Archive of Our Own

It was 5:30 in the morning when Ian got the call. 

His cell phone blared with the unmistakable sound of a police car siren, the ringtone Ian had set for whenever Barley called him. What could he say? He loved his big brother to pieces, but he had a strong suspicion that Barley would end up in jail someday. Most likely for a minor but repeated offense, but still. 

The alarm jerked Ian from sleep, and he groaned. He saw his phone's screen light up with Barley's grinning portrait, and Ian lamented that he didn't put the stupid device on silent, or at least vibrate, before he went to sleep. At least he hadn't had it up to full volume, though. He dragged his arms, heavy from slumber, out from under his blanket and fumbled for his phone, grumbling, "Shut up, shut up, please, for the love of Alora, stop ringing..." 

The bright light of his screen was making Ian's eyes water, and he blinked them repeatedly as he tapped his finger on the "answer" icon, perhaps a bit harder than necessary. "What is it, Barley?" he asked in a ragged tone. There was no reply from the other end, just the sound of heavy breathing. Ian's eyebrows furrowed, and he cleared his throat. "Barley?" he tried again.

This time Ian received a response...if it could be called that. He heard his older brother giggle. Ian felt a flash of annoyance. "If you really wanted to tell me a joke, you could've just waited until morning." 

Then Barley spoke. "Hellooooooooo..." 

"Barley..." Ian growled. 

"Is this my brotha...?" 

Ian frowned, his agitation at having been woken up so rudely growing by the second. "Barley, who else could it be?" 

Barley laughed as though Ian had just said the funniest thing in the world. "My boooooooyyy!" he cheered. There was something strange in his voice, something Ian couldn't put his finger on. 

Ian ran a hand down his face. "What's going on?" he asked tiredly.

"Well, uh..." Barley said, his voice trailing off. Ian propped himself up on his elbow and waited. And waited. And waited.

Nothing.

"Barley," Ian spoke, concern beginning to override his irritation, "Are you okay?"

He heard Barley gasp, seemingly affronted. "Okay?" said Barley, "'m I okay? Are you-you--you're sittin' there, on-on y'ur comfy, cozy...softy, um...bozy blanket bed--"

"That's not a real word."

"--and you-you're asking me if 'm okay?" 

Ian stared blankly at the wall as he tried to comprehend what came out of Barley's mouth just now. "...Yes?"

There was another pause. "Well...yes. No."

Ian sat up. "What do you mean? Yes or no?"

"Yes or no...t' what?"

Ian ground his teeth together, about ready to throw something. "Are. You. Okay?"

"Ohhhhhh!" said Barley, "Well, yes 'n no."

Ian pressed his lips together to keep himself from shouting something he'd regret, and he took a deep breath before speaking again. "What's the problem?"

"Well, y' see, um...I..." Barley said, slowly...then he laughed maniacally. "I've fallen and I can't get up!" 

Ian almost hung up on Barley right there but instead he just sat there, flabbergasted. "What." 

"'m lost. Loooooost." 

Ian shoved his blanket off, swinging his feet to the floor. "What do you mean you're lost?!" 

"I mean...th't 'm the opposite of found!" 

"Barley, this is serious! And why are you talking like that? Why do you sound so...weird..." Ian stiffened as it finally hit him. "Barley...tell me you're not drunk."

Barley burst out laughing. "Drunk? Drunk?! Do I...do I...'m drunkity-drunk me my I--?!" The last of Barley's sentence collapsed into hysterical laughter. It was so loud that Ian didn't need to hold the phone to his ear to hear it. He felt as though steam was building up inside him.

I'm gonna kill him. 

Ian crossed his room and reached inside his closet for a light jacket and hastily put on his shoes, not even stopping to get socks on first. He noticed that his grip on his phone had tightened quite a bit, and he forced himself to loosen it. 

"Can you tell me what you're seeing right now?" Ian asked, trying to keep his voice as steady as possible. He retrieved his staff from where it was leaning against his desk.

"It's dark," came Barley's chipper reply. 

"That's because it's nighttime."

Barley gasped. "Whaaaaaa...?" 

