Vin hovered somewhere between wakefulness and sleep in semi-darkness, the window blinds drawn against the glaring mid-morning sun, the only noise to be heard coming from the hallway outside his room. Once the nurse and the tech had finished with their round of tortures, JD had gone out to grab a meal, leaving with a promise to return as soon as he could, and then only after he'd made sure the pain medication was taking effect.

And now on that cloud of medication, wrapped in silence and just the right amount of darkness, Vin was drifting, more relaxed than he'd felt in what seemed like a lifetime. Pain was a distant memory, something that belonged to another existence. His body was comfortably numb, heavy in its languor, and, for now, he seemed almost to be floating outside it, tethered to it by the thinnest of threads, his mind and spirit finally released from the battered prison that had confined them for so long.

For the first time since... well, he couldn't remember when... he was able to fly.

He gave himself over to the freedom of it, to the rapture of it, and simply let himself soar, gliding high above the pain and fear that had held him fast for so long. This was where he got his strength, this was how he found his peace. Letting go of the burdens that weighed him down, slipping the bonds that snared him, and simply taking wing.

Yet even while he reveled in the magic of it, part of him also recognized the peril in it. There was a dangerous allure to this freedom, a haunting siren-call to escape forever the all too painful world of reality. He'd heeded that seductive call once before, when he was younger, when he was much more vulnerable and far less able to endure the hurts and horrors that made up his life. Numbed then, as now, by the powerful drugs they'd pumped into his broken body, he'd taken off on this glorious flight and stayed aloft too long, wanting nothing more than to remain forever in this soft and beautiful world of silence and shadow, in this heavenly void where he felt nothing save the lightness of his own being.

They'd thought he was crazy. They had no idea he'd just been... flying.

He had no clear memories of that time, only vague and clouded impressions. People... so many people... He'd looked down on them with a detached curiosity as they'd trooped in and out of his room in what seemed a never-ending parade - doctors, nurses, shrinks, cops, social workers - and wondered idly why they were all so concerned about him now and where in the hell they and their concern had been when he'd needed them. Once or twice he'd even considered returning to himself to ask them that, but he'd always decided against it. If he'd shown even the slightest awareness of them, they would've resumed their endless barrage of questions, and those questions were exactly why he'd flown away in the first place.

They wanted him to remember, but he wanted only to forget. They hadn't cared while it was happening, had sent him back when he'd tried to escape, had condemned him to hell and said it was where he needed to be. Where he belonged. And now they wanted him to explain what had happened.

They'd fucked up and he'd paid the price. That was what happened.

He hadn't told them that, though. Hadn't told them anything. Because he just wanted to forget. And he had. Had fled deep inside himself, drifted high outside himself, until he'd locked every ugly, painful, brutal detail tightly away behind that door in his mind. And he hadn't come back until they'd promised - they'd promised - that he was safe and that the bastard would never hurt him again.

But they'd lied, just as they always had. Because he wasn't safe. No one was. The bastard was back; he was still in hell. And now his friends were in hell with him.

Yet - and this just confused the shit out of him - they were there by their own choice. He hadn't wanted them to join him, certainly hadn't expected it, had done all he could to keep them from it. And, still, here they were, up to their necks in the quicksand that was pulling him down, sinking into it right alongside him, refusing to get out themselves until they'd gotten him free, as well. And it wasn't like he'd dragged them in, either. Hell, they'd jumped in of their own accord!

He'd never had that before, and he just couldn't get used to the idea that he had it now.

Why? Why wouldn't they just let him go? Surely they had to see how impossible it was! How dangerous for them it was. How crazy he was. Why didn't they just cut him loose and let him go before his craziness drowned them all? Seemed like everyone else in his life had. What kept these six hanging on when nobody else had ever bothered to do it before?

JD's words from last night, full of spit and fire, came back to him now, floated up to him even though he thought he'd flown far beyond their reach. Then again, he couldn't imagine what had made him think he'd ever find a place where these six couldn't reach him.

Not when he couldn't even go to hell without 'em taggin' along for the ride.

So he might be drifting now, might be floating free where no one and nothing could touch him, but he knew it wouldn't last. Because he didn't have the smallest doubt that, for some reason he just couldn't understand, there were six men waiting who wouldn't let him stay gone one minute longer than they thought he should.

7~7~7~7

Buck set a cup of coffee down on the small table by the recliner, then set his hands on his hips and gazed down at the man in the chair. An icepack covered Larabee's face at the moment, but the big man could vividly see the bruised and battered features in his mind's eye.

