Archive of Our Own

The sound of an angry, blaring horn rang in Barley's ears as he sped through the final traffic light before entering his neighborhood. Maybe later he would feel guilty about the mayhem he had left in his wake, but right now he didn't care, not if it meant getting home faster.

Not if it meant being there to protect Ian.

I should never have left him alone, Barley thought frantically. He clipped the sidewalk making a turn that was a little too sharp. I should've stayed with him, I should've just asked Mom to get the medicine later--how could I leave him?! 

His house came into view, finally, and he came to a grinding halt that nearly knocked the air from his lungs. The second he shifted to park he charged through Guinevere II's side door and noticed with a sinking heart that the curtains had been drawn--something he hadn't done before he left--and the front door had been left open. 

He knew that Ian was strong, that he was getting a better handle on his magical abilities, that he could take care of himself...under normal circumstances. But now that he was sick...

"Please," Barley whispered. He ran across the front yard to the threshold. 

Please.

He reached the doorway just as he heard a voice that did not belong to anyone who should be here.

"Just...die..."

For just a second, Barley felt as though his heart, his body, his very cognition had frozen. The living room was in a sorry state, items from all over the household gathered in the center of it...but that only held his attention briefly before he saw the stranger. Clearly elven, with stringy hair and rumpled clothes. His back was to Barley, and it seemed that he hadn't even noticed him, leaning forward on his hands and knees. 

But wait...there were two pairs of feet. And one of those pairs was bare and filthy, and small...and kicking feebly. A thin arm appeared, dropping to the floor like a dead fish. An agonized whimper could barely be heard over the man's harsh breathing, yet it cut straight through to Barley's soul. The ice that coated his mind was melted by white-hot fury as he realized what was happening. 

This man was killing his baby brother.

"GET OFF OF HIM!" Barley roared, and the man's face whirled around as Barley charged him and grabbed the back of his jacket. With an enraged scream, he hurled the burglar at the pile of valuables. Barley didn't even wait for the stranger to recover as he raced towards him, grabbed the collar of his shirt and punched him in his face. 

The man thrashed in Barley's grip, blood now trickling from the corner of his mouth. There was a demented look in his eyes, one that might have actually made Barley shiver if he wasn't already fuelled by rage. He was also sputtering, with Barley only being able to make out snippets of what he was saying.

"...let go...gonna kill...stop...kill him, little freak...!"

Barley shouted, too furious to properly speak, and punched him a second time. He reared his fist back to land a third strike. Unfortunately, the red haze that clouded his vision prevented him from seeing the metal baseball bat the criminal managed to get his hands on until it was too late. Barley hissed as he felt it connect to his shoulder; it wouldn't hurt until later, but it still caused his hold to loosen. The man escaped his grip and took the opportunity to land a punch to Barley's eye. Barley reflexively covered it, his head spinning. The man wasn't as big as Barley, but he definitely wasn't thin like Ian; he could hit hard. 

Barley's focus stabilized just as the robber made it out the door. With a growl, Barley dashed to the doorway with the intent to make the man pay when the coughing finally registered. He stilled, the anger quickly overcome by horror. He spun his head around and saw Ian. 

The younger boy was laying on the floor, his limbs sprawled almost lifelessly around him. He was coughing so violently that his back was arching off the carpet from the force of it. In the split seconds where he wasn't, he was trying to take in air, his gasping loud and desperate. It truly sounded as though Ian was dying, and Barley was more terrified than he'd ever been in his life. 

"Ian!" he cried, and rushed to his little brother's side. Barley quickly got down on his knees, and he felt sickened as he got his first good look at Ian. 

Hideous finger marks were visible on Ian's neck, and his face had gone purple from what could only be asphyxiation. Three thin, bloody scratches had been left on his cheek: the entire area all the way down to his jaw was streaked with red (the blood itself had clotted, though, so maybe they weren't as bad as they looked?). And tears were making their way from his closed eyelids into his hair and ears. Without thinking Barley grasped Ian's shoulder and cupped his cheek, wanting nothing more than to alleviate his pain in whatever way he could. 

Ian recoiled at his touch. "No..." His voice was weak, but there was no denying the fear in it. 

"No, hey, it's okay, it's me!" Barley assured him, his own voice trembling. "It's me..."

Though Ian's body was still tensed, his coughing was starting to even out. Barley felt as though the whole world had gone still as he waited. Then, at last, Ian's eyes cracked open, and Barley suppressed a shudder at how bloodshot and wet they were. 

"Hey," he murmured with a wobbling smile, "There you are..." 

Ian blinked a couple of times, looking dazed. His breathing slowly grew quieter, and Barley could feel the tension leaking out of Ian's body. He waited for the moment when his brother would acknowledge him, would understand that he returned to save him.

It didn't come.

The light in his eyes dimmed...his rattling breaths faded...

...and then there was silence.

Barley was shaking from head to foot. "No..." he uttered numbly. He held two of his fingers in front of Ian's mouth, still partially open, but there was no puff of air to be felt by them. "No no no no no..." Tears filled his eyes as he pressed his ear to Ian's chest, praying for the sound of his heartbeat...but there was nothing. 

This can't be real... he thought, denial warring against despair. 

Barley cradled Ian in his arms, staring down into his unseeing eyes. He shook his head. "Come back," he croaked, holding him tighter, "Wake up, please don't leave..." He buried his face in Ian's hair. "Ian, don't do this, wake up...wake up, wake up, wake up wake up wake up wake--"

Barley gasped as his eyes snapped open and immediately trained themselves on the ceiling of his darkened bedroom. He breathed heavily, registering the sweat on his skin, the weight of the worn blanket that haphazardly covered his legs, the crick in his neck from shifting it the wrong way. 

A dream, he told himself, his grief and panic slowly receding. Forcing steadiness into his breathing, he kicked his blanket off and sat up, running a hand through his damp hair.

Another stupid dream. 

Barley glanced at his alarm clock...1:26 am. 

He rubbed his eyes and...took a moment. To banish the remnants of his nightmare from his mind. To remember what had been real and what hadn't been. 

You weren't too late. You made it in time.

Ian dying...was thankfully false. Sadly, everything leading up to that had been true. Barley would give anything to make it so it wasn't. 

He made himself take a deep breath...hold it...and release it. Then he pulled his knees up and rested his arms on them. He leaned his head back against his headboard...and closed his eyes.

"How's he doing?" Colt asked, still panting from all the the running he had done prior to now. He cleared his throat as he stepped up to where Barley was kneeling. 

Barley only spared his sweaty, red-faced stepfather a glance before returning his attention to the limp form on the couch. "How do you think he's doing?" he mumbled. His hands enveloped Ian's, an act of comfort meant to ground his brother as well as himself, though Barley used one to nudge Ian's shoulder. Ian jolted weakly, his eyelids fluttering back open. "Wakey, wakey, little bro," Barley said, forcing himself to sound light. Ian didn't answer, just shifted his head slightly to peer into Barley's eyes. Barley tried not to notice how Ian's eyes never opened more than halfway, or the way he winced every time he had to swallow. He couldn't begin to guess what was going through his brother's head right now. 

Beside him, Blazey crept closer to Ian. She sniffed at his hair and whimpered as though pleading. Her eyes were huge and mournful, a contrast from the ferocity they carried just a few minutes ago, when she had returned to the house. She'd tried to climb up next to Ian, only to be pushed off by an apologetic Barley.

Colt inhaled deeply to compose himself. "Hey, kiddo," he said to Ian, "Hang in there, okay? The ambulance is almost here." 

The ambulance siren was growing louder as it approached, but Ian gave no indication he'd heard anything Colt said. In the moments that they'd been sitting here he seemed to alternate between knowing what was going on and being completely oblivious. He also hadn't spoken a word since the police officers showed up. 

"Don't...don't let me go..."

Barley knew it was for the best, had even told Ian not to talk and hurt his throat more, because his breaths were still far too shallow. But his silence combined with his fading awareness and obvious injuries was scary. And as for his fever...Barley felt Ian's temple and cheek, and he grimaced. Ian's sickness hadn't been that bad before, but now it felt as though his skin was on fire. Yet, he was also shivering like a wind-blown leaf. His battle with the burglars--and that was undoubtedly what it had been, a battle--must have exaggerated the symptoms of the fever.

If there was any good that could be seen in all this, it was that, after cleaning most of the blood off Ian's cheek and jawline, Barley saw that the scratches weren't very deep, and the worst of the bleeding had stopped. The purple in his face was disappearing, which was also good. Barley knew that there was a healing spell that could take care of Ian's wounds...but it was painfully obvious that Ian was in no state to correctly use it. Even if he was, Barley didn't know what happened to the staff. 

Colt was called into the kitchen by one of the other officers, and Barley heard his hoofsteps retreat...just as a different set of hooves came near. 

"Hey, Lightfoot," a female voice said.

Barley exhaled through his nose. It was Officer Gore. "I told you everything I know," he said through gritted teeth.

This was true. Once the police verified that there were no hostiles remaining in the household, he'd been questioned by Officers Gore and Specter. 

Lucky me, he'd thought sourly. He still remembered that one other time he'd been around them, though they hadn't known it was him.

"The guy's a screw-up. You can't say you don't agree..."

Indeed, throughout the interrogation, he could tell by the disdain in Gore's eyes, the way her questions had a slight accusatory edge, that she believed he messed up. That Ian was in this mess because he was neglected by the brother who was supposed to watch over him. It was hard to tell whether or not Specter held that belief as well, but he noted the way her gaze was trained on the cloth that covered Ian's neck, her single eye darkening with cold anger.

"We'll get the ones who did this to your brother," she'd promised him. To his surprise, she had even wrapped an ice pack she'd found in the freezer and given it to him for his swelling eye. That counted for something, at least, even if he wasn't overly concerned about it. 