Ian swallowed another groan. "Is there anything else you can tell me?" 

Barley hummed. "I'm...in...somethin'..." Ian heard Barley cluck his tongue a couple of times. 

"In something?" Ian repeated, "Like..." Oh, no. "Barley, you're not driving, are you?!"

"Uh, no," Barley answered as though it were obvious, "Ya can't...cannot drive what ya don' have." He chuckled. "Silly." 

Ian's eyebrows shot up. "You're saying you don't have Guinevere?"

"Yep!"

"Barley, you left in Guinevere before it got dark, remember?" 

"...Huh. I guess I did..." There was a beat. "Ian," Barley exclaimed, "my keys are gone!" 

Ian sighed. "Of course they are." 

"And Guinny's gone too..." Barley sounded like he was about to cry, and Ian couldn't help but feel a tinge of sympathy for him amidst his anger and worry. 

"We'll find her, Barley, I promise," said Ian, "But we've gotta find you, first, okay?"

"O-kay!" said Barley, suddenly happy again. 

Ian longed to go searching for his brother right this moment, but he knew it wasn't that simple. Yesterday Barley had told them that since his old friend Shrub Rosehammer would be back in town for a while, he would drive out to meet him and then they'd run off and have fun. He never told them exactly where they were planning to go, which was why Ian needed to wheedle some clues out of his inebriated brother first. 

"Listen to me," he said firmly, "Is Shrub with you?"

"Noooooooope."

Perhaps Shrub was just in another room. Or they ended up separated...

"Is anyone with you?" 

Barley snickered. "No. 'm allllllllll by my lonesome."

His drunk brother alone with no one to help him...Ian could feel his heartbeat beginning to speed up. "Okay, okay, um..." he said, pacing, "What else can you see?"

"Buh-lack."

"What?"

"Darkness...cold, cold darkness...except it's not r'lly cold, y'know. It's all warm and stuffy." 

"Do you know why?"

"Er, might be cause of this trash can I'm in!" Barley laughed.

Ian stopped moving. "Trash can?"

"Oh, yeah! A big, empty trash can! But I'm in it, so...not so empty... But I'm empty! 'm empty cause 'm so hungryyyyyy..." 

"Stop," Ian ordered as he grabbed a fistful of his hair, "Focus. Did somebody put you in the trash can?"

"I put me in the trash can!" Barley declared proudly, "But then I fell down! And...'m still here. On the ground." A beat. "Concrete kinda sucks," he added.

Ian blinked. "Concrete?"

"Yuppers. Affirmative. Correct. Right. You got it! Absolute--"

"Barley!"

"...Yes." 

"So you're inside somewhere?"

"Yeeeaaaah, got inside n' bumped into this yellow--nah, gold car and uh--the window broke itself, y'know, it's all spiderwebby and everything--n' I walked and uh, trash can! And, uh--"

Ian's eyes widened. "Barley."

"Hmmm?"

"...You're in our garage."

"What? No, I'm not," Barley sputtered.

"Yes, you are," Ian insisted, "That gold car you mentioned? It's Mom's gold car. That window that's broken? You did it two days ago! Mom's planning on taking it in to get it fixed tomorrow--no, today! And we just emptied that trash can you're stuck in right now!" 

Silence. Then...

"Oh, Great Faldar, I think I'm in the garage." 

Ian smacked his forehead. 

"Ow!" 

Ian felt a jolt as he heard Barley's cry of pain. "What happened?" he asked frantically, "Barley?"

"...What?"

"Are you okay?!"

"...Who 'm I talking to...?"

"Your brother!" Ian reminded, exasperated.

"Oh, yeeeeaaah," Barley said, "Um...what was the question again?"

Ian hung up.

Ian had considered waking his mother and informing her about what was currently happening with Barley, but for the time being at least, he ruled it out. He wanted to check for himself and see what condition his brother was in before he made any other decisions. 

He swiftly, but quietly made his way down the stairs, retrieved the garage key, crept out the door, and made his way across the grass to the garage. Once he reached it he realized that the key was unneeded:  the door was slightly ajar, and Ian could hear movement inside. He gripped his staff firmly; he was fairly certain that he was right and it was just Barley, but he refused to be caught off guard by potential burglars. 