"It's a helluva thing, ain't it?" he asked with a soft chuckle. "Havin' the crap kicked outta you by a man who can barely stand on his own?"

"This your idea of aid and comfort?" Chris growled.

"Nope. Just a general observation on the ironies of life."

"Oh, God," Larabee groaned, "you've been talkin' to Ezra again, haven't you?" He lifted the icepack from his face and looked up, then winced painfully at the sight of his friend's shirt. "Jesus, Buck, put that thing away before you put somebody's eye out!"

Wilmington bristled at the assault upon his beloved shirt. "'Least I know clothes come in more colors than black-"

"Yeah, but do you have to wear all the colors in one shirt?" Chris replaced the icepack over his face in self-defense. "Hawaii should have to offer a formal apology for that one." A slight smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. "And you can stop hoverin' now, Mom, I'm fine."

"Yeah," Buck snorted, "you look it." He went to the sofa and sprawled his long, lanky frame across it. "Y'know, Josiah's offered to take Junior back to his place for a couple of days-"

"We had this discussion, remember?" Chris reached up and removed the icepack again, then lifted his head from the back of the recliner and fixed an unrelenting stare upon his friend. "The answer hasn't changed. He's comin' back here, and that's that."

"Chris-"

"No!" he said with a hard finality. "Jesus, Buck, you were there! You heard it! We made him sound like some goddamn foster kid bein' shuttled from one placement to the next. You don't think he's had enough of that in his life? You really think he needs that now? From us?"

Buck didn't think so, and hadn't when Josiah and Nathan had first raised the subject. But that didn't keep him from worrying about two friends who were both more vulnerable than he cared to think.

"Guess I just wanta make sure nobody gets hurt," he said quietly. "I'm gettin' kinda tired of seein' folks I care about in pain. It's never been one of my favorite sights."

"Think you'd be used to it by now," Chris sighed, replacing the icepack. "You've seen it often enough."

Buck shook his head slowly, his blue eyes dark and deep. "Some things you never get used to, pard. And the day I can shrug off a friend's sufferin' is the day I'll want you ta put a bullet between my eyes."

Again, a smile touched Larabee's mouth. "I don't think we ever have to worry about that with you, big guy. Not when you still stay up just to make sure JD makes it home safe from a date."

"I don't-"

"You do, too, and I know it. Hell," he moved the icepack just enough to smirk at his friend, "JD and Casey know it. Casey thinks it's sweet."

"Hmph," Buck huffed, crossing his arms defensively against his chest. "I just wanta make sure that boy doesn't try anything foolish with that girl and end up gettin' skinned alive by Nettie."

"Ri-i-ight," Chris scoffed, dragging out the word.

"Smug bastard, ain'tcha, Larabee?"

He chuckled. "I go with what I know. And I know you." He paused a beat, then added, "And that's how I know you're tryin' to figure out how to ask if you can stay here tonight."

Buck shot a startled look at Larabee. "How'd you know that?"

"Like I said, I know you." He pulled the icepack from his face and dropped it into the bowl on the table. "Feels like my whole damn head is frozen!"

Buck studied Larabee's face. "The swellin's gone down considerably, though. You still look like shit, but at least your nose ain't three times its normal size anymore. And I can see your eyes now." He lifted two dark brows. "You mind?"

Chris frowned. "That you can see my eyes?"

"Hell, no!" Buck snapped. "That I wanta stay tonight. It ain't that I don't trust either you or Vin," he added quickly, raising two big hands to forestall any protest, "it's just that neither one of you is in great shape right now, and it wouldn't hurt to have somebody close by who can actually move around. Y'know, so when one of you falls down, there'll be somebody here capable of pickin' your sorry ass up off the floor without hemorrhagin' ta death."

"Buck," he sighed, "you don't have to-" Dark blue eyes sharpened, and he stopped. "Sorry, forgot who I was talkin' to." He eyed his friend steadily. "It doesn't bother you that Vin might not want you near him?"

Sorrow flooded Buck's face, and his whole body sagged. "Oh, hell, yeah," he breathed in pain. "That bothers me more than you can imagine. But," he fixed somber blue eyes on Larabee, "that's the main reason I wanta stay. Hell, need ta stay. I gotta put things right between us, Chris. I can't stand the thought of that boy bein' scared of me. I don't wanta be one of them monsters in his head."