Now, upon hearing Gore speak to him again, Barley cast his eyes to the ceiling. He was just...tired. Hurt. Scared, because he felt like he was seconds away from shattering. He didn't, though, because he was distracted by the sound of Ian whimpering.

He looked down to see Ian's body go rigid with pain, his fingers tightening on Barley's hand. Not knowing what else to do, Barley carded his fingers through Ian's hair, being careful to avoid the tangled parts. In truth, this was a gesture he almost never used; he much preferred to hug people, to hold them in his arms, maybe rub their back while he was at it. This was something their mother typically did instead...but she wasn't here, and Ian couldn't handle an embrace right now. It seemed to do the trick: his features slackened along with his grip. 

"You're okay," Barley said softly to him. He then cringed, as nothing could be farther from the truth, and he amended his words. "You're going to be okay..."

After a moment where Ian settled back down and no one said anything further, Gore spoke up again. "I wasn't gonna ask you any more questions."

Barley stiffened. "So what were you gonna say, huh?" He refused to look at her. "That this was my fault because I left my sick brother by himself? That I let this happen because I'm a screw-up?"

"I just--"

"Because you're right."

A pause. "What?"

"You heard me," Barley said bleakly. She was right, wasn't she? And Ian had been, too. It didn't matter that Gore didn't really know him. It didn't matter that Ian had regretted calling him that in the heat of the moment, that he had apologized profusely for it not long after. They'd been right all along...he really was a screw-up. And this latest mistake had nearly cost his little brother's life. 

For a few minutes, the only things that could be heard were the other policemen talking in the background and Ian, still laboring for a proper breath. Barley's eyes stung, and he squeezed them shut...he didn't want to cry, not where so many people could see him. Certainly not when his brother still needed him. Then...

"We found this behind some of that clutter in the corner."

Barley opened his eyes, and he finally turned to face her. His heart skipped a beat when he saw Ian's staff in her hands. She walked up to him and held it out for him to take. 

"It's your brother's, right? I'm guessing they got it away from him in the fight."

Barley nodded and reached a hand out to accept the object, his other hand still holding Ian's. As he did, he saw something flit across Gore's expression. If he didn't know any better, he'd almost say she looked conflicted, maybe even a little unsure. She seemed like she wanted to say something more to him...but instead, she adjusted her hat and left the room. 

He wasn't going to get back to sleep, was he?

Barley opened his eyes, once again greeted by darkness, and grunted. He stood up from his bed and made his way over to his desk, biting back a curse as he stepped on something--possibly his knight's helmet replica. He switched his lamp on, his eyes watering as bright light invaded his vision. He sat down in his chair, blinking rapidly until his eyesight acclimated to the change. 

I need a diversion, he decided.

He eyed the figurines that lined the edge of his desk, dull and gray. They were waiting to be painted, and Barley would've happily done so, except he didn't have all the colors he needed. He'd been meaning to pick up more, but with everything that occured in the past month and a half...Barley shoved the thought back down.

Scratching an itch on his neck, Barley opened a drawer and pulled out his Quests of Yore manual. He flipped through the pages, not looking for anything in particular, and began to read. 

Barley was relieved when the paramedics entered the house, but at the same time he felt his anxiety spike. Colt exited the kitchen to meet them and gestured to where Ian was laying. "Over there," he told them quietly. 

What am I gonna tell Mom? Barley suddenly wondered. How am I gonna explain what happened?

He didn't have time to ponder this too closely, because the paramedics were approaching. Blazey growled at them in warning, but she also shrunk back. One of them, a cyclops woman, said, "You'll need to move so we can work."

"I can't," Barley protested, "He needs me." 

"We need room--"

"And you'll have it! I won't get in your way, I promise! Just, please..."

The woman exchanged glances with her partner, a middle-aged elven man, and after some wordless deliberation he said to Barley, "Move closer to the arm of the couch, then. Keep him calm."

"Okay," Barley replied gratefully. He scooted over, and as he did Ian's breathing hitched and he squeezed his older brother's hand even harder. He looked a little more conscious than he did a minute ago, and Barley could see how frightened he was.

"Hey, I'm not letting go, remember?" he reassured him, "I told you I wouldn't." He momentarily set the staff aside and brushed the back of Ian's hand with his thumb. 

Ian didn't loosen his hold on Barley, and the wariness didn't leave his eyes, but he didn't fight as they peeled back the blanket that was covering him and started to examine his battered body. The elven paramedic asked him for Ian's name and ailments. Barley answered as best he could. He told them Ian had been sick with a fever the past couple of days, that he'd been afflicted with chills, headaches, a loss of appetite, light-headedness, and a sore throat. He told them how they'd run out of the medicine Ian needed, and so Barley had left to get more. He brought up how the criminals that broke into their house had probably beaten him, one of them clawing his face. He told them--his voice beginning to break at this point--that he'd come home to find his younger brother being strangled. 

The man asked his partner for a thermometer, which she supplied. It wasn't the regular kind, and he pressed it against Ian's temple and waited. After a few seconds, it beeped. He pulled it away, and the results made him frown. "What was his temperature before this?" he inquired.

"About a hundred," Barley responded worriedly, "Why--?"

"It's reading 104 now."

Barley felt himself go cold at this statement.

Ian squirmed uncomfortably as the medic removed the cloth from his throat. Barley had to swallow the gasp he could feel threatening to escape; the bruises that covered Ian's neck looked worse than before. He forced himself to look away, but the image now stained his mind. 

The paramedic inspected the bruises, and Ian instinctively tried to hold his breath, only to cough several times as he failed miserably. Barley's heart broke at the sight, and he rested his free hand on Ian's head. "Ian, you don't have to be afraid--these people are gonna help you." Ian's coughs slowed, and his eyes found Barley's. Somehow, Barley was able to give his brother a small smile. To his total amazement, Ian managed to give one to Barley in return, even if was weak.

"It's not your fault." 

Ian had said that to him. In the moments before the police came inside, in the midst of his own suffering and the nightmare of his near-death...he didn't blame Barley. He'd tried to keep Barley from blaming himself. And even now, his inner strength wasn't gone.

Barley really did have the best little brother.

"You're doing great, Ian," the man next to him said kindly, "We're almost done with this part."

That got Barley's attention. "'This part'?" he echoed. 

The man pried open Ian's eyelids and shone a small flashlight into each of them. Ian groaned and pulled his head away when that was done. "No concussion," the medic said, "Good." He then faced Barley. "He's having trouble breathing, and that's not going to get better without help. And his temperature is getting dangerously high. We'll have to take him to the hospital."

Barley felt like he was falling. He had known that would be the case, but an irrational, childish part of him had hoped...

The cloth that covered Ian's forehead slid off. Barley bended until he touched Ian's forehead with his own.  "I'm sorry, Ian," he whispered shamefully, "I'm so sorry..."

Colt drew closer to them--he hadn't said a word throughout the procedure, just letting them do their job, so Barley had nearly forgotten he was there--and he talked to the paramedics, though Barley didn't quite process it. Everything felt raw, yet simultaneously dreamlike. He didn't know why, but Ian was the only thing that felt real. Barley could almost pretend that he was merely bringing solace to his brother after a really bad dream, that once his fears melted away he could say something to make him laugh. But this was reality, and reality was cruel. 

"Barley," Colt spoke, clasping his shoulder, "I know you don't want to, but we'll need you to let go so they can get Ian to the ambulance." 

Barley straightened. He knew Colt was right, but...

"Kid." That was the cyclops paramedic. "You can ride with us if you want, but we need to go now."

Barley nodded, then said to Ian, "Okay, I have to let go, but it's only for a moment, okay?" Ian appeared so disoriented that Barley knew he hadn't heard him, but the elven paramedic was already rolling the stretcher in. Regrettably, Barley released his hold on Ian's hand, picked the staff back up, and allowed Colt to pull him back. 

It took less than a minute for them to get into position and transfer Ian from the couch to the stretcher, but that was all it took for Ian to come to ready to panic. Barley quickly reached the stretcher, leaning over so his brother could clearly see him. "I'm here, I'm still here!" Ian's breathing slowed as much as it could in his condition, and relief was visible on his face. 

As the cyclops paramedic adjusted Ian's body, making sure he was safely on, the elven paramedic was explaining a few things to Colt. But Barley didn't listen, because something else seemed to be the matter with Ian. Not that he wasn't in pain before, but his expression was now showing discomfort and puzzlement. Ian wrinkled his nose, as though he were trying to figure something out. 

Just as the adults finished their discussion Ian's eyes widened and he gasped. He started to move, taking Barley aback. "Barley," Ian rasped urgently, "Barley!" It was the first thing he'd said in a while.

"What? What is it?!" Barley yelped in alarm. 

The sentiment was shared by the medics, who pinned him down with their hands to keep him from sitting up. They were stressing to him how important it was to stay still, and Colt was saying the same thing from behind them. Ian stopped when he pulled something out of his pocket. He heaved for breath as he held it out to Barley with a shaking hand. Barley froze as he realized what it was...a tiny, pale blue jewelry box. Swallowing hard, he took it from Ian's grasp and glimpsed at it before hiding it away in his pocket. 

He tried not to think about what this meant. 

The medics didn't comment on this; they were content that Ian was no longer exerting himself. "You ready to go, Ian?" the elven man asked him. 

Ian mouthed the word "yes". His forehead was shining with a thin sheen of sweat.

Barley and Colt followed them out onto the front lawn, then watched as Ian was loaded onto the ambulance. Barley got ready to climb in himself, but he paused. 

"Does Mom know what's going on?" he asked Colt gingerly. 

"She knows the house was invaded, and that Ian is hurt. She's probably halfway here by now. I'll call her and let her know where you guys are going." 