"Luxia." 

A bright light blossomed from the end of his staff and illuminated the room in front of him. And there, sprawled on the ground and sticking out of the end of their large trash can, was a pair of bruised legs that could only belong to Barley. Relief swept through Ian as he reached inside, flipped the light switch, and cancelled the spell. Then he closed the door behind him and rushed over to his brother. 

One of the first things Ian noticed was the pair of flip-flops that were on Barley's feet--further proof that Barley wasn't in his right mind. Neither of the Lightfoot brothers were particularly fond of flip-flops: for Ian they were just uncomfortable, while Barley once said that they were impossible to run in. And for someone who was always on the go, that posed a hindrance. At any rate, Ian was sure that when Barley had left, he'd been wearing his usual sneakers. So how...? 

Ian gave his head a little shake. One thing at a time, he told himself. 

"Barley?" he called softly. He received a groan in return. "It's okay, I'm here," Ian said, trying to sound reassuring. The hand that wasn't holding his staff hovered in the air uncertainly. He didn't know how, but Barley seemed to have wedged himself into that trash can. He could see the fingers of Barley's left hand pinned to his side. The other had to be up near his face--how else could he have called him? 

"Ian?" came Barley's muffled voice.

Ian dropped to his knees next to the heap that was his brother and patted Barley's leg. "Yeah, it's me." 

Barley wiggled his foot, perhaps in greeting. "Salutations," he droned. 

Ian couldn't help but roll his eyes. "We need to get you out of there. Can you move at all?"

"Pffft. Aye!" 

Barley first kicked one leg...then the other...then the first one again. Then he lay still.

Ian stared. "Barley?"

"Yeah...th't's all I got..."

Ian could feel his head starting to hurt. 

"Lil' bro," Barley called, "will I stay here f'rever?" 

"No," Ian stated matter-of-factly, "you're not." He was about to grab the trash can handle and start pulling when he remembered his magic. "Barley, I've got an idea," he said, "but I need you to sit up. Can you do that for me?" Barley didn't give a verbal response, but he tried to follow Ian's request, at least. He moved his legs, trying to lift his upper body off the concrete floor. 

Ian still felt a complicated mixture of emotions regarding Barley's apparent choice to drink more than he should have--frustration, disappointment, fear and anger. But watching his brother's feeble attempts to get his torso up off the ground, he felt a new one joining in...pity. "Here, I'll help you," Ian said to him with a sigh. He grasped the bottom of the trash can, lifted, and pushed it upward. "Move, Barley!" Ian ordered, grunting from the strain, "I can't do this by myself!" 

It took a couple of moments, along with some coaching, complaining, and patience, but with Ian's help, Barley was able to maneuver himself to a sitting position. Ian managed to ensure that the trash can was leaning up against the wall so that Barley wouldn't fall back over. Then he backed up a couple of steps and readied his staff.

"Aloft Elevar!" 

The magic claimed the trash can, and Ian began to raise the trash can up. He supposed he could've levitated the trash can whether Barley had moved or not, which might have saved them some trouble...but since he still didn't know exactly what shape Barley was in, Ian didn't want to risk hurting him. It didn't release its hold on Barley immediately, however: as the trash can got higher off the ground, it started to take Barley with it. 

"I don't w'nna be in here no more..." Barley mumbled.

"Just hold on, Barley, you'll be out soon!"

"Smells funzy in here..."

"You mean funny?"

"That tooooooooo........"

Ian wasn't ready to give up yet--he simply kept the trash can, along with his brother, suspended in the air. Finally, Barley's weight was enough to pull him free, which was exactly what Ian had been counting on. But as soon as Barley fell onto the ground, Ian was in for another surprise, and without even thinking he magically set the trash can to the other side of the room. "Oh, Barley..." Ian murmured, dismayed.