Chris gazed sympathetically at his oldest friend, easily able to see his pain. "You're not, Buck," he said softly, gently. "You just don't have that in you. And Vin knows it. He's just... real confused right now."

"Tell me about it," Buck quipped, studying Larabee's battered face. "How d'you think he's gonna handle seein' what he did to you?"

Chris sighed heavily and let his head fall back against the chair, closing his eyes as a wave of uncertainty washed through him. He'd been wrestling with that question himself and had come up with a dozen different answers, not one of them pleasant.

"Wish ta hell I knew," he breathed at last. "He's already convinced he's crazy... He's hangin' on by a thread, Buck. And I don't wanta be what finally breaks him."

Buck's heart clenched at the pain and fear in Larabee's soft voice, at the helplessness he felt coming from him. And the knowledge that Vin was not the only one hanging by that thread made his decision for him.

"Well, then," he said with a quiet but unshakable finality, "that settles it. Reckon I'll be stayin' here after all."

7~7~7~7

Dr. Stone walked into the room and stopped short at the sight of her patient. The head of his bed had been elevated, as if to allow him to sit up, but he appeared to be sleeping, his only movement the subtle rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. Defenseless and unguarded as he was in repose, his frailty was painfully obvious. The fine structure of his bones showed starkly through the thin covering of flesh, while the brown arch of his brows, the dark crescents of his eyelashes and the dusting of freckles across his face and hands sharply emphasized his extreme pallor. An anxious chill rippled through her as she realized just how little there was to him.

God, he was just a fragile shell, easily crushed by the slightest pressure.

She shook her head impatiently at the thought, knowing he was stronger than he looked. He had to be, just to have survived all that he had. He'd been more dead than alive when he'd been brought in to her weeks ago, bled nearly dry and so badly injured in so many ways that it had taken a crack surgical team nearly nine hours to put him back together. He'd survived longer odds than any of them had cared to voice, had fought back each time they'd been ready to pronounce him dead. That he was here at all right now, in any shape, gave her every right and reason to declare him a success by any reasonable medical standard.

Except, perhaps, her own. She'd gone into medicine to heal, to restore wholeness to that which had been torn, to fix what had been broken. And it took no great insight to know that the young man before her, while certainly mending, was far from healed, or that what was truly broken in him was far beyond her ability to fix.

Skilled surgeon that she was, not even she could put back together a tattered soul.

A soft, sad sigh escaped her as she confronted the evidence of her limitations. She hated knowing that, though she'd done much more than she or anyone had expected for him, it wasn't nearly enough. Hated knowing that there were just some wounds that even the most meticulous stitching in the world couldn't close. Hated knowing that a man who'd already suffered and survived more than a truly just fate would allow was still bleeding in places she couldn't even see.

She shook her head and turned to leave, but was stopped by a soft, tired drawl behind her.

"Y'ain't gotta go. Ain't nothin' in my dreams I care ta go back to."

She turned back to him, recognizing the effects of pain medication in his slightly slurred words and the heaviness of his half-open eyes. Absently cradling the blue plastic binder that held his chart to her chest, she crossed the room to the bed and smiled down at him.

"I thought you were asleep. I didn't want to disturb you."

"Don't matter none," he breathed. "Reckon I'm gettin' used ta bein' disturbed."

She recognized the double meaning in his words but chose to ignore it, knowing she had no more than well-intentioned banalities to offer and unwilling to insult him with those. "I thought you might like to know how you're doing," she said instead, flipping open his chart and leafing through it.

He narrowed his eyes and blinked repeatedly, trying to force his medication-fogged brain into something resembling thought. "'M I..." He winced at the thickness of his tongue and the dryness of his mouth. "'M I gonna get ta leave?"

"Here." She set the folder down on the tray table beside his bed and poured him a cup of water, holding it out to him. "Use the good one," she said when he instinctively reached for it with his bandaged right hand.

"Ain't sure there is a 'good' part'a me jist now," he rasped, taking the cup in his left hand. "Managed ta slice open th' only parts that weren't hurt before."

She remembered the cuts on the bottoms of his feet and gave a wry smile. "You are a walking billboard for the medical supply industry, all right. Sip slowly," she urged as he sucked greedily through the straw. "Don't want this clashing with the meds and making a sudden reappearance."

He took one more sip, then lowered the cup, even less eager than she to have the water come up again. "Reckon it wouldn't look good fer a doctor ta make her patient throw up."

