he screamed in terror, launching a desperate attack against the hard hands that gripped him, that imprisoned him, that hurt him. "No! Don’t, please … Chris! Jesus, Chris, help me!"

Chris struggled to subdue the wildly fighting Tanner, stunned by the man’s strength. It was all he could do to hold him, all he could do to stop Vin from hurting himself or someone else. Dr. Stone tried to help, but narrowly missed being hit by a frantically-thrown fist. Worried that her patient would injure himself further, she stepped aside and waved forward the two orderlies, Bitterly hating it but knowing she had no choice.

Tanner wasn’t leaving them any options.

He screamed as the big hands clamped about him, screamed as their strength easily overpowered him. Terror rioted through him, blinding him, numbing him to his pain. Still he tried to fight, though he knew he was lost.

Oh, God, God, Chris had promised! He’d promised!

Chris …

They half-carried, half-dragged the struggling man back to the bed and forced him down upon it, needing all their strength to hold him as he fought to escape. Screams and curses tore from him, and he clawed, kicked and bit at his attackers like an animal resisting the cage. Chris and Dr. Stone tried to talk to him, tried to soothe him, but their words never reached him. Nothing existed for him now save the merciless hands that held him.

While the two orderlies fought with Tanner, Dr. Stone hurried to the door and shouted an order. Within moments, another orderly appeared and rushed forward to lend his strength to the battle. Chris saw what the big man carried, recognized the lengths of cloth and padding for what they were, and lunged forward with a snarl to stop them.

"Goddamn it!" he spat. "What the hell are you doin'?"

But Dr. Stone grabbed him and held him back. "It’s for his own good," she insisted. "I can’t sedate him with his breathing like it is. But I can’t let him hurt himself, either. Believe me, Chris," she said quietly, looking into his tortured eyes, "I don’t like this anymore than you do, but it is for his own good."

"Tell him that!" he whispered strickenly, watching in sick horror as Vin Tanner was forcibly restrained, his arms and legs bound to the bed.

Realizing he had been tied again, Vin screamed in fear and fury, but could not break free. Nor could he maintain such a fight. Pain tore through every part of him and his lungs refused to take in the air he needed. Blood was welling from the wounds he’d torn open, further sapping him of strength. He was helpless once again in the brutal hands of men who existed only to hurt him.

He had been betrayed. Again.

Chris…

"CHRI-I-I-S-S-S!"

The scream tore through Larabee like a heated knife and sliced open his soul. With a harsh, choked cry, he turned and ran from the room, raced desperately to the nearest bathroom and flung himself to the floor.

And was violently, wretchedly sick.

7~7~7~7

The next few days were sheer hell for them all as the six agents, exhausted in mind, body and soul, had to find the strength to help pull Vin through this latest crisis.

In his fall from the bed and his battle with the orderlies, he had aggravated his injuries considerably, tearing open the knife gashes and losing blood he could ill afford to, breaking two ribs that previously had only been cracked and worsening the puncture in his lung to the extent that Dr. Stone had no choice but to insert the chest tube. With his body so weakened, the low-grade fever that had plagued him gained a firmer hold and began to rise as his system struggled to fend off the infection threatening his damaged kidney.

Just as troubling were the grievous hurts done his mind and spirit. Whatever darkness had broken open in his mind continued to prey upon him, leaving him in a constant state of agitation, and sometimes of outright terror. He startled violently at even the softest sound and flinched in horror from every unexpected or unwanted touch, sometimes even throwing up an arm as if to ward off a blow. His sleep was fitful, shallow, and as exhausting as his wakefulness. And he simply could not bear to be left in the dark.

The dark was his domain.

Given the state of his sharpshooter’s mind, and knowing only too well the man’s uncanny and often frightening instinct for self-preservation, Chris banned all weapons from Tanner’s room, ordering that his men either leave their guns locked in their vehicles before entering the hospital or deposit them at the nurses’ station to be secured there before going to see Vin. The agents agreed without complaint, feeling a deep responsibility for the safety of hospital personnel, but even more for their friend. No man among them wanted to be the one who gave Vin the means to end his torment.

Never had Chris felt more helpless than he did in the face of that torment. He knew Vin was trapped in remembrances of abuse from his past, but, with his friend so confused, had no way to help him through them, had no way to help him out of the hell that had returned to claim him. He knew the demons had to be brought out into the open, out into the light, but, even when lucid, Vin refused to talk about what was haunting him.