Barley was...not dressed normally, to put it mildly. Okay, maybe the fact that he was wearing a cape (that had somehow been bundled up with his head in the trash can) was something he would do even if he were sober, but it didn't look like the cape he wore as cosplay or at his Quests of Yore campaigns. Rather, it appeared to be a mere curtain or tablecloth patterned with flowers. As for everything else...

For starters, Barley's vest was missing. This was yet another red flag as, with the exception of formal occasions, he never went anywhere without it. Both of his forearms were wrapped in duct tape that had then been marked on, just as his old cast had been. Only while the pictures he and his friends had doodled on his cast had been pretty clear and defined--as in, you could look at it and know what it was--these weren't pictures so much as sloppy scribbles. 

In place of Barley's beanie was an old baseball cap turned backwards. Or at least, that's what Ian assumed it was...for on top of that was a plastic bowl with forks taped to the sides. Ian could only guess that it was meant to be a cheap imitation of Barley's warrior helmet. 

And most bizarrely of all was the mess of red all over Barley's face. Ian had enough sense to recognize that it wasn't blood, which is what he probably would've believed it was if the garage light hadn't been on. But as to what it actually was, the markings were too smudged to tell. Some kind of paint, maybe? 

Ian stepped closer and kneeled in front of Barley, and he grimaced as he noticed the additional bruises peeking out from beneath his brother's sleeves. Zadar only knew if there were more hidden beneath the tape--and for goodness' sake, why was Barley wearing duct tape?! "Are you hurt anywhere?" Ian asked as he inspected Barley for injuries.

Barley blinked several times, and he looked so dazed that Ian suspected he hadn't even heard his question. No matter--from what Ian could discern, Barley wasn't seriously hurt aside from his bruises, and that was nothing rest couldn't fix. 

Ian reached for Barley's face and ran two of his fingers down the red markings. He pulled his hand back, rubbed his fingertips and thumb together, and muttered to himself, "Are you kidding me?" It was lipstick: there was no mistaking it. When they were both children, Barley went through a phase where he would steal their mother's lipstick--every color and shade of it he could get his hands on--and use it to color his and Ian's faces so they looked like clowns. As such, Ian was positive he would never forget the feel of lipstick on bare skin. 

Ian looked up from his findings just in time to see Barley's eyes focus on him. It seemed to take a moment for Barley to process just who he was looking at, but he must've remembered, because he gave Ian a grin that stretched from ear to ear. "My baby brother!" he exclaimed ecstatically, and before Ian could react he found himself engulfed in his big brother's arms. 

Ian yelped and squirmed, having been pinned to Barley's chest, but Barley's hold was too strong to escape from. "Barley!" he cried, his voice sounding comically constricted, "You're squishing me!" Ian wrinkled his nose at the terrible odor that clung to his brother's shirt--Barley must've spilled alcohol on himself at some point. "Let me go!"

"I can't do that, Iandore!" Barley whined.

"Why?!" 

"Cause there's--there's--" Barley hiccuped, the movement causing his chest to bump Ian's cheek.

"There's what?!" Ian demanded, nearly at his wit's end.

"There's three of you!" Barley laughed in delight, "I must hug you all!"

Ian slumped with a hopeless groan. 

Ian was so thankful for magic.

Sure, he didn't actually know any spells that could make people sleep, and the calming spell only really worked on the hostile rather than the intoxicated, but after a good ten minutes of wriggling out of Barley's arms (as well as internally panicking) he realized he still had options. And he had to take them, because he couldn't just leave Barley in the garage to be discovered in the morning. 

Surprisingly, it didn't take as much effort to follow the decree for the strength spell as Ian had thought. His fears had largely vanished once he saw for himself that Barley was unharmed. The invisibility spell had been even easier: To go unnoticed, you must appear to belong. This was Ian's house. So with Barley draped over him and both of them unnoticeable to the naked eye, Ian halted just outside the door. There was still one problem they had to contend with. 

"Okay, Barley," Ian grunted, "I can't stress this enough: you cannot say a single word once we get inside. Got it?"

Barley snickered. "I can't see you, but you look funny..."

"Barley!" Ian snapped, "This is serious! Do you want Mom to ground you for life? Huh?"