"We like to save that for when we send out our bills," she quipped, taking the cup from his hand and setting it on the table. She then glanced around the room, noticing JD's absence for the first time, and frowned worriedly. "Do I want to know where your partner in crime is?"

"Don't worry, he jist went ta get somethin' t' eat. Mentioned a pizza place nearby that had an 'all you can eat' sign in the window." He gave a slight grin. "If'n I know JD, he's gonna make the owners regret them words. So," his smile faded, and he fidgeted nervously with the edge of his sheet, "do I get ta leave today?"

She opened his chart and flipped through its pages, studying the various test results. "Well," she began quietly, frowning intently and slowly drumming the fingers of one hand against the tabletop, "you're still not nearly where I'd like you to be, but, once again, there's not enough here to justify my keeping you any longer. So, yeah, you get to leave today."

"You don't sound none too happy about it."

She lifted her gaze from the chart and turned it upon him, arching a dark brow as she saw the new hurts layered over older but still unhealed ones. "Have you looked at yourself in a mirror lately?" she asked dryly. "I put a lot of work into you, and you seem determined to undo it all."

He bowed his head as a faint blush crept into his pale cheeks. "'S nothin' personal," he murmured.

"Sorry, Tanner, I take all my work personally. I left some of my finest stitching in you, and I'd appreciate it if you'd give it the respect it deserves. Or, the next time, I'll just use fishing line."

He smiled at that and raised his head, a faint gleam in his tired eyes. "You sure y'ain't related ta Larabee? Y'all got the same bedside manner."

She chuckled. "Must be the company we keep. Now, let's talk about you." She turned back to his chart and shook her head slowly, clucking her tongue softly. "You gotta work with me here, Tanner, put some effort into this recovery thing. Your blood sugar's low, and you're verging on anemia." She shot a smirk at him. "You'll be glad to know that the dietician is working up a diet for you, and that I'll go over it in detail with Nathan when he comes to spring you."

"Aw, hell," he groaned, bowing his head. She'd go over it with Nathan, Nathan would go over it with Chris, and Chris, damn his contrary hide, would treat it like it was Gospel. "Cain't we talk about this?"

"We just did," she said with a firm finality. "In addition to the diet, I'm prescribing iron pills, and I highly recommend a daily vitamin. Your body chemistry needs all the help it can get. And, speaking of chemistry, I'm also upping the dosage of your Zoloft, from 25 mg to 50."

He thought of the assortment of drugs he was taking, and frowned in confusion. "Which one's that?"

She exhaled slowly, sincerely hoping someone was overseeing his medications if he couldn't tell them apart. Something else to discuss with Nathan...

"Technically," she began, "it's a selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor." At his blank look, she smiled slightly. "It's an anti-depressant. Basically, we're trying to treat a chemical imbalance in your brain by improving the communication between your nerve cells." She shrugged. "We're trying to correct the way your brain reacts to stimuli."

He scowled and bowed his head, picking absently at the blanket covering him. "Ain't workin'," he said dispiritedly. "I'm still crazy."

She sighed and gazed sadly at him. "First of all, you're not crazy. Depression is an illness, like the flu or the measles, and it is treatable. Second-"

"I beat the hell outta my best friend." He raised his head and stared up at her through blue eyes dark with anger, regret and shame. "He hasn't done nothin' except try ta help me, and I tried ta kill him. You don't think that's crazy?"

She held his stare with her own. "No, I don't. In fact, knowing what I do about what you've been through, I'd go so far as to say you're having perfectly normal reactions to thoroughly abnormal circumstances. You suffered through a brutal ordeal that very nearly killed you, and your mind is still trying to cope with that. Along with a few other things," she added pointedly.

He tore his gaze from hers at that and again stared down at his blanket, locking tightly the door in his mind she was threatening to open. "I know what happened," he said in a low, hoarse voice. "I got beat up. Well, I been beat up before, and I got over it all right. So you can jist take me off that Zulu shit-"

"Zoloft," she corrected.

"Whatever!" he growled, waving a hand in dismissal. "I don't need it, I don't want it, and it ain't workin', so's you might as well jist take me off it!"

She shook her head. "I can't do that. This isn't a drug that works overnight; you have to give it time. Typically, it takes between four and six weeks for patients to notice any results, and you've been on it less than three. This isn't a quick-fix, Vin," she said firmly. "There are no quick-fixes for this. You have to give it time."