And that hurt Chris most of all. He knew how private a man Tanner was, knew how self-sufficient he was. But he’d also thought their friendship was deep enough that neither man need feel ashamed or afraid of opening up and sharing even the darkest parts of his past. God knew they’d seen each other at their worst often enough, had stuck by and stuck with each other when any truly sane person would have long since fled. They’d gone through hell and high water together and come out stronger than ever. The way it should be. The way it was supposed to be.

The way it would be again, if Chris Larabee had his way.

"You listen to me, you stubborn sonuvabitch!" he growled at the fevered, agitated man who slept so fitfully before him. "You’re not alone anymore, and you don’t have to face this alone. I don’t know exactly what’s got such a hold on you, but I do know this." He reached for the bandaged hand that plucked compulsively at the bedcovers and held it tightly between his two. "I’m not lettin’ you go without a fight, you hear me? Hell, I’m not lettin’ you go at all! You’ve come too far, survived too much, for that. I’m on your side, Vin, whether you want me here or not, and I’ll kick your scrawny ass from here ta hell and back before I let you give up."

He gripped Tanner’s hand more tightly still, heedless of the pain he might be causing, and leaned closer to speak directly into Vin’s ear, determined to be heard. "You wake up, you hear me? You wake up and tell me what’s goin’ on inside that head of yours! I don’t care how bad it is, I don’t care how bad it makes you think you are, I don’t care how many levels of hell we have to wade through to get you back where you belong. We’ll wade through ’em together, you hear me? Together. ’Cause I’m here ta tell you, Tanner – your devil ain’t big enough or bad enough ta scare me away from you!"

Pale, hot fingers closed weakly about his, and a single tear slid slowly from the corner of one closed eye. And in that moment, the battle for Vin Tanner’s mind and soul was begun.

7~7~7~7

The big hand closed hard about him again and jerked him roughly back from the hiding place he had been seeking. A harsh, angry voice erupted in his ear and a heavy fist descended with a brutal force, knocking him into the wall. Pain exploded through him, so cruel and so familiar, tearing a choked cry from him. He didn’t mean to cry out, knew it was a mistake, knew it would only make the beating worse.

And he was right.

He slid to the floor and huddled there, curling up and wrapping his arms about himself to guard against what he knew was coming. But there was no protection. Again the merciless hands hauled him up, shaking him, hitting him, slamming him into the wall. And all the while the voice raged wildly about him, shouting words he could no longer understand.

Oh, God, he hurt.

He could hear bones snapping, and knew vaguely they were his, could taste blood and knew that, too, was his. Worst of all, though, worse even than the pain, was the fear, the cold, sickening terror that gripped him even harder than those brutal hands.

Because this time it wasn’t gonna stop.

He knew it with a terrible certainty as the hard fist slammed into his lower back, just above his hip, as he was picked up, slung around and hit in the face. He couldn’t remember what he’d done this time to deserve this, but knew he’d never get the chance to do anything again.

Because this time the bastard was gonna kill him.

He almost laughed aloud at that, was almost relieved. If he was dead, he couldn’t hurt. And it would all be over. He wanted it to be over, wanted it to stop, wanted the pain, the fear, to end, wanted never to feel those hands on him again. And if he had to die …

Oh, God, he was gonna be sick.

Horrified, unable to help himself, he slumped to the floor and threw up on the shoes before him, knowing that in itself had doomed him. Then he did it again, and again, barely seeing the blood he was bringing up. All he could see was those shoes, and all he could think was that he was gonna die for sure for this.

Then he heard it, when he’d been able to hear nothing else.

"She was a whore!"

And something in him snapped. A scream ripped from him, of pain, of rage, of defiance, and he began fighting back, though he knew it would only get him killed. He was no match for the big bastard, he knew that, but it no longer mattered. If he died, it wouldn’t be without a fight.

And he wouldn’t go alone.

He remembered then, and twisted his battered body out of the big hands, heedless of the pain and dizziness that racked him. He tried to flee, and stumbled, was grabbed from behind but frantically hit and kicked at the hands. There was a gratifying snap of bone, a howl of pain, and he was free. Hurting horribly in every part of his body, he somehow managed to run, toward the only salvation he knew.

Jesus, it had to be there.

His left leg wouldn’t work right, and he couldn’t breathe. But he heard the bastard behind him, and knew he was dead if he stopped. Driven by the instincts of a hunted animal, he forced himself onward, never seeing the trail of blood he left, knowing only that he had to find salvation.