"And the robber?" Barley pressed, his voice low and dangerous. His hands balled into fists. "Did you get him?"

"I did," Colt answered grimly, "He's on his way to the station." 

Barley's fingers uncurled. "Thanks," he said sincerely. He jogged to the ambulance and hopped in. "Take care of Blazey!" he called before the doors shut. 

The vehicle drove off, the siren came back on, and Barley tried to make himself comfortable. To be perfectly frank, Barley had always suspected that he'd be riding in an ambulance one day, but...he always thought that he'd be the patient in such a scenario. Not Ian.

Speaking of which, Ian was laying motionless, his gaze more distant than ever. Barley came close to crumbling when he saw the oxygen mask that was strapped to his brother's face. Still gripping the staff in one hand, he took Ian's hand back into the other.

Barley closed his book with a heavy sigh. He set it aside and rubbed his face. This wasn't helping. 

He stood up and, for a change, decided to straighten up his room. Partially, anyway. Even at a time like this, he was too lazy to do anything more than picking stray objects up off the floor and depositing them on an available surface. Cleaning never cleansed his mind anyway, no matter what his mother claimed. In fact, while he could acknowledge the importance of living in a clean space, it only really frustrated him when he had to do it. Frustration wasn't something he needed right now. 

Besides, a little dirtiness is good for the adventurous spirit.

As he went about his task, Barley's eyes landed on his wooden club. He knew that one of the robbers had tried to kill Ian with his mace. But Ian, being the brilliant young wizard he was, had been able to deflect it. And when the man had persisted, their valiant pet Blazey had chased him off. Even so...Barley resolved to save up enough money to buy a weapons cabinet. 

One that comes with a lock...or maybe a booby trap, he added darkly.

He paced around his bedroom, still feeling restless. He had goosebumps on his arms from his nightmare. His face, and to a lesser extent his hair and neck felt sticky with cold sweat. Perspiration normally didn't bother Barley all that much--it was Ian who placed a greater value on personal hygiene--but tonight, it made him feel trapped in his own skin. Barley's bangs hung down in front of his eyes, and he swept them to the side (maybe he should take his mom's advice and get them trimmed). With a huff, he opened his bedroom door and stepped out, making his way through the dark house to the bathroom. 

As soon as they arrived at the hospital Ian's eyes had slipped shut and didn't reopen. Only the paramedics' reassurances that he simply passed out had kept Barley from losing it. Within minutes Ian had been taken away for treatment, while Barley was directed to the waiting room. Now Barley sat hunched over in his chair, wringing his beanie in his hands and holding Ian's staff close. His phone had run out of power and he didn't wear a watch, so it was difficult to tell how long he'd been here. 

"Barley," someone said in a hushed voice, and he looked up to see his mother's pale face. He got to his feet as she rushed up to him, and they embraced each other. When they stepped apart, Barley averted his eyes, unwilling to face her. Laurel wouldn't have this; she took her son's face in her hands and her gaze landed on his eye. "Are you okay?"

Barley shrugged. "Yeah, they gave me some ice." He hooked his thumb at the ice pack he'd been using for both his eye and his shoulder. Truthfully, with all that had been happening at the house he'd forgotten about the hit he took from the burglar. After he arrived here his shoulder started to throb. A nurse had brought him a bag of ice to keep on his bruises, which he'd been doing off and on. 

"Is Ian still being looked at?" Laurel asked.

"Yeah."

"How was he?"

"...Not great."

An awkward silence permeated the air between them as they sat down. Then Barley remembered. "Mom," he said tightly.

"What is it?"

"Ian..." Barley reached into his pocket, and retrieved the jewelry box. He ran his thumb over the worn velvet. "He had this on him." He handed it to her.

She looked stunned as she wordlessly opened the box, and the two of them peeked inside to see those familiar, golden rings. Her lips wobbled, and her eyes were shining. He saw his mother's tears, and he wanted so badly to take the fear and sorrow away and make her feel better. But he couldn't. All he could do was hold her hand and allow her to fuss over his injuries, minor as they were. He didn't dissuade her from holding the ice pack to his bruises, alternating between his shoulder and his eye, even though he knew he deserved them. She continued to do this until eventually, a satyr doctor came.

"Family of Iandore Lightfoot?" he called.

Barley and Laurel stood and walked over to him immediately. He gave them the rundown of Ian's condition as they followed him through the hallways. A lot of the medical terminology went flying over Barley's head, but he got the general idea.

For starters, Ian still needed assistance with breathing. His throat had swelled to the point where he couldn't do so on his own, and for the time being he wouldn't be able to eat anything solid. However, the damage that had been done was far from permanent--they had hope it would begin to heal within a couple of days. 

Their greater concern lay in Ian's illness. His struggle with the robbers had caused his temperature to rise drastically: it was now at 105. They would need to monitor it and ensure that it wouldn't go any higher. If it did, he would have to be transferred to intensive care. As it was, it was possible that the energy his body would spend fighting off the infection would slow the rest of his recovery. 

Along with the former two problems, the doctors had also discovered bruising on Ian's back and stomach, and he was dehydrated. They had bandaged the claw marks on his cheek--fortunately, those cuts had been shallow. Nothing was broken, and they found no signs of head trauma. They currently had him on a ventilator and an IV, and they were administering painkillers and antibiotics, as well as fluids and nutrients. 

"We've got him set up in this room here," the doctor said as he capped off his explanation. They stopped in front of a wooden, heavy-looking door.

"So we can go in?" Laurel asked softly. 

"Yes, ma'am, though he probably won't know you're there. He's resting pretty soundly right now."

Laurel had a few more questions for him, but Barley was done waiting. He opened the door and walked inside. As he approached the bed his steps grew more tentative. When he reached it he grasped the rail, and he stared at his brother.

Ian looked dead--there was no tactful way to describe it. His normally-blue skin was now ashen, which made the contrast with the hideous marks lining his neck all the more haunting. His facial features were utterly still, not a single part of his body so much as twitched. Barley could see what the doctor meant: he doubted even a large-scale explosion would be able to wake Ian. A patch of gauze covered his cheek, and an IV line trailed into the crook of his elbow, though Barley saw another one taped to the back of his hand. Ian seemed so unbearably fragile, and unbidden a memory floated up from the depths of Barley's subconscious--of someone else he loved dying in a hospital bed, his son not wanting to see him because of how frightening he now appeared.

"He was hooked to all these tubes...and he just didn't...look...like himself..."

Barley blinked back tears. At least he could see Ian's chest rising and falling, maybe unsteadily, but functioning all the same. He could see the oxygen mask clouding with Ian's breath, then clearing, then repeating the process. He could hear the heart monitor's consistent beeping. He could remind himself that Ian could make it through this, would make it through this. 

"Hi, Ian," he murmured, his fingertips dancing nervously on the railing. No response...not that he was expecting one. He cleared his throat, fumbling for words. "I, uh...I've got your staff." He raised it a little, as if Ian could see it. "Whenever you wake up, I'll...I'll be here to give it back to you." 

He fell silent when he heard footsteps...his mother had entered the room. She now stood beside him, taking in the sight of her youngest son. "My baby..." she whispered. She settled into the chair next to the bed, taking Ian's hand and stroking his hair. 

Barley spotted the futon and slumped down into it. He sat there, gripping the staff, and watched his brother sleep. 

The sound of the faucet running was soothing to Barley as he washed up in the sink. He dried himself with a hand towel, and he felt marginally better. He peered at the mirror, and he didn't see someone who just woke up a nervous wreck. He didn't see a coward or a failure. He was just...Barley Lightfoot. A warrior, a friend, a son, a brother...

...maybe, in a way, a father...?

His thoughts were interrupted when he heard scratching at the door. He chuckled; Blazey always knew when someone was up and about. He opened the door to see her wagging her tail hopefully. 

"You know it's too late for this, right?" Barley asked, his voice still gravelly from sleep. He frowned thoughtfully. "Or is it too early?" He shrugged and put his hands on his hips. "It's too whatever-time-it-is for this. Don't you know that?"

Blazey just tilted her head.

"Don't you care?"

She yipped.

"Yeah, me neither." 

He held his arms open, and she bounded into them, licking his cheek. "Girl, I just washed that," Barley grumbled playfully. He turned the light out and carried her into the kitchen. A drink sounded awful good right now.

Barley wasn't surprised when the Manticore came to visit them. He knew that she had developed a soft spot for them. Usually that knowledge would send him over the moons, but right now, he couldn't feel much of anything. Barley nodded a greeting to her as Laurel led her into the room. Luckily Colt had already left, otherwise they'd all be competing for space. 

Barley supposed that if there were a surprise to be had, it was that the Manticore was dressed in casual clothes rather than her battlesuit, or even the manager's outfit she'd worn when he and Ian had first met her. Somehow, it made her look...vulnerable. Her solemn expression only added to that persona as she stood at the foot of Ian's bed and studied him. 

Barley could imagine this was an awful picture for her, but there were small signs of improvement. Their bruises were beginning to fade around the edges. Admittedly, that in itself wasn't saying much, as they were still quite ugly to behold. But Ian was already drawing deeper breaths than before. While his temperature hadn't changed at all so far, the doctors were optimistic that they might be able to remove the oxygen mask sooner than they'd estimated--it was pretty much the only good news they'd had today. 

"Thank you for coming," said Laurel, her tone ragged but warm, "I know Ian would appreciate it, too."

The Manticore glimpsed at her. "Has he regained consciousness at all?"

Laurel bit her lip, then pulled her glasses off. "Kind of," she replied with a tremulous sigh. 

The Manticore frowned. "What do you mean, 'kind of'?" 

Before Laurel could answer, a soft moan sounded from the bed. All thre e heads snapped to the source of it. 