"Why?" he demanded harshly, anger stirring to life within him. "Why do I 'have' ta do anything? I know what's wrong with me! I got beat up. Big fuckin' deal! I told ya, I been beat up before. Hell, I been beat up lotsa times, and I ain't ever had nobody pushin' pills down my throat before!" He shook his head fiercely. "I don't need 'em. I can deal with this on my own-"

"Like you dealt with Chris?" she put in softly, hating it, but knowing she had no choice. "Or like you dealt with Buck when you held him and a nurse at gunpoint? You weren't on the Zoloft then. Do you consider that an acceptable way of dealing with this on your own?"

What little color he had drained from him in a rush and he stared strickenly up at her, the pain that stabbed into his soul showing plainly in his wide eyes. His mouth opened, but the only sound that escaped him was a soft, anguished gasp.

She sighed heavily and sat down on the edge of his bed, feeling as if she'd just shoved a scalpel into him. "I'm sorry," she breathed, forcing herself to look into those tormented blue eyes. "I know that hurt, but I couldn't think of any other way..." She reached out and took his bandaged hand gently between her two. "You have an illness; it's called 'depression.' I'm a doctor, and I treat illnesses and injuries." She frowned thoughtfully and stared down at his hand, envisioning the long, deep gash she'd stitched. "Your friends brought you here yesterday because you'd hurt yourself, and you needed help. I sewed your hand back together. Now, granted, it wasn't a life-threatening injury, and, provided you could avoid infection and bleeding, you probably could have recovered on your own. But," she raised her eyes to his, "it would've taken an awfully long time, and chances are very good that your hand would never have worked just right again. Did you absolutely need my help?" She shook her head. "No, but you sought it because you knew it was the best thing to do. Is it possible to get over depression without medication?" She shrugged. "Probably. But why should you have to, when the medication's available, and when it works? Why suffer needlessly, and why prolong your suffering needlessly? Why not make use of the help that's available to you?"

He winced and bowed his head, ashamed that his need for help should be so obvious. Ashamed that he should need such help at all. "Jist don't seem right," he breathed. "I mean," he ran a shaking hand through his hair, "I been through this before. I don't see why I cain't deal with it now like I done then."

"Mm hm. And how long did it take you to deal with it then? Or," she watched him closely, saw his fingers alternately raking through and pulling at his hair, saw the spasmodic clenching and unclenching of his jaws and the shadows that filtered through his eyes, "given the state you're in right now, and considering your recent pattern of behavior, can you truly say you've ever really dealt with it at all?" She reached out and gently untangled his hand from his hair, then laced her fingers through his and held tightly to them. "There's no sin in needing help, Vin," she said softly, her dark eyes filled with compassion. "Taking these pills doesn't mean you're crazy. It just means you have a problem, and you're doing everything you can to fix it."

"But it ain't workin'!" he whispered brokenly, his blue eyes pleading with her for understanding. "I hurt Chris! Don't you understand that? I hurt him!"

"I know," she answered sadly. "And I won't pretend to understand how that's hurting you. But you have to give this time. The medication will work, but only if you let it. Look at yourself," she said firmly, a new thought striking her. "Look at your body. Is it healed yet? Is it anywhere near being healed yet? I did a damn near miraculous job of putting you back together, but we both know you still have a long way to go before you're really okay. Wounds like yours, and I mean the wounds to your mind as well as your body, just don't heal overnight, and only an idiot would expect otherwise. And you're a lot of things, Tanner, but you've never been an idiot." She smiled slightly. "So don't start now, okay?"

He tried to smile, but failed, and bowed his head to hide the tears pricking his eyes. "I jist... want it ta be over!" he breathed, tired to his soul of the constant battle he waged with his own mind. "I hate bein' like this. Ever' little thing scares me... That ain't me, 'n I don't want it ta be me! But half the time, I don't remember who 'me' is..." He raised his head abruptly, his blue eyes raw with pain, his white face streaked with tears. "I jist want my life back!" he pleaded hoarsely. "I want me back. And I want all these goddamn voices gone from my head!"