Barley gasped. Ian couldn't see him, but he could feel Barley shake his head urgently. "No, no, nonononono...I can't...Mom'll kill me..."

"Yes, she will," Ian agreed, pleased that Barley was finally understanding the gravity of their situation.

"Gotta call Ian..." Barley continued to mumble, "Call Ian 'n he'll fix it..."

Ian frowned. "Fix what?" he asked, puzzled.

"Fix it, fix it, fix it..."

Ian didn't press him. He longed to ask Barley what had happened to him tonight...what he could possibly have been thinking...but at this point Ian knew better than to expect any clear answers from him. There would be plenty of time to ask questions once the effects of the alcohol had worn off. If nothing else, Barley was gradually becoming less animated, which Ian hoped meant that he would fall asleep very soon. After all, if Barley was sleeping, then he wasn't talking. If he wasn't talking, he could neither wake their mother and stepfather nor tip them off that he was drunk. He might just make it through this without being found out...if Ian could only get him to his bedroom. 

"Barley, listen to me," Ian commanded, "I need you to be completely, totally silent. Period. Okay?"

There was no answer.

"Barley?"

"You said to be silent," Barley huffed.

"...Yes," Ian acknowledged, "Yes I did..." He took a deep breath, twisted the doorknob, and let the door swing open. 

As soon as Ian had maneuvered the two of them through the doorway, he nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of Barley's humming. It wasn't terribly loud, though, so maybe it wasn't a huge deal. The bigger issue was getting the door shut again and then carrying Barley to his room, since his feet were dragging on the floor and his whole body was so bulky. Ian had to remind himself that the spell wasn't actually making Barley lighter; it just made Ian himself stronger. So keeping in mind that Barley's weight would ensure that he would make noise if Ian bumped him into anything, Ian was able to shut the door quietly and drag his older brother to his room (with great difficulty, of course). It came as a tremendous relief when Ian could finally help Barley lay down on his bed, take off his hats--both real and not--and then shut the bedroom door, protecting them both from unwelcome eyes. He allowed his magic to dissipate, leaving them visible once more.

Barley chuckled goofily. "That was s' fun..." he slurred.

"What?" Ian said, upset, "That you got yourself so drunk you can't tell which way is up?" He couldn't help but feel betrayed by his brother's carelessness. Barley didn't always think things through, but this...

"No, silly," Barley replied, oblivious to Ian's tone, "that there w're three yous! All those kids th't pick on you..." he added, his voice dropping, "they only wish they could have three Ians..." 

Ian sighed, and despite himself he could feel some of his anger ebbing away. Barley had a way of buttering him up without even really trying--it was one of his best and worst traits, because there were times when Ian wasn't willing to let him off the hook so quickly. And this was one of those times. 

Putting his conflicted feelings aside for the moment, Ian switched Barley's lamp on. Then he tracked down the snack stash Barley normally kept in here, and pulled out a bottle of water. Ian knew Barley didn't actually like drinking water. He only kept it in here because Laurel insisted that he should have something healthy every once in a while...that had been a couple of months ago. Next, he retrieved one of the many old, stained rags Barley kept for maintaining his figurines. As far as Ian could tell, it hadn't been used recently and was relatively clean, save for the stains it had accumulated over time. He soaked it in water and went to work cleaning the lipstick off his brother's face.

Barley was watching Ian's movements. "Th't's a lotta red..." he noted with a yawn.

"That's what happens when you use lipstick," Ian informed him.

"Th't's lipstick?" Barley asked in wonder, "'m so happy I've got you to tell me these things..." He reached up and patted Ian's head...but in his uncoordinated state, was doing so rather hard. 

Ian grunted painfully as he grasped Barley's wrist and forcefully set it on the mattress. Against his better judgment, he asked, "You wanna tell me why you're wearing lipstick all over your face?" 

Barley tilted his head. "Cause I needed warpaint." Ian shook his head; he should've guessed.