The table. He had to reach the table.

He fell across it and tried to pull open the drawer, but screamed in pain and frustration as his fingers refused to work. A big hand gripped his hair and yanked back and he cried out again, his broken fingers pulling out the drawer as he was flung to the floor.

And there it was.

He was pulled to his feet by his hair, but not before his hand curled about smooth walnut. With a wild, wordless cry, he tore himself from the bastard’s hands and turned, raising the only salvation he knew in shaking hands he had to force to work. And the clicking of the hammer as he pulled it back was like sweet music to his ears.

He couldn’t stand any longer, but didn’t need to with this. He let himself sink to the floor, but never let his hands waver. He didn’t know how, but he kept them steady. Slowly, never taking his eyes from the big bastard who still loomed above him, he scooted across the floor into the nearest corner and forced himself to sit up, certain the briefest lapse would mean his death.

And he didn’t really wanta die.

But the stupid bastard didn’t see that. He saw only blood, bruises and broken bones, and missed the savage determination that rose from the depths of the pain. With a snarl of fury, he reached out and grabbed the wrought-iron poker from where it hung by the fireplace and gripped it like the weapon it would become. One blow from that would end it.

He didn’t know if the voice he heard was his, didn’t recognize it. He heard the voice again, and again, but couldn’t understand what it was saying. He only understood what he saw coming toward him, and what he felt his hands doing.

And he understand what he heard when he pulled the trigger.

But it wasn’t enough. The bastard howled in pain, but didn’t go down. His shoulder exploded into a crimson mess, but rage kept him on his feet. With another snarl, he raised the poker and lunged forward.

His broken hand never wavered. A scream of pain tore from him, but he never faltered. Desperation drove him now, forced movement into fingers that should not have worked–

"NOOO!!"

Chris bolted upright in the chair as the scream rang out and ripped him from the depths of sleep. Dazed, not remembering where he was, he stared about wildly in confusion, and was shaken to his soul by another scream.

"Shit, Vin!"

It came back to him in a rush and he launched himself out of the chair and toward the bed, his heart hammering violently against his ribs. "Jesus!"

Vin was sitting up and fighting some unseen foe, screaming and cursing and clawing frantically at the bedcovers and tubes that entangled him. Another scream tore from him, and another, as he ripped out his IV’s.

"Shit, Tanner, not again!" Chris spat as monitors began to shriek, reaching Vin’s side and grabbing the hands that fought desperately against some unseen foe. "Stop it, Vin!" he shouted, trying to hold the fiercely struggling man without hurting him. "Goddamn it, Tanner, stop it!"

Little caring now about caution or gentleness, certain Vin could do more harm to himself than anyone else could, Chris closed one hand hard about the sharpshooter’s wrists and circled his other arm about Tanner’s arms, holding him in an iron grip. "Stop it!" he shouted as Vin screamed again. "Stop it!"

Desperately, Chris bore Vin back against the bed and held him down with his hands while climbing atop him. Stunned by the strength and ferocity of the injured man’s struggles, he clamped his hands down over Vin’s wrists, imprisoning his arms at either side of his head, and settled the rest of his weight on Vin’s legs, praying he wouldn’t be forced to harm his friend.

Vin tried to rid himself of the unwanted restraint, but couldn’t, and cried out again. But his strength was failing, his battered body betraying him, and the scream ended on a harsh, choking sob as all the fight drained from him.

"Vin?" Chris called in a shaking voice. Jesus, he didn’t know which was worse – Vin’s screams or his sobs. "Christ, Vin, wake up!" he pleaded frantically. "Come on, Vin, come back to me! Come back, damn it! You’ve got to come back!"

He took a chance, released Vin’s arms and took his head between his hands, leaning close to the younger man’s face. "Vin, listen to me!" he commanded loudly. "It’s me, Chris! Come on, Vin, wake up! You can hear me, I know you can! Damn it, Tanner, open your goddamned eyes and look at me!"

Vin cried out softly at that shout and pressed himself back into his pillows, getting his hands between his face and Chris’s as if to shield himself from a blow. Hearing the terrified whimper that escaped him, Chris took one hand from Vin’s face and ran it through his sweat-sodden hair, then eased himself off the younger man. Vin cried out again and flinched, as if expecting to be hit, and Chris gathered him into his arms with a tortured groan and cradled him to his chest as if he were a child.