"It's going to take time," she said again. "Oh, I know how much you must hate hearing that. Hell, I hate saying it. But it's true. Believe me," she sighed, "if I could surgically remove them, I would. If I could wave a magic wand and make them disappear, I would. But I can't. For all the marvels of modern medicine, there are still some things that have to be done the old-fashioned way - with patience, determination, and the strong support of people who care about you." She reached up and gently set her hand under his chin, lifting his head until their eyes met and smiling at him. "You've got all those things, Vin," she assured him, "or you would never have made it this far. You flat-out refused to die when we fully expected you to, and you had six men with you every minute of every day who refused to let you go. You're a stubborn man with stubborn friends." Her smile widened, and she winked. "I'm willing to bet the seven of you are stubborn enough to get rid of those voices."

He stared at her for long moments, touched and comforted by her words, her concern. Then his gaze fell to the bruises at her neck, bruises he'd inflicted, and deep shame welled through him as he remembered very nearly choking her to death.

"I hurt you, too," he whispered, his eyes dark with remorse. "Coulda killed ya. 'N after you saved my life..." He grimaced and bowed his head, unable to meet her eyes. "Wouldn't blame ya if ya refused ta treat me anymore-"

"Sorry," she interrupted firmly, "you're stuck with me. I've got too much time and good work invested in you." Her dark eyes glinted with humor. "Like I said, Tanner, you're my miracle case, and the fact that you're able to walk around gives me all kinds of bragging rights around here. So," she arched a slim brow, "you'd best get your act together and get yourself healed, because I plan on getting a lot of mileage out of you."

He looked up then, saw the warmth in her eyes and heard the teasing in her voice, and gave a small, shy smile in return. He still didn't quite understand why so damn many people were determined to see him through this, but he couldn't deny how good it felt.

"Well, hell," he breathed, his tired spirit raising slightly, "some folks jist ain't got no sense at all. Though it seems ta me," his small smile stretched into a crooked grin, "that bein' a miracle case 'n all oughtta get me some kinda discount on my bill, right?"

"Discount?" she snorted sharply. "I got news for you, Tanner. You're gonna finance my next Mercedes."

7~7~7~7

Nathan entered the room quietly, not sure what he'd find within. He'd talked with Dr. Stone, and she'd told him that, though Vin was lucid, his mood still swung from one extreme to the other almost without warning. She'd assured him Tanner was calm now, probably due in large part to the latest round of pain meds, but neither of them had the slightest idea how he'd react when he got back to the ranch and saw what he'd done to Chris.

It didn't escape Nathan's notice that among the prescriptions she'd handed him was one for a strong tranquilizer.

So now he all but tip-toed into the room, a man very much afraid of upsetting some fragile and precarious balance. Much to his relief, though, and somewhat to his surprise, Vin was already dressed and sitting up in bed, looking remarkably alert. The sweatshirt and pants he wore swallowed his thin frame, but his hair was clean and neatly combed and he was freshly shaved. At Nathan's entrance, he tore his gaze from the TV mounted on the wall, and a wide smile of welcome spread across his pale face.

"Howdy, Nate! I's wonderin' if you got lost."

"Not hardly," Jackson snorted, relaxing as he crossed to the bed. "I know this place pretty good by now."

"Oh, yeah," Vin's smile faded somewhat, "reckon ya do. So," he brightened again, "can we leave now?"

Nathan had to laugh at the younger man's eagerness. "Food's that bad, huh?"

"'Bad' ain't the word," Vin said contemptuously. "Y'know they serve meatloaf here without ketchup? You ever heard of such? And no salt. Who the hell can eat food without salt?"

"Salt's bad for ya, Vin, you know that. Raises your blood-pressure."

"Then they oughtta gimme some. I mean, they been mighty worried that mine's too low." He gave a lazy shrug. "I ain't no doctor, but it seems pretty simple ta me."

Nathan couldn't argue with Tanner's logic, and knew better than to try. "We'll go when the nurse brings in the discharge papers," he said instead. "I've talked to Dr. Stone, and she told me about the change in your Zoloft dosage. And," he added, staring pointedly at the sharpshooter, who wilted visibly, "about your diet. Your blood sugar and iron are low, and you're under-weight. We're gonna work on that."

Vin thought a moment, then straightened. A mischievous grin tugged at his mouth, and a twinkle danced in his eyes. "Ice cream oughtta do it."

Nathan scowled and pointed a warning finger at the Texan. "I'm gonna be watchin' you," he growled, though his dark eyes gleamed warmly. "And I'm gonna have a talk with Chris about the menu for the next few weeks."

"Aw, hell!"

Nathan had to laugh at Vin's disgusted tone, grateful to see yet another sign of the Tanner he knew. "Yeah, you're gonna be eatin' healthy for a long time," he chortled wickedly.