Ian rotated his head from one side to the other; now he was facing Barley, who was sitting in the chair next to his bed. His fingers fidgeted on the blanket, as though they didn't know what to do with themselves. His eyes were open, but they were hazy and unfocused--he may as well have been looking straight through Barley. Within the oxygen mask, his dry lips were forming words, but his voice was barely audible. Barley grasped Ian's hand tenderly, and--whether by a conscious decision or pure instinct--Ian's fingers curled around his brother's. 

Barley had never seen Ian like this. For the most part, Ian was perceptive, even moreso since their last quest. He was so incredibly smart and attentive. His delirium was devastating to witness. In the past hour alone he'd been muttering incoherently; the only words he'd been able to say somewhat clearly were "mom", "no", and one time..."please". He may have uttered Barley and Blazey's names too, but his speech was too slurred to know for certain.

Barley couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so lost.

"Ian's been in and out of sleep for a while now," Laurel told the Manticore forlornly, "Sometimes he talks, but we can't make out anything he's been saying. I...don't think he's even aware he's doing it." 

"How long ago was he brought in?" the Manticore asked. Her voice was quiet, which was unusual for her. 

"A full day now." 

"You two don't look like you've gotten any rest." She wasn't wrong; Laurel's hair was growing steadily more frazzled, and Barley felt like his eyeballs had been petrified.

"Neither has Ian," Barley said. The only times he'd spoken today were when Ian had struggled to wakefulness...moments that would end all too soon. Barley and Laurel would greet him, tell him how the day was going. Even though Ian couldn't respond, probably couldn't even comprehend anything they were saying, they held on to the slim hope that he could sense that his family was close by. 

"Because of his injuries?" 

"Partly," said Laurel. She clarified. "Ian's been having fever dreams. Sometimes it just seems like one right after the other." She looked at Ian's now-sleeping face, and Barley knew she was fixated on the bags under his eyes. "I'm worried that some of them might be nightmares."

"What can we do about that?"

"Nothing," Barley answered bitterly. He took his hat off with his free hand, if only to give himself something to squeeze. 

Laurel put her glasses back on. "Just wait for Ian to ride them out. Support him where we can. Things will be all right." It sounded like she was trying to convince herself. She was having a hard time as well--several times last night she'd pulled out hers and Wilden's wedding rings and held them when she thought Barley wasn't looking. 

"Laurel," the Manticore said. She placed a comforting paw on her shoulder. "I know that Iandore is hurting right now...but he's tough. He didn't go down without a fight. He'll come back from this stronger than ever." She smiled consolingly. "You'll see."  Laurel didn't say anything, but she allowed her friend to pull her into a one-armed hug, her expression hopeful. 

The two women continued to talk about many different topics, some related to the current situation, some completely random and meaningless. Barley knew it was to maintain some kind of normalcy, but he tuned most of it out anyway. He could feel their eyes on him sometimes, possibly concerned, but he didn't acknowledge them. He thought that if he did, he would have to pretend he was fine, remind them that he wasn't the one in need of support. And for once, he couldn't conjure the energy required to do so. He just kept watching Ian drift in and out of consciousness. 

A few hours passed, then a nurse showed up to check on Ian, to make sure all his needs were being met. A while after she did so and left, Laurel got up to walk with the Manticore back to the hospital's entrance...which left Barley alone with Ian. He whistled a little tune since it usually helped keep himself and Ian calm and collected, but his thoughts were elsewhere. 

He kept turning the Manticore's words over in his brain over and over again, until a metaphorical light bulb went off. She was right...Ian hadn't gone down without a fight. But how? When all this started he was barely able to stand for more than a few seconds. How had he lasted for almost twenty minutes? 

The answer? Well, before he left for the pharmacy Barley had seen Ian reading through the Quests of Yore guidebook. He must've found a spell that would've allowed him to surpass his limits, if only temporarily. And Barley was willing to bet Guinevere's keys that it was the energy spell...which had obviously worn off at the worst possible time for Ian. This conclusion made Barley pinch the bridge of his nose.

It wasn't long when he heard Ian's breathing speed up. When he looked down, he saw Ian's face twist. His brows were furrowed in distress, and his teeth lightly clenched, then unclenched. His eyelids quivered...almost as though they were trying to pull themselves open, yet were sealed shut. He started to whine. 

Barley swiftly, but carefully shook Ian's shoulder--he didn't know if he was supposed to do this, was even allowed, but he couldn't stand watching Ian suffer any more than he had to. He was rewarded with the sight of Ian's addled brown eyes. 

"Hey," he said, waving a hand in front of Ian's face, "It's just a dream, Ian. Just a bad dream." He hesitated. "I'm here for you..." For a moment, Barley could've sworn that Ian looked at Barley's face, could truly see him and know that he was there. But the moment passed, and Ian sank back into slumber. 

Releasing a weary sigh, Barley leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Ian's forehead. Perhaps if Ian had been in his right mind, he would've realized at that point exactly how hard his big brother was taking all this--in spite of his affectionate nature, Barley hadn't kissed him in years. 

He just wanted to share his strength with Ian somehow...to let him know that he wasn't alone. 

Maaaaaybe water would've been the healthy choice. Sweat meaning lost fluids and all that. But Barley really wanted a Mountain Doom, that delightful soda that tasted of explosive citrus with just a hint of pepper. Of course, the whole time he was chugging it down, he could envision his mother and brother's disapproving scowls, so after he was done he got a cup and filled it...about a quarter. 

Hey, I can't help that water tastes so boring! he mentally argued with an imaginary Laurel. 

After he was done he stood up and walked into the living room, Blazey settled comfortably on his shoulders. He scratched her chin as he switched a lamp on and surveyed the area.

Colt had done his job well; the house looked nothing like it had that terrible day. After the...crime scene...had been documented and the evidence collected, Colt was able to undo most of the damage. Most of their belongings were returned to their proper places, the lock on the back door had been replaced, every room that had been tampered with was cleaned, everything broken was repaired (eventually). Looking at it now, one might assume that nothing bad had ever taken place here. 

Of course, it wasn't that simple. Sometimes when Barley looked at the front or back doors, he'd almost expect them to be wide open. He would see the wall by the staircase and the banister, and he would recall the charred, black marks left by Ian's fireworks spell. He remembered the cabinet that was destroyed by his antique mace, the couch where Barley and Ian had waited for help...he remembered that one spot on the floor where Ian had nearly died. 

It was hard, when they'd all finally come home from the hospital. The terror, the waiting, the pain and emotional turmoil...it was all still fresh. Standing, sitting, doing anything in a place where such things occurred, yet showed no visible signs of strife...it was a surreal experience for everyone involved. It wasn't the end, though: it took some time, but going back to their everyday routines grew easier. They were able to see and use things without thinking of the harrowing events connected to them. 

Despite that, though, Barley chose to sit in one of the armchairs rather than the couch. 

It was afternoon of the next day, and Laurel had gone to the lobby to meet with Colt, who had volunteered to bring both her and Barley a clean set of clothes. Barley figured he would ask for an update on Ian's condition. He knew what his mother would tell him, as the doctor had dropped by just before noon. 

The bad news was that Ian still had a fever. His temperature had dropped a single degree, which was hardly cause for celebration if it didn't continue to decline. A jittery, unnerved Barley couldn't help but wonder how long a person could have such a high fever before their brain inevitably cooked. Some color was returning to Ian's face, though...maybe something had changed since the doctor's visit? 

The good news was that Ian's breathing was much smoother and steadier than it had been almost two days ago. The doctor was pleased by Ian's progress. He told the other Lightfoots that he would check back in a few hours--which wouldn't be too much longer now. If all was well, they would remove the ventilator. 

On a more light-hearted but bizarre note, Barley had been getting strange looks from a lot of the female nurses who came to perform their tasks--particularly the younger ones. For the life of him he couldn't figure out why they looked at him so admiringly. He decided to ask about it to one of the older nurses. The reason wasn't what he was expecting: it was because they'd all seen his devotion to his little brother...they found it precious. Noble, even. It just left Barley feeling more bemused than before.

Barley was laying on the futon now. He was just beginning to zone out when he heard shifting. He startled back to reality when someone said his name. He grunted and worked his way to a sitting position, stretching. At first he thought he imagined it. But then...

"...Bar...le-y..."

Barley's breath caught in his throat. Then he practically jumped to his feet and bolted to his brother's bedside. "Ian?" he tried.

Ian's eyes were shut and Barley felt his hope fade...then Ian turned his head, and his eyelids opened sluggishly. "Barley..." he whispered. 

Barley barked a joyful laugh. Ian was still exhausted, and it was entirely possible he didn't know where he was, but there was no mistake--he was looking at his older brother, and more importantly, he recognized him! He took Ian's hand in his, and he used the other to rub Ian's shoulder. "Hey, bud," he beamed. 

Ian's expression was blank, but that was all right: Barley was willing to smile for both of them. From the way his cheeks were aching, maybe he was. But then Ian spoke. 

"Dad."

Barley's smile vanished. He felt like his heart had stopped. "What...?" 

Ian's eyes slipped closed, and for a few seconds Barley thought Ian had gone back to sleep. He drew back a little, but still held Ian's hand. He stood there, and he didn't know what to do, what to think. 

"Barley," said Ian, his eyes still shut. He gripped Barley's hand loosely.

"Yeah?" Barley asked, his voice wavering.

Ian's eyelids fluttered; it was clear that he was trying to wake up, but he was losing the battle. "We're gonna see...him..."

Barley's throat closed up.

"...Wanna...see Dad..." Ian trailed off, and his fingers went limp. Sleep had once again claimed him.

Barley let go and took a shaky step back. He felt something inside of him break. 