As he continued his ministrations, Ian saw something that he hadn't before: a strap encircling Barley's shoulder. He grabbed it and tried to pull it off, but whatever it was attached to was pinned beneath Barley's back. Ian first undid the knot that kept Barley's "cape" in place, thinking that he should've done so sooner, and managed to budge his brother just enough to remove the object...and Ian was bewildered to discover that it was a backpack. Bloodred with black accents. Ian was positive that it didn't belong to Barley, yet somehow it still looked familiar. He was about to open it in search of clues when he heard Barley moan. Looking up in concern, Ian set the pack on the floor.

"I dn't feel right..." said Barley.

"Not surprised," Ian replied dryly. He eyed the duct tape that was still wrapped around Barley's arms, and he honestly didn't know what he should do about that. He couldn't think of any way to remove the tape that wouldn't hurt a lot, and in his current state Barley was more likely to fight off any attempts Ian would make to do so rather than cooperate. The only solution Ian could come up with was to get Barley into a warm bath or shower--he hoped that that would help to both wear down the adhesive and soften Barley's skin to where peeling it off wouldn't hurt as much. But they would have to wait until Laurel and Colt were out of the house. 

As he washed the worst of the lipstick marks off Barley's face, he mentally ran through every PSA that had ever been shown throughout his years at school. However, it only took a few seconds for him to realize how pointless that was. Those PSAs never told someone what to do to recover from being drunk: they were mainly used to emphasize all the bad things that could happen if one was drunk. So instead, Ian went over everything Colt told him about the subject--for starters, the bodily harm that came with excessive drinking. Ian had no way to determine exactly how much alcohol Barley had had tonight, but as far as he could tell there weren't any signs of alcohol poisoning. Next: vomiting. 

"Hey, uh, Barley," Ian said with a nervous gulp, "do you feel sick?"

"Dn't feel right," Barley repeated.

"Yeah, I know, but do you feel like you're gonna puke?"

Barley let out out a loud laugh, which prompted a furious "Shhhhh!" from Ian. He propped himself on his elbows, then all but rolled into Ian. "I can't puke, goofball! There's nothin' to throw up! Y'see, cause I did it already!" 

Sure enough, Ian was close enough to learn that the stench that was stuck to Barley's clothes was nothing compared to how rancid his breath was. Ian shoved his brother away, gagging and nearly losing the contents of his own stomach. "Stay here," he coughed, "I'll be right back."

"Kay..."

After double-checking that Barley wasn't going to move from the bed, Ian tiptoed out of the room and into the kitchen. With the house being dark it wasn't easy to find, but with the help of the moonlight that shone through the kitchen window, Ian found what he was looking for: a large plastic bowl. He returned to Barley's room and set it down next to the bed. Just in case.

With that done, Ian finished his mental checklist...the cure for intoxication. Which wasn't food or water. Not medicine, nor exercise to work it out of the system. The only thing that would help Barley was time. Ian huffed...he wasn't looking forward to this part. 

"Barley, we need to get you out of those clothes. Then you can go to sleep."

Barley said something in response, but by now it didn't even sound like real words anymore. He seemed to be able to get his shorts off no problem, so Ian grabbed a spare T-shirt from Barley's dresser. Only, since Barley didn't keep his clothes sorted like most people, Ian had to dig all the way to the bottom of his drawer to find one. He shoved the other clothes back in, not even attempting to reorganize them, since they'd all just end up one giant mess again. 
He turned back around--and saw Barley sitting up, his shirt pulled over his face and his bare stomach exposed. 

"What are you doing now?" Ian groaned.

"Can't get m' shirt off," came Barley's muffled answer.

Oh, for crying out loud! Ian mentally yelled.

Helping Barley get his shirt off...really shouldn't have taken as much effort as it did. For some reason, every time they were about to get that shirt over Barley's head, Barley got the bright idea of putting his arms back down. And no matter how many times Ian told him to keep them up, Barley wouldn't do so for very long. Ian was sorely tempted to just cut the whole thing off and be done with it when they were finally able to wrestle Barley out of the dirty shirt and into the clean one. Ian didn't bother trying to get pajama pants on his brother, content to leave him in his boxers. Feeling his energy drain rapidly, Ian glimpsed at Barley's alarm clock: 6:29 am. 