Vin glared at him. "You're enjoyin' this way too much," he grumbled. "Ain't right, you gettin' so much pleasure from my mis'ry."

"A healthy diet never hurt anybody," Nathan said with a shrug. "It won't kill you to eat vegetables that haven't been battered and fried first." He nodded sagely. "Take the fat out of your diet, and you'll live a lot longer."

"It'll prob'ly jist seem longer," Vin muttered morosely.

Nathan sighed. "You gotta give your body a fightin' chance, Vin," he counseled quietly. "You got a lotta-"

"Yeah, I know, I got a lotta healin' still ta do," he interrupted, his good spirits fading. "I heard this once already today. I gotta get my strength back, I gotta let myself heal, it's gonna take time, all the usual stuff." He stared at Nathan through narrowed eyes. "You know I'm on a damn anti-depressant?"

"Yeah. Zoloft. It's that orange and white pill you take once a day. You didn't know what it was?"

"Hell," Vin sighed, grimacing and bowing his head. "I'm takin' so much shit I can't keep it all straight. I jist take whatever y'all shove at me and don't ask no questions. Reckon it's safer that way."

Nathan frowned in confusion. "Safer? Why safer?" He saw the flush creeping into Tanner's pale, drawn cheeks, and suddenly understood. "Ah," he breathed. He sat down on the edge of the bed and studied his friend with compassion. "Havin' trouble with the labels?" he asked softly.

Vin flinched and turned his head, able to feel the color burning in his face. Though little mention was ever made of his dyslexia, he knew the others were aware of it, and he could well imagine what they must think of him for it. "I reckon gettin' bashed in the head didn't help me none," he murmured. "Scrambled my brain worse'n what it was already. Cain't read fer shit."

Nathan nodded slowly. He'd expected the skull fracture to have such an effect, and suspected that Vin's psychological trauma was playing a part in it, as well. And while he was fairly certain the regression was temporary, he knew it was one burden more than Vin needed to bear at the moment.

"I'm sorry," he said simply, certain that Tanner wouldn't appreciate trite assurances of better things to come. Not when it was all he could do to get from one day to the next without losing any more of himself than he already had.

"Ain't your fault."

"No, but I'm still sorry," Nathan said softly, sadly. "I'm sorry I can't do more for you. I'm sorry I can't lift some of this from you. I'm sorry I don't have some magic words or a magic pill to make it all go away. Hell," he sighed, "mostly I'm sorry we couldn't do more to stop this from happenin' to ya at all."

Vin plucked absently at one leg of his sweatpants, his head still bowed. "Ain't your fault," he said again. "I reckon a lot of it happened 'fore I ever knew y'all. Cain't undo what's already been done."

"No, I guess not." Nathan gazed sorrowfully at his friend, wondering just how much of what had been done to him he truly remembered. "But maybe we can help undo some of the damage it's doin' now," he suggested gently. "And maybe we can help you find a way to live with the rest of it. We at least wanta try."

"I know y'all do. And I ain't got the words ta tell ya what that means to me." He swallowed hard and slowly raised his head, forcing himself to meet Nathan's eyes. "I cain't remember the last time I had so many folks twistin' themselves inta knots jist ta help me. Hell, I ain't even sure I ever really had that at all. Been takin' care of myself fer so long now, I done fergot there's any other way of doin' things." He shrugged slightly. "I jist sorta figgered that's how it was s'posed ta be. How it's always gonna be. Then I took up with y'all... 'N it ain't like that no more, is it?"

Nathan smiled and reached out, setting a big but gentle hand on the Texan's bony knee. "No, Vin, it ain't like that no more. And it ain't ever gonna be like that again. We're all in this together. And we have been from the start."

Vin nodded and dropped his gaze again, frowning. "That's what JD said. Said if I got a problem, y'all got a problem. Said y'all ain't whole unless I am. 'S the damnedest thing I ever heard."

"But it's true." He lifted his hand from Vin's knee and cupped it around the back of his neck. "We need you, Vin. Not our sharpshooter, but you, our friend. And we won't rest until we have you back."

"All'a y'all feel that way?" Vin whispered, not daring to raise his eyes. "Even... even Chris?"

"No, not 'even' Chris." Hurt and bewildered blue eyes flew to his, and he smiled reassuringly. "Especially Chris. He was ready ta come up here and bust you out last night when he heard they were keepin' you. He was afraid they wouldn't take good enough care of you. He wanted you back at the ranch. Kep' sayin' it was where you belonged."