Suddenly realizing he was safe, Vin shuddered heavily and clutched at Chris, sobbing helplessly. Pain racked his body, but far worse was agony that tore at his mind and soul, the fear and horror that had risen once again from his past to shatter his sanity.

"I’m sorry!" he sobbed, driving his fingers into Chris’s shoulders. "I didn’t mean to! I’ll do better … Please, don’t … Don’t let him … Please, please, make him stop!"

Tears streamed down Chris’s ashen cheeks, but he refused to give in, knowing Vin needed his strength. "Ssh, it’s all right," he soothed, tightening his hold on the younger man. "It’s all right, Vin, he’s gone. He’s gone. He can’t hurt you anymore. You’re safe, Vin, I swear it. Nobody’s gonna hurt you; I won’t let ’em. Ssh, it’s all right, Vin, it’s all right. I’m right here. I got ya. It’s all right, Vin. You’re safe now."

Vin shuddered again, then slowly relaxed, his hands easing their painful grip on Chris, his sobs quieting. The black, cold terror was beginning to subside; he knew now who held him. "Chris." It was not a question.

The older agent smiled slightly at the heart-breaking trust in that ragged voice. "Yeah, Vin, it’s me. I got ya."

"You’re here," Vin breathed without ever opening his eyes. He didn’t need to. Chris was here, and that meant he was safe.

Larabee swallowed hard and drew a shaky breath, trying to calm his own rioting nerves. "Yeah, I’m here. I’m right here. You ready to lay down?"

"No!" Vin gasped sharply, again digging his fingers into his friend’s shoulders. "He’ll come back–"

"Who?"

"Please, don’t make me lay down!" Vin begged, his earlier calm breaking. "If I do, I’ll go ta sleep, and if I go ta sleep, he’ll come back– Oh, God, Chris, don’t let him hurt me!"

"Ssh, hush, hush!" Chris murmured, tightening his hold on the panicking man. "Relax, now. Just calm down. Ain’t nobody gonna hurt you while I’m here. And that includes you, y’hear? But you’ve gotta rest, Vin, or you’re never gonna get any better." He gently pushed Tanner far enough away to look into his face, and his heart clenched at his friend’s terrible pallor. "Goddamn it, you scared the shit out of me!" he breathed harshly.

Vin collapsed against him, unable any longer to sit up on his own, exhausted and in pain. He did not fight as Chris eased him down onto the bed. But neither did he release his desperate hold on his friend’s arm.

The night nurse came in, took one look at Vin and pursed her lips tightly, her eyes darkening. He had torn out his IV’s again, and she – all the nursing staff – had clear orders in such an event. She hated it, but as long as he posed such a threat to himself she had no choice. Without a word, she strode to the bed, reset the monitors and checked his chest tube and catheter, then replaced the oxygen mask he had ripped away.

"He had a nightmare," Chris said tersely, not liking her silence as she examined and tended Vin. "Woke up screamin’–"

"And tore out his IV’s," she added.

He swallowed hard, gripped by sudden understanding. "They just came out when he was thrashin’ around–"

"They do not ‘just come out’," she said calmly. "I’ll be right back."

"Wait!" Chris called sharply. "Please– Shit!" he swore as she walked out without looking back. "Not again!"

"Chris?" Vin called softly. Despite his exhaustion and the endless pain that ground through him, he forced his eyes open and tried to focus them on his friend. "What … what’d I do?" Fear glittered in the blue depths. "I didn’t … I didn’t hurt nobody, did I?"

Irrational, unreasoning anger swept through Larabee at the soft question. Goddamn it, Tanner was so worried about hurting others, why couldn’t he once, just once, worry about what he was doing to himself?

But he couldn’t say that, and didn’t have the heart to tell Vin what was coming. "Go to sleep, pard," he begged quietly. "Please, go to sleep!"

The white face went whiter still beneath the bruises and panic flared in the glazed, unfocused eyes. "He’ll come back if I do!" he whispered strickenly, clutching at his friend’s arm. "He’ll come back ’n he’ll hurt me … This time he’ll kill me!"

Chris clamped his jaw tightly and ran a shaking hand through his disheveled blond hair. "Vin, there’s nobody here but me," he rasped through clenched teeth. "But that nurse is comin’ back–"

"He’ll be here," Vin breathed with sick certainty as his eyes closed helplessly. "He’s jist waitin’, hidin’ in the shadows, an' this time he’ll kill me."