There was laughter as the door opened and Laurel and Colt entered. They faltered when they saw Barley's expression. "Barley...?" Laurel asked uncertainly.

"Can you watch Ian for a while?" Barley asked hoarsely. He could feel the tears coming, and he shoved his way past his mother and stepfather before they could see. Barley heard his mother call him, but he ignored her.

His vision blurred and his cheeks grew wet. He kept his head down as he hurried blindly through the halls until he barged into the first empty room he found, a small one with a couple of vending machines. He swung the door carelessly shut behind him, and he walked over to the wall and rested his forehead on it. He furiously scrubbed his face, but it made no difference--his tears just kept coming. 

Barley had been three when his father died. He'd had some time with him, if only a little. But Ian...Ian had had no time at all. He was born after Wilden's passing. He'd dreamt of their father his whole life, and meeting him had been his greatest wish. And yet, when the moment of truth came, when Ian finally had the oppurtunity he'd wanted for so long...he'd surrendered it. Because danger was coming for them, unrelentingly so, and one of them had to stop it. And that's what Ian did: he fought the guardian curse, he'd stared it down and held it off so that Barley could make up for his cowardice all those years ago. Because of his wonderful, brave younger brother, Barley had found peace.

He did it for me, Barley thought sorrowfully, He protected me, he gave up his dream for me...and look how I repaid him.

Behind him, the door creaked open. "Sweetie?"

Oh, no.

"Barley, talk to me," Laurel fretted.

"Please..." Barley choked. He had no hope of regaining his composure now. "Please go." He flinched when he felt his mom's hand rub his back.

"I know this is hard," she said, her tone melancholy, "You don't have to deal with this alone. That's what family is for."

"Is this what you went through with Dad?"

Her movements halted...then resumed. 

"He was sick for months. Did he...get confused? Say things that...that didn't make sense, or..." He couldn't go on. 

Her answer was quiet. "Yes...especially towards the end." 

And now she was going through it all over again...with her child. Barley curled into himself guiltily, but when he felt his mother tug gently on his arm, he didn't resist. He turned around, and she wiped his tears away with her thumbs. 

"This isn't completely the same," she said to him soothingly, "Ian will get better. He's already getting better." 

Barley gulped. "I'm sorry, Mom."

"For what?"

"For leaving Ian." His shoulders shook, and more tears spilled out of his eyes. "I-I didn't mean for this to happen, I was impatient and I--"

"Barley, this isn't your fault!" Laurel sounded stupefied at the idea. "You shouldn't blame yourself for what other people did!"

Barley would've argued with her, but at this point, he was sobbing too hard to try. She pulled him closer to her, and he buried his face in her shoulder and wrapped his arms around her. He felt her cup the back of his head, and she whispered words of solace into his ear. He didn't know how long they stood there, but after a while he could feel her fingers carding through his hair, and he melted into her touch. She held him as he wept, until eventually there were only a few tears left to be shed. Finally, she pulled away.

"Honey, you weren't planning to be gone long, were you?"

Barley mutely shook his head.

"And you made sure all the doors and windows were locked before you left?"

Barley nodded; maybe he wasn't the most responsible person in the world, but he always wanted to make sure his home, and everyone in it, stayed safe.

"Did you know that there were criminals in the area?"

"No," Barley said roughly.

A glint appeared in Laurel's eyes. "Did you beat them up when you got there?"

That drew an unexpected snort out of Barley. "Well, two of them were gone already, but...I did."

"Good...because I would have, too." They both chuckled, but he knew she wasn't joking. No sane person would ever cross Laurel Lightfoot, as a would-be pickpocket from many years ago could attest to. Barley's amusement withered quickly, though. 

"It was close, Mom. It was really close..."

Pain flashed in Laurel's eyes, but she pushed it aside...just as she always did for her boys. "You did the best you could, Barley. You were there when it mattered...and you're here now." She tucked his hair behind his ear.

Barley yearned to believe her. But it couldn't be that easy...right?

Barley squawked as the cup slipped out of his hands and bounced several times on the kitchen floor. The sound of plastic on tile reverberated through the silent atmosphere, and he thought he might turn to stone until he remembered that he and Ian were the only two people in the house tonight.

Thank goodness he hadn't decided to use one of the glass mugs.

Laurel had gone over to visit the Earthwhispers, a couple of (troll) friends that she and Wilden had hung out with in college, and she'd taken Colt with her to meet them. It had taken some persuasion, though: she hadn't wanted to leave her boys alone after the break-in. But while she'd always kept in touch with her college friends, visits were few and far between--half because of their conflicting schedules, and half due to the four-hour driving distance between them. This was a rare weekend where they were all free.

But she'd been reluctant. It had been a challenge for the Lightfoots to go back to normal. There were times in the beginning where Ian looked like something would pounce on him from the shadows, and he'd had a few nightmares. Laurel would usually get to him before Barley, and there Ian would be, sitting on his bed and leaning against her. After a few moments of this, he would tell them he was fine, that there was nothing to worry about. They didn't believe him, but Ian was fully committed to putting his ordeal behind him. As the days transitioned into weeks, he regained the strength he'd lost, his nights were mostly restful, he went back to school and he wasn't so jumpy. Plans to send him to therapy weren't necessarily off the table, but Ian had still made surprisingly good strides forward. In fact, he was the one who insisted that Laurel go see the Earthwhispers.

"Mom, I'm totally fine, honest. I'll be with Barley the whole time, and it's been ages since you've seen your friends. If you don't go now, who knows when you'll get another chance?" 

That had been an interesting situation. While Ian would've encouraged her to go one way or the other, ordinarily Barley would've been the truly insistent one--in fact, he would've reveled in the thought of having the house to themselves with no adults around to mind them. But for a change, he was a little uneasy about this...and their mother was too. While she caved, she'd discreetly pulled Barley aside and asked him to keep an eye on Ian. He affirmed that he would; he was already determined to never leave Ian on his own again if he could help it. 

At any rate, he hoped that she was having fun. Colt...well, Barley hoped he wasn't miserable. 

He was heading back to his room when he considered Ian. During his fitful nights back from the hospital, Barley had developed a habit of sneaking upstairs to peek into Ian's room. At the back of his mind he knew how unhealthy this was, but after his night terrors, he wanted a visual reminder that Ian was alive. Seeing his brother sound asleep, his breathing deep and strong, appeased his thoughts in a way that nothing else did. It was enough to let him spend the rest of his night in peace. 

So without even thinking about it, he walked past his bedroom door to the staircase. 

Ian was awake...for real, this time.

"Do I really still have to wear this thing?" he groaned. He was referring to his hospital gown. 

Laurel peered over her glasses. There was a tinge of sympathy in her eyes, but it wasn't enough to mask the sternness in her tone. "You'll do whatever the doctors say for however long it takes, young man." 

Ian slumped against his pillows, pouting. Barley laughed at his expression, and Ian crossed his arms embarrassingly. "Hey, it's not funny, man. Having this thing on makes me feel all..."

"Wimpy?" Barley guessed.

"Barley!" Laurel scolded. 

"Yes, actually," Ian huffed. He cleared his throat and took a drink of water from his cup...a subtle example of the state Ian was still in. Breathing was no longer a chore for the young wizard, which prompted the ventilator being switched for a nasal cannula, but he still had to take a break from conversations at random intervals. It was easy to tell that his throat was still a bit sore; his voice had a sandpaper quality to it. Ian picked at his food and could only bring himself to eat parts of it, but Barley wasn't sure whether to chalk that up to his injuries or if it was simply because hospital food sucked. His bruises...well, they didn't look so angry, at least. 

He still had a fever, but it was nowhere near as high as it had been. He still napped every few hours, but now when Ian woke up he knew where he was...and that his loved ones were with him. What's more, he was able to stay awake for longer stretches of time. 

Barley was overjoyed to have his brother back. 

"You could always ask the nurses about it," Colt suggested, "I'm sure they could find you something else to wear once you're a little stronger." 

"And you're not wimpy," the Manticore scoffed. Perhaps to celebrate the occasion, she was wearing her battlesuit. 

Today both she and Colt did come to visit at the same time. Once they showed up, Barley figured he might as well relax on the futon--because with those two in the room, there was no way he was getting out. Not that he had anything better to do, of course.

The Manticore continued. "Could a wimp fend off three hostiles at the same time? All by himself?"

"Well, it wasn't as simple as that--" 

"Which reminds me!" she interrupted, "Why didn't you call me to come help you, Iandore? I would've made them sorry they ever learned how to walk!" She bared her teeth, her pupils narrowing.

"I-I know you would have," Ian stammered, "But you were even further away than Barley and Colt!" 

"I can fly!"

"Well, yeah..." Ian shrugged, "but Colt can run, and Barley ca n...well...he can commit several traffic violations--my point is that you still wouldn't have made it in time! Not to mention..." Ian's eyes widened and his mouth clamped shut, as though he'd said something he hadn't meant to. He drank his water again, coughing as he swallowed just a bit too much.

"What?" the Manticore asked.

"Never mind."

"No, what is it?" She started tapping her foot expectantly. 

"Well..." Ian said awkwardly, scratching his scalp. Then he sighed. "I didn't want you to...accidentally...destroy the house."

The Manticore's jaw dropped. "What?! What could possibly make you think I would do something like that?!"

Upon hearing this question, Ian gave her a rather unimpressed look. "Your tavern," was his deadpan answer.

A beat.

"Okay, point taken." She flexed her claws. "Seriously, though...I would've torn those villains apart." 

Colt looked at her disconcertingly, and Laurel changed the subject. "How's Blazey doing?"  

"Oh, she's doing all right," Colt replied, his hooves clacking on the floor as he shifted his weight. 