Vin slowly tilted his head to one side and frowned deeply, utterly confused by these proofs of friendship and loyalty that were completely outside the realm of his experience. "But... after what I done... I tried ta kill him-"

"You didn't know what you were doin'. And it wasn't Chris you were tryin' to kill, but whoever it was that hurt you so bad in the past. I don't know if you've thought about this yet, but I want you to now." He stared steadily into Vin's eyes, willing him to understand. "All the time you were fightin' Chris, he didn't fight back. Oh, he tried to stop you, tried to grab you, even tried to hold you down, but he never once hit you, never once struck back. And you know that man can fight like the devil himself when he has to. Now, you look at the shape you're in, and you think about the shape Chris is in, and you tell me he couldn't have broken you in half if he'd tried. But he didn't. Because he knew you weren't fightin' him; you were fightin' some demon from your past. And he figured you'd been hurt enough without him addin' to it."

Vin stared at Nathan, listening intently to his words and trying desperately to remember. But he recalled very little, except an almost crippling fear. He'd beaten the hell out of his best friend, and couldn't even remember doing it.

"I'm losin' my mind!" he whispered, dropping his head into his good hand.

"No, you're not," Nathan assured him, leaning close and circling a strong arm about the bowed, slender back. With the instinctive need to comfort that was so deeply a part of him, he gathered Vin against him and held tightly to him, cradling the smaller man close against his broad chest. "You're not losin' it, Vin," he soothed. "In fact, it could be that, after all these years, you're finally gettin' it back. You got things inside you that you've kept locked away for too long, parts of yourself that you've forgotten existed. And now they're comin' out. Maybe it's time you let 'em. Maybe it's time you unlocked that door and let 'em out into the light."

"No!" he moaned, clutching tightly at Nathan. "Don't want 'em! They're bad. I know it! He said so. Said I'm goin' ta hell fer the things I done. Said I's bein' punished, 'n I deserved what I got-"

"Who said that?" Nathan asked harshly as a hot wave of anger rose within him. He'd seen the scars on Vin's body, and couldn't imagine what anyone could do, much less the man he knew, to deserve what he'd so obviously suffered. "Who told you those lies?"

Vin closed his eyes tightly and buried his face in Nathan's chest. Again, the hated voice sounded in his mind, and he clung to Jackson for protection. "The p... the preacher," he whispered brokenly. "Said I's damned... He hated me. They all did, after... Don't you see?" he pleaded, raising a white and tear-streaked face to Nathan, his blue eyes filled with anguish. "If I open that door, it'll all come out, 'n y'all'll hate me, too. 'N I jist couldn't take that!"

"Ssh, hush," Nathan murmured, pulling Vin's head once more to his chest and holding more tightly still to him. "You hush now, and you listen ta me, Vin Tanner." Despite the gentleness of his voice and touch, rage burned in his soul at the terrible harm done his friend. "We know you, we know you, and there is nothin' you could possibly tell us that would ever make us hate you! I don't care what that preacher said, he was lyin'. Lyin' ta you, and doin' it in the name of God. If anybody's goin' ta hell, it's him! Somebody hurt you, Vin, somebody hurt you bad, in ways no child should ever be hurt. Stoppin' 'em from hurtin' you don't make you bad, it makes you a survivor. And it ain't no sin to survive. You didn't deserve what happened ta you, Vin," he said softly but with a fierce intensity, furious that Tanner had been made to believe otherwise, "and you don't deserve what's happenin' now. That bastard's still hurtin' you, and it's high time he was stopped. You hear me? Only, this time, you won't be goin' against him by yourself. This time, we're all gonna be right there with you. And no matter what it takes, no matter how long it takes, we're gonna stay right here with you, and we're gonna see you through this."

"I'm tired, Nathan," Vin murmured, relaxing into the big man's embrace. "I'm so tired! I been fightin' fer so long... I get tired of fightin', y'know? I jist wanta lay down and rest."

"I know," Nathan breathed, hurting deeply for his friend. "And I'll tell you what. When the nurse comes with your discharge papers, we'll get you outta here and go back to the ranch. You can lay down there and rest for as long as you want. And I know six guardian angels who'll be more than glad ta keep watch over you while you do. That sound good ta you?"

"Yeah," Vin sighed, very nearly asleep now. "Reckon it's the best damn thing I ever heard."