Chris opened his mouth to answer, then caught sight of the nurse and two orderlies – two big orderlies – entering the room. His heart plummeted into his stomach and a cold dread gripped him. "I’ll be right back, Vin," he said grimly, prying his friend’s pale fingers loose from his arm and rising from the bed.

"Chris!" Vin called out in terror, grabbing wildly for him. "Where–"

"It’s all right, pard," he said soothingly, forcing a smile and freeing himself from Vin’s desperate grip. "Just gonna talk to the nurse is all. I’ll be right over there. And I’ll be right back." When Vin swallowed and nodded, the fear still filling his eyes, Chris nodded, forced another smile, and left him.

Crossing the room with a determined stride, he stopped before the three, his green eyes cold and hard. "Sedate him first," he said in a low, furious voice. "He doesn’t need to suffer any more than he already has."

"I have to replace the IV’s," the nurse said firmly. "And I have no orders for sedation–"

"You do now," he growled, impaling her with his merciless green gaze. "You don’t sedate him, you don’t restrain him. I’ll wake the whole goddamned floor and every fuckin’ doctor on staff if I have to, and I’ll have five other men here in fifteen minutes who’ll take this hospital down to its foundation if I say so. So you sedate him, or you get to explain how armageddon happened on your shift."

She stared at him for long moments, but knew he was not bluffing. She had dealt with these men before, knew how fiercely they protected their own, knew the man before her would carry out every threat he had uttered and more, and never feel the slightest twinge of conscience. Visions of her floor reduced to smoking rubble filtered through her mind and made her decision for her.

"I’ll have to get a doctor’s okay for the sedative," she said resignedly. "Let me replace his IV’s, then I’ll make the call."

"And get Laurel and Hardy there out of sight until the okay comes through," Chris ordered, staring at the two orderlies, each easily as tall as Buck and built like Josiah, and forcing them back a step with his glare. "If he sees ’em, he’ll know what’s comin’ and I won’t allow that."

Anger kindled in her and she glared up at him. "Mr. Larabee, you are not in charge here–"

"If you want him restrained, I am," he contradicted coldly. "Otherwise, I call in the five horsemen of the apocalypse." He smiled thinly, his eyes like ice. "And I don’t think any of us want that."

"There are only four horsemen," one of the orderlies corrected absently.

The nurse, still glaring at Larabee, shook her head slowly. "No, Jake," she said tightly, her anger obvious. "In this case, there are seven of them. And if we go against even one, believe me, hell will take on a whole new meaning." But, damn, you actually had to admire that …

Chris, knowing he had won, relented somewhat, allowed his stance to relax, his expression to soften. In that moment, his own exhaustion showed plainly. "Please, try to understand," he said quietly, the ice gone from his voice. "Vin is in hell. I don’t understand it myself, I don’t know what’s torturin’ him, but he’s in hell. Somethin’s preyin’ on him so that he’s afraid to go to sleep, afraid of someone who lives in his dreams. And if you tie him down …" He closed his eyes briefly and bowed his head, swallowing hard, struggling for control. He had to make them understand!

She saw him swaying slightly and reached out quickly, grabbing his arm to steady him as concern replaced her anger. "Mr. Larabee–"

"He’s claustrophobic," he said harshly, refusing to feel his own exhaustion, "did you know that?" Raising his head, he saw the surprised widening of her eyes and smiled bitterly. "No, I guess you didn’t. Usually, he can control it. But now– The bastards who did this to him kept him for three days in a room smaller than this one, with no windows, while they beat the shit out of him. They tied him up and beat him. Can you imagine what that does to a man like Vin? Can you see why he keeps tryin’ to pull those tubes out? Right now, his mind can’t separate them from the ropes. And that’s why you’re not restrainin’ him until you sedate him. Because I will not allow him to be tortured like that. Nobody’s gonna do that to him. Not while I’m here, and not while I’m breathin’."

"I’ll call the doctor," she said again, this time with understanding. "But I do have to fix the IV’s."

"I know," he sighed. "Believe me, I wish he’d quit fightin’ this as much as you do. I know he’s just makin’ your job that much harder, and he’s certainly not helpin’ himself–"

"Or any of you." A sympathetic smile curved about her mouth as she studied the exhausted, haggard man before her. "Having friends can take a toll, can’t it?"

"Yeah," he breathed tiredly, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "But not near as high a toll as losin’ one would take."