"She's not hurt?" Ian asked quietly. Suddenly Barley remembered that Ian wasn't the only one the thieves had cornered that day. He resolved to give Blazey all the snuggles she could ever want whenever they returned. 

"She's fine, Ian," Colt said with a smile. "She's a little more...uptight...than usual, and I don't think she's used to having just me around the house. But she's getting used to me, and she's starting to wind down now. I think she misses you guys."

"I miss her, too," said Ian affectionately, taking another drink. Barley nodded in agreement.

The others kept chatting amongst themselves, but Barley was focused on Ian. He recalled the conversation he'd had with him last night...the night he'd fully regained his senses. 

Laurel had told him that he wasn't to blame for the attack on Ian. And when Ian had awoke...he'd said the same thing. After two and a half days straight of pain and having his own brain playing tricks on him, Ian didn't hate Barley for the events that put him there. In fact...he had thanked him for saving his life. 

"You did make it."

"I'd be dead if it wasn't for you!"

"There's no way you could've known what would happen!"

"I did my best to remember everything you taught me."

"You still saved me."

The two people Barley loved most were resolute in their belief in him. He wasn't sure when he could stop doubting himself, but...he didn't doubt them. Maybe this really wasn't his fault. 

The idea made him feel more at ease than he'd been in days.

Late afternoon morphed into early evening, tinting the room with a bright shade of orange. Colt and Laurel left, but the Manticore said she'd stay a little longer. Barley wanted to talk to Ian some more, but he noticed that Ian's eyelids were drooping and he yawned. He winced and sipped from his cup. 

Barley decided he wanted a drink as well. "Your Fearlessness?" he asked.

The Manticore looked up from the magazine she was reading.

"Could you sit with Ian for a minute? I wanna run to the vending machine."

"Sure! Just don't take too long."

"I won't, I know you've gotta head out."

"You guys don't have to babysit me," Ian complained drowsily, "I don't mind waiting on my own."

"Just humor your big brother for now, okay, my squire?" Barley requested, hoping he didn't sound too pleading. Ian just sighed and waved him off, relenting. As he exited, Barley considered the possibility that Ian was getting overwhelmed by all the attention he was receiving. He wouldn't be surprised if Ian barricaded himself in his room for privacy whenever they went home. 

Barley was glad he'd discovered the vending machines on this floor. He was thinking he'd reached the point where he didn't need to drink any more coffee. Now that the immediate danger had passed, it was probably time for him to get some actual rest. Or try to, at least. 

However, he found himself stopping in his tracks when he reached the room...because he heard voices in it. Laurel and Colt's voices. He pressed himself to the wall next to the doorway and listened, feeling no shame whatsoever for eavesdropping. 

"...anything else about them?" That was Laurel.

"Not much. I'm sure they were about as happy to see their 'leader' as he must've been to see them. You remember how I told you that he sold those two out." 

Barley realized who they were talking about--Ian's would-be killers. He could feel his blood beginning to boil as it had done every time those creeps were mentioned. With everything going on with Ian that first day, Barley honestly hadn't given them much thought...until Colt had delivered the news about their arrest yesterday. Either way, he hadn't forgotten what they did. In fact, while both brothers had found the irony in them contracting Ian's illness to be quite humorous, Barley couldn't help but feel that they had gotten off easy.

"They're still working out the details of who did what," Colt continued, "and they already have Barley's account, the paramedics', and mine. The only person that leaves is Ian."

"Are you sure they'll ask Ian about it soon?"

"Well, you know I'm locked out of this case--conflict of interest and all that--but they've been keeping me up to speed on everything. But these guys...they're not loyal to each other. I think they'll say anything that'll mitigate whatever is dealt out to them. My friends should have the whole story once Ian gives his statement." 

There was a long pause, and Barley's heart was pounding at what he was hearing. Colt must've looked contemplative, because Laurel asked him about it.

"Are you thinking about what Corey said?"

It always threw Barley for a loop whenever he heard his mother or Colt--or anybody else, for that matter--refer to the Manticore by that nickname. He and Ian never did. They respected--in Barley's case, revered her too much. 

"Yeah," Colt admitted heavily, "As a police officer, I know that arresting them and having them convicted is the best thing to do. As a stepfather, though...I'll be honest, it's a little hard to disagree with her. The boys don't deserve this...and neither do you, Laurel." 

His mom's response was too soft to make out, but Barley had heard enough. He made his way back to Ian's room, regretting his nosiness. He could get a drink later. As soon as Barley re-entered the room, the Manticore took her leave, patting his shoulder on the way. He was too distracted to do anything more than mutter a goodbye. 

He took the chair, seeing that Ian was asleep again. It took every ounce of mental effort he had not to think about the robbers--the strength of his hatred towards them scared him. Throughout their lives, Barley had made no secret of the fact that anyone who messed with Ian would have to deal with him. But this was different. While he'd been infuriated at people who did wrong by Ian before...this was the first time he thought he really might have killed someone if it came down to it. Worse...there was a dark part of him that wished he had. 

And he couldn't get rid of that feeling. Barley loved his little brother so much...and those pieces of filth had nearly taken him away, forever. The thought made him feel sick with grief. 

When night fell and Laurel came back by herself, Barley let her have the couch first. Laurel slept, and Barley dozed, until Ian stirred. Barley perked up at the sight. He leaned forward, resting his arms on the rail and stacking his chin on top of them, and waited. Ian rubbed the crust from his eyes and smacked his lips. He gazed at his older brother, and Barley could instantly tell that something was troubling him.

"Barley...?" he said groggily.

"What is it?" Barley asked patiently.

"Do you know what happened to my staff?"

Barley gasped: he had always intended to return Ian's staff to him when he was better, but it completely slipped his mind! He stood up so fast it made the chair legs screech on the floor, which made Ian cringe and roused Laurel. Barley inwardly berated himself and hurried over to the couch, petting her hair and murmuring an apology to her until she retreated back into slumber. 

Barley had put the staff at the back of the futon when they'd first got here, and at some point it had begun to sink into the cushions. He retrieved it and brandished it to Ian. He committed the moment to memory: it was the happiest he had seen Ian since he'd fallen ill. 

Ian clutched the object  as though it were an old friend. "Thank you," he said, tears pricking his eyes. 

Barley ruffled his hair fondly. "You're welcome."

Barley had taken the first couple of stairs when Blazey's head shot up. She tilted her head quizzically, the tip of her tail twitching.

"What is it, girl?" Barley asked in concern. He took a few more steps.

Suddenly Blazey gave off an alarmed bark, and she dashed straight past him to the second floor. She whined and scraped her claws on Ian's door. That was when Barley heard Ian's terrified cry.

"No!" 

Fear surging in his chest, Barley broke into a run, taking the rest of the stairs two at a time. 

"Ian, you don't have to do this right now," Laurel insisted worriedly, "You can always wait until you've settled back at home. By then you'll be fully healed."

Ian picked at the collar of his T-shirt--they'd finally allowed him to wear something other than a hospital gown--and he looked back at her stubbornly. "Mom, they'll be coming to talk to me no matter what."

"I just said--"

"I know," Ian cut her off. He tapped his fingers on his staff anxiously. "But...I don't want this hanging over my head. I...I really just want to get it over with." 

"It's his choice, Mom," said Barley. He didn't like this either, but if this was what Ian wanted to do, then he would support him. 

By now nearly a week had passed, and it was Ian's last day in the hospital before he would be released tomorrow. Yesterday he was able to cast the healing spell on both Barley and himself--their wounds were still fresh and minor enough that magic could completely erase them--and now they looked remarkably better. The gobsmacked look on the doctors and nurses' faces was priceless, and the way that Ian hastily informed them that they were all still incredibly helpful was honestly adorable. 

The levity couldn't last, though. Nobody had told Ian about the police needing him to explain what happened, but they didn't have to--he was smart enough to realize it on his own. And apparently, Ian had decided that sooner would be better than later.

Laurel still looked hesitant, but she nodded. "Okay."

They didn't have to wait too long for the police to arrive, but the tension and dread emanating from Ian made it feel like time was moving much slower than it actually was. Laurel made suggestions about things she could make for him once they got home, and Barley tried to share Quests of Yore trivia, but Ian's responses were half-hearted. Nevertheless, they did their best to keep his spirits up...until at last, the officers entered his room. 

They were two elves, a man and a woman, whom Barley didn't recognize. Though apparently his mother did, if her dismayed expression was anything to go by.

"Mrs. Lightfoot," the man greeted evenly. 

Laurel's smile stretched a little too thin to be natural. "Hello, officer..."

"I hope you're not planning on smuggling someone else off to who-knows-where," he said dryly.

Laurel laughed sheepishly. Barley and Ian gaped at her in bewilderment, while the female officer glanced between them curiously. Laurel pointedly ignored their questioning looks.

Is that how I look when I get caught doing something I shouldn't be? Barley wondered in fascination. 

They were so going to talk about this later.

Moving on from that awkward conversation starter, they all exchanged the basic pleasantries such as Ian's health, the weather, how everyone was getting on, etcetera. Colt was also brought up: right now he was hard at work back home, making sure the house would be presentable for their return. Of course when all of that was done, they came to the reason for their visit. 

The woman directed her attention to Ian. "We can talk whenever you're ready," she said compassionately. Her partner already had a notepad out. 

"Actually..." Ian faltered, and Barley was starting to think that he was having second thoughts about this. But that turned out not to be true: he was nervous for a different reason. 

"Mom, Barley..." He couldn't meet their eyes. "Can you step out, please?"

Barley was dumbstruck. "Why?" he asked disbelievingly. 

"Just...just because, okay?"

Laurel looked confused herself...and more than a little sad. "Sweetie-pie, you don't have to scared. We want to support you." She rubbed the spot between Ian's shoulder blades.

"Mom, you have--you are! It's just that...I-I..." Ian stuttered, looking increasingly stressed. 