Has it really only been an hour? Ian thought in disbelief. 

"I feel real comfy now," Barley told him with a loopy smile.

Ian couldn't bring himself to smile back, but he did say in a genuine tone of voice, "That's nice." As he pulled the blanket over his older brother, Ian considered what he should do next...even though he already knew the answer.

In about half an hour, Colt would wake up and go to work. And half an hour after that, Laurel would get up to take the car in for repairs. She also mentioned doing some grocery shopping afterwards, depending on how long the job would take and whether there were any appointments ahead of her. Either way, both of them would be gone most of the day, which should give Barley plenty of time to sober up. As much as Ian wanted to go back to his own bed, he couldn't leave Barley alone. Yes, there was the risk that Barley would get himself caught if he wasn't supervised, but more than that Ian was truly afraid that his brother would hurt himself. Frankly, it was a miracle that he hadn't already--Ian had heard enough stories to know that driving wasn't the only kind of accident that could be caused by drinking. 

Yawning, Ian pulled Barley's desk chair over to his bedside and sat down.

"Are ya gonna sleep over?" Barley asked drowsily.

"Yep."

"C'n jus' share, y'know." Barley's eyes were barely open now.

Ian raised an eyebrow. "I'll pass," he said shortly, "If you throw up again, it's not gonna be on me."

Almost as soon as he'd finished his sentence, Barley drifted off to sleep at last, his snores filling the room. Ian rubbed his brother's shoulder, feeling exhausted. "I don't envy the headache you're gonna have when you wake up," he murmured. 

Ian didn't register that he'd fallen asleep. That is, not until he woke up at the sound of a heavy thud. His eyes snapped open and he was greeted with the sight of his older brother in a heap on the floor. His mind still clouded from his unintentional nap, Ian clumsily dropped down next to him. "Barley, you okay?" he asked, groggy yet worried.

Barley groaned and forced himself to his hands and knees. "Please don't talk so loud..." he moaned as he struggled to stand. Ian slung Barley's arm around his shoulders, hoping to make the task easier for him. Then he made Barley sit back down on his bed. Once Ian finally got a good look at Barley's face, he cringed: Barley's eyes were puffy and watery, and he wore the expression of a man who'd had his head bludgeoned. 

So this is what a hangover looks like, Ian thought. 

Barley slumped forward, his head resting in his hands. Ian gently grasped both of his brother's shoulders. "Ughhh..." Barley said miserably, "this has gotta be the worst headache in the history of headaches."

That's what happens when you drink yourself stupid, Ian was tempted to say. Maybe he would say it later, when Barley felt healthy enough to take it: doing so now felt too mean-spirited. So instead, he said in a delicate tone of voice, "I'll get you some medicine." 

But wait a minute--was their mom still here? Ian looked at the clock--8:16 am. She and Colt should've left by now. Still, Ian exercised caution when he exited Barley's room, afraid that maybe one of them was running late today. Fortunately his concern was unwarranted: their bedroom was empty, and he could neither see nor hear movement anywhere. 

Not for long, anyway: as Ian dug through the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, he heard a cry of pain. Ian gasped--the sound had come from Barley's room. He swiftly grabbed the bottle of pills and rushed out of the bathroom. He heard another cry just as he threw open Barley's door...and gaped at the sight of Barley pulling the tape off of his arm. "Barley, what are you doing?!"

"What does...it look like...?" Barley replied through clenched teeth, clearly in pain. 

"Well, stop!" Ian demanded as he crossed over to Barley's bed, "You don't need to hurt yourself!"

"I'm fine," Barley said stubbornly. He peeled the tape some more, wincing as he did so.

"No, you're not," Ian stated in frustration. He grabbed Barley's hand, forcing him to let go of the tape. "We'll get that off you, but we have to take this one step at a time." There was still some water left over in that bottle, so Ian handed it to Barley and shook a couple of pills out of the container. "Take these," Ian said. 

It spoke volumes about how Barley must've been feeling that he didn't even complain about having to take his medicine with water. In fact, he practically inhaled all the water that was left--something he hadn't