"Hey, Ian," Barley said, bending so that he was eye-level with his brother, "You don't have to do this alone." 

Ian closed his eyes as if in thought. He stayed that way for a while, the seconds dragging into minutes. When he opened them, his gaze had hardened. "This time, I need to." Though his voice trembled slightly, his tone left no room for argument, and Barley couldn't help but feel disappointed at this turn of events.

He lightly squeezed Ian's shoulder. "I'll do whatever you need me to." Never had those words been more difficult to say. 

"We'll be right out in the hall if you need us," Laurel promised before kissing the top of her youngest son's head. 

"Okay...thank you," Ian mumbled.

Barley trudged out of the room, and his mom followed him, shutting the door behind her. Laurel leaned back against the wall, but Barley was unable to stay still. He paced, he stared out the window to the streets below, he observed Ian's door. His mother understood his agitation.

"Barley, I know how much you want to be there for him--"

"Why won't he let us?" Barley broke in, "Why doesn't he want us in there?" 

"Oh, sweetheart...I think he does. But don't you see? He doesn't want us to hear what those monsters did to him. He's trying to protect y-...us." 

Barley heard her explanation, but it didn't make sense to him. Protect them? Barley almost gave a hollow laugh. Ian was the one who ended up hospitalized. His family's feelings should've been the last thing on his mind. And besides...Barley was the eldest. It was his job to be the protective one, not Ian's. He cast his gaze back out the window, this time to the sky, his heart a storm of emotions that he was incapable of discerning. 

An hour passed before the door opened and the officers emerged, their expressions sympathetic. "We've got all the info we need," the man said gruffly, clearing his throat, "We're done here."

That was all Barley needed to hear, and once again he made a beeline for the door ahead of his mother. Whatever else needed to be discussed, she would take care of it. Once the door closed, he couldn't help but feel a sense of trepidation. When his eyes fell on Ian, he knew those feelings were warranted.

Ian had his knees pulled up to his chest, as though he were trying to put up a wall. His staff was laying on the bed beside him, and his hands were gripping fistfuls of his blanket. He sniffled, his eyes misty. 

Barley waved. "Hey," he said delicately. 

"Hey," Ian answered, subdued. He turned his head away from Barley to the opposite wall, and Barley understood that he was trying to hide. 

"Ian?" Laurel called as she walked in. She scrutinized her sons, and not for the first time Barley marveled at her phenomenal ability to gauge the atmosphere around her--she didn't need to see Ian's face to know that he was hurting. Or, perhaps, she had anticipated it. She moved to sit on the edge of the bed, rubbing his knee and humming. 

Barley was at a loss. A pat on the shoulder, a compliment, a side hug...somehow, it didn't feel adequate this time. He didn't want to offer Ian a mere momentary respite from his trauma--he wanted to do something that might have a more lasting effect. He fished around in his head, and a grin spread across his face as an idea came to him.

"I'll be right back!" he announced, and he hastened from the room before they could even react.

Barley took the elevator down to the first floor, and the instant the doors slid open he searched around the lobby. He felt a rush of satisfaction when he spotted what he was looking for: the gift shop. It was a good thing he'd already been carrying some cash in his pockets. 

Barley took more time to browse their selection than he would've preferred, but it was worth it when he found a suitable gift and paid for it. As he rode the elevator back up, he imagined that he was transporting a valuable treasure to its intended owner--which Ian was. He also told himself that the feeling of accomplishment wasn't premature and that Ian would love it.

As Barley opened the door, he registered Laurel's laughter and Ian's voice--his brother was talking again, which was a good sign. Barley quickly hid the item behind his back before he waltzed into their view. "I'm back!" he declared, "And I've got something for you, dear brother!"

To his surprise, Laurel stood up, amusement written on her face. "I have to make a couple of phone calls," she said to them. She moved past Barley. "I won't be long." The door clicked shut, and she was gone. Barley approached the bed.

Ian fiddled with his hospital bracelet. "Barley, you didn't have to--"

Barley didn't give him a chance to finish; he pulled his purchase out from behind him and showed it to Ian. "Behold!" 

Ian arched an eyebrow when he saw what it was...a stuffed jackalope in a doctor's outfit. "Really?" he asked wryly. 

Barley nodded enthusiastically. "No hospital trip is complete without one! Remember, you got me one when I broke my arm." What Barley didn't mention was that Ian had been close to hysterics that day--he had witnessed it, after all. 

"You mean the phoenix toy?"

"Yep!" 

"Well, some people also get balloons and flowers." 

"Pssh!" Barley snorted, "Balloons deflate and flowers wither away. Not saying they're not pretty, but plushies can last much longer!" 

"I guess so." The corners of Ian's lips quirked. 

"This little guy...I thought he could be a reminder for you. Not about being weak...but that you're strong. Just like you've always been." 

Ian's expression softened as Barley handed him the plush toy, and he thumbed its fuzzy, floppy ears. His eyes twinkled with gratitude, and Barley pulled him into a hug...their first one since they'd ended up here. From the way Ian burrowed into him, he must've missed the contact as much as Barley had. 

"...You really kept that phoenix, huh?" Ian asked amusingly.

"Come on, you can't really be surprised," Barley laughed.

Ian smiled appreciatively. "I never said I was." 

Barley thrust Ian's door open, the light from the lamp they'd recently installed in the hallway illuminating the room. He was met with the sight of his brother, who was alternating between shouting and wheezing. Ian was tangled up in his blanket, and he was thrashing precariously on the edge of his bed. Barley sprinted forward, but he was too late to prevent Ian from rolling off and crashing to the floor with a heavy thud. 

Barley dropped to his knees beside Ian while Blazey barked shrilly. "Blazey, hush!" Barley commanded urgently--the extra noise wasn't going to do Ian any favors. Blazey whined, but otherwise obeyed and darted under Ian's desk. Barley quickly scanned his brother.

Ian's pale skin was slick with sweat, his hair was messy and unruly. His eyes were also wide open, presumably from hitting the floor, but they had a faraway look to them. Most frighteningly of all, he was hyperventilating. Though technically awake, mentally he was trapped in his nightmare.

"Ian, I'm here, it's me," Barley said, distraught. He cupped Ian's face and turned it to look at him. He wanted to unravel the blanket from his brother's body so that he wouldn't be so confined, but Ian's erratic breathing was the more pressing issue. "Come on, buddy, you're awake, it wasn't real!" Barley's voice broke. He didn't know how to handle this, he didn't know how to deal with trauma. He had guided Ian through nightmares before, but never anything like this.

All he knew was that he was so tired of being helpless.

Barley gathered Ian into his arms and held him close. "I need you to breathe for me," Barley instructed, "Breathe." His hand cradled Ian's head to his chest, his thumb smoothing over his brother's temple. He hoped that his (albeit racing) heartbeat might act as an anchor for Ian. "It's okay," Barley murmured, "You can do it." He tucked Ian's head under his chin, and Ian hiccupped. 

"Please wake up," Barley quietly begged him. A tear rolled down his cheek into Ian's blue curls. Ian whimpered, but he managed to grab Barley's shirt in quaking fingers. Barley slowly began to rock the two of them back and forth...something else he hadn't done since they were much younger. "Breathe..." 

Time moved at a crawl as Barley continued to encourage and reassure his little brother, continued to rock them. Back, and forth...back, and forth... Eventually, his efforts proved fruitful when Ian's breaths deepened and became more measured. "Barley?" Ian whispered faintly.

Barley pulled back to better meet Ian's eyes. "You know it," he said, relieved that Ian had returned to the waking world. He methodically unwrapped the blanket, freeing Ian's legs. 

He waited for Ian's "I'm-okay-now, don't-worry" speech that he'd become accustomed to hearing. Instead, Ian leaned back against his bedframe with a defeated sigh. Feeling sorry for his brother, Barley positioned himself so that he was sitting next to him. He wrapped an arm around Ian's shoulders, and Ian leaned into him.  

Barley spotted the jackalope plushie on Ian's nightstand, and he retrieved it. He saw a ghost of a smile cross Ian's face when he deposited it on his lap. Seeing that the crisis had been averted, Blazey skittered over to the brothers. Ian curved one arm around her and held the plush toy protectively in the other. Barley tilted his head until it settled on top of Ian's. For what felt like a long time, they sat there in complete silence.

"I feel gross," Ian finally muttered.

Barley smiled and said, "I'll bet." He stood, reached a hand down to help Ian to his feet, and led him and Blazey out of the room. 

Unlike Barley, Ian wasn't content to just rinse his face off in the sink. Rather, he opted for the shower. That left Barley to gather a few things while he waited for Ian to finish, but he didn't mind: Ian rarely took long showers. Sure enough, he re-emerged about fifteen minutes later, his sweaty pajamas traded for a clean set. 

Ian saw Barley sitting at the table. On its surface was a glass of water and a bottle of migraine pills. After Ian sat down and took the offered medicine, Barley stood up so he could comb through Ian's wet hair.

"What are you doing?" Ian asked quizzically. 

"Just making sure you didn't hurt yourself," Barley replied. He inspected Ian's head thoroughly. "Got a bit of a bruise on your forehead here," he noted. 

"I know," said Ian with an unconcerned shrug. 

"Doesn't look too bad," said Barley, thinking aloud rather than acknowledging Ian's words, "but we'll put some ice on it tomorrow if it gets worse." He sat back down and tapped his fingers on the tabletop. 

Ian's hands fisted the bottom of his shirt. He seemed to be contemplating something. 

Barley leaned forward. "Do you wanna talk about it?"

Ian hesitated. "...Don't get mad."

Barley frowned. 

"Or I guess, what I mean is...don't do anything crazy." 

"What do you mean?" Barley asked, perplexed. 

"Barley, I know how you get when you feel strongly about something. I know how reckless you can be, and...well, it's all over now. I just...I didn't want you to do something you would regret."

Barley realized that Ian was explaining why he'd requested for him to leave the room when the police officers came. "What are you saying, Ian?"

"First, promise me. Promise you won't do anything stupid, or...or vengeful." 

Vengeful. That word made Barley feel overwhelmed with apprehension. Whatever Ian was about to tell him...Barley took a deep breath. He said, "I promise." 

Ian searched his older brother's eyes. Then he looked away and nodded to himself. "I was napping when they broke in," he began quietly. His fingers curled into his palms. I don't know exactly what woke me up, but...I knew something was wrong." He bit his lip, then got to his feet. He reached out and tugged on Barley's wrist; getting the hint, Barley got up and followed him into the living room. Even when they stopped moving, Ian didn't let go. 

He gestured around the room. "They were all down here, looting the place. They didn't know I was still here; they thought I was with you." His arm dropped to his side. "I locked myself in my room and called Colt. I texted you, too."

"You told me not to come home," Barley said somberly.

"One of them had a gun," Ian explained, "I was afraid you'd come back and he'd..." His sentence trailed off, then he shook his head and moved on. "I left through my window. I thought about running, but...I didn't know what happened to Blazey. I...she's part of the family, Barley. I couldn't leave without knowing." 

"I get that," said Barley, "I would've done the same thing." He paused. "Is that when you used the energy spell?"

"Yeah."

Ian turned and dragged Barley to the kitchen. He pointed to the door. "They burned the lock off; that's how they got in." 

Huh. Barley had been too preoccupied to notice the state of the back door, but that would explain the acrid odor of smoke that had been hanging in the air.

"I don't know how they did it without getting singed or bit," Ian continued, anger smoldering in his voice, "but they restrained her with duct tape. Her snout, too. They tossed her into your room." 

Barley's eyes narrowed as he felt a flash of rage. He was nearly overcome by the urge to throw something, but as much as he wanted to, he wouldn't break his promise to Ian. His brother must've sensed his inner turmoil, because he didn't speak again until Barley calmed down.

"I found her. But...you remember all that stuff they put in the living room?"

Barley nodded tensely.

"They were gonna take Mom and Dad's wedding rings."

Barley knew this already. He'd heard Ian say as much to their mom, and he'd connected the dots about it before then. Although that didn't make it any easier to hear.

"I was discovered as I was trying to take them back." Ian shifted uncomfortably, and his hold on Barley's wrist constricted slightly. "I tried to make a run for it, but..." His gaze fixated on the floor. "There was a bunch of stuff everywhere, and...I slipped. I lost my hold on Blazey and my staff. They got me before I could get it back." 

He pulled Barley into the dining room. "They dragged me in here. And they..." Ian ran his fingers over his cheek. "The gremlin guy clawed me. He was the one I shot the fireworks spell at, so...he was pretty mad." 

Oh, was he? Because Barley was pretty sure that it paled in comparison to what he was feeling right now. Outwardly he simply glowered, but internally, he was seething. 

"A-anyway," Ian fumbled, "they stole the rings from me, and...um..." He swallowed, as though bracing himself. "They were d-discussing...what to do with me. Their, uh, their boss...he wanted to kill me. Because I could identify them."

Barley clenched his jaw, and he balled his fists so tightly his knuckles cracked.

"I told them that Colt was coming, and that killing me wouldn't do any good. So..." He shivered, and Barley pulled his arm away so that he could embrace his brother. 

"If this is too hard to bring up--"

"They were gonna take me." 

Barley froze. "What?" 

Ian clung to Barley as though his life depended on it. "T-they were gonna take me h-hostage. A-and...they probably would've g-gotten rid of me later." 

When there would've been no more use for him, Barley thought with horror. 

He felt a chill race down his spine as he realized how different things could've been. His sick brother kidnapped...and then being found dead in an abandoned building, or a dark alleyway, or some river in the wilderness. He rubbed Ian's back, his eyes burning.

It took a moment for Ian to collect himself. "I couldn't let that happen," he whispered. He drew back, and Barley reluctantly let him. "The cyclops guy was holding onto me. I distracted them and flipped him over."

In spite of the emotional strain they were both under, Barley smirked. "Mom-style?" he guessed.

"Mom-style," Ian confirmed, his grin small, but proud. "I ran back into the kitchen, and I managed to get my staff. I was able to get the gun away from them." His smile disappeared. "But...I was stupid. They...I guess you could say they misdirected me." 

He walked back into the kitchen, Barley trailing after him. Ian pointed to the cabinets. "I let myself get cornered. When I tried to use my magic, the elf guy..." Ian rested his hand on his throat. "He was trying to take my staff at first, but...then he used it against me. Pushed it against my neck, so I couldn't say the incantation. It...it hurt." 

As Barley's anger blazed in his chest and threatened to envelop him, Ian turned his attention to the threshold. "The cyclops guy had your mace--he was gonna use it on me. I was able to fight the first guy off and use the shield spell." His eyes lit up at the memory. "Blazey got out of the tape--you know how persistent she is. She chased the cyclops guy off, but you knew that already."

Yes, Barley remembered that from the reports. 

"The gremlin guy tried to escape, but I ran after him. He had the rings." They walked back into the living room, but Ian's steps were a lot more cautious now. "I stopped him with the levitation spell, and I got the rings back. I didn't want to, but...I let him go. I figured there was a chance the police would catch him." 

"Which they did," said Barley helpfully.

"Yeah...but that left one guy to deal with." Ian wrung his hands. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped an octave. "He attacked me. I drove him back for a minute, but...that was when the energy spell wore off. Barley, I was weak all over again...a-and he knew it." Ian bowed his head and crossed his arms defensively. "I tried to get away...but I was too slow. He...he got the staff away, and...I couldn't fight anymore." He nodded over to the dining room. "I ended up over there, and...h-he caught up to me." He ran his hands down his face. "You know the rest," he concluded hollowly. 

Barley did know. In fact, he was certain that the scene he had come home to would haunt his memories for the rest of his life. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force the image away. 

When he opened them, he saw that Ian had moved to sit on the couch. As Barley sat down next to him, he suddenly understood that this couch meant something different for Ian than it did for him. For Barley, it was where he had stewed in self-loathing and anguish while Ian lay there suffering. But for Ian...it was where he'd been comforted and cared for by the person he saw as both a brother and a parent. 

"Barley..."

Barley snapped out of his musings and faced him. "Hmm?"

Ian looked sad. "That's the other reason I didn't want you in the room with me when I talked to the cops."

"What is?" Barley asked in confusion.

"I didn't want you to blame yourself again."

Barley's eyebrows shot up. Had his past feelings been that evident on his face? 

"It wasn't your fault," Ian went on, "I'll say that as many times as I have to."

"No, I..." Barley sighed, "...I know it wasn't. But...I still regret that I wasn't here sooner. I can't change that, Ian. You mean too much to me."

"You mean a lot to me, too." Ian sniffed loudly. "I thought I was done being pathetic."

Barley was shocked at the statement. "Why would you say something like that?"

"Barley, I remember what I was like before we learned that I could use magic. I remember how unhappy I was with myself. Being tougher, bolder...confident...I wanted to be those things so badly, but for the longest time I was too scared to try." He clasped his hands in his lap. "I can't be that person again." 

"Ian...you think that all this has set you back?" Barley asked incredulously, "You think those thugs took away the best parts of you?"

"I--"

"Because they haven't!" Barley said passionately. He took hold of Ian's shoulders. "You utilized all that you've learned--you told me that yourself! You're smart, you're selfless, and no matter what you think, you're brave. And those traits? You've had them all since the day you were born. The beating you took, the scumbags you faced, your stay at the hospital...those things haven't changed any of that." He released Ian. "If I'm not allowed to blame myself, then you're not allowed to think you're a loser. Deal?"

Ian's eyes filled with tears, and he wiped them away with the heels of his hands. "Deal," he agreed with a watery laugh. "We...we should probably go back to bed now, but..."

"But what?"

Ian fidgeted. "Could you stay with me? Please?"

Barley immediately responded. "Can do."

Barley stripped the cushions off the couch and carried them upstairs. He was startled to see that Ian had pulled his mattress of his bed, and his pillow and blanket with it. He decided it didn't matter. While Barley arranged the cushions on the floor next to it, Ian walked out of his closet, carrying an extra pillow. After he tossed it to Barley, he searched his chest for another blanket.

As they got comfortable (and Blazey popped up and curled into a ball between them), Barley's thoughts drifted to the burglars one more time. He knew that for as long as he lived, he would never forgive them for their atrocities...and that his hatred of them would never go away. However, if it was for the sake of his brother...he could put it aside. It was strange, really: Barley would be the first to admit that he was an impulsive person, and his one-man protests would be further proof of this. But a lot of the time, it was Ian who was able to keep him grounded. Sometimes it was because he was the more sensible of the two...but other times, it was because Barley truly wanted to be a brother Ian could be proud of. At that moment, Barley wondered what kind of person he would've grown up to be if he'd never had Ian. And then, he wondered who Ian might've been if he hadn't had his big brother to guide him. 

"Hey, Barley?"

Barley turned onto his side to see Ian doing the same. "Yeah?"

"Thanks for being here. I...I feel okay now." Ian ran his fingers along Blazey's scales.

"You're welcome," said Barley warmly, "If you want the truth, I was having a rough night, too. Being temporary roommates sounds pretty good."

Ian chuckled, then yawned loudly. "I don't know what I'd do without you." He turned onto his back, and his eyes closed.

His words brought back a memory.

"I never had a dad...but I always had you."

And you always will, thought Barley, his heart filled with love.

I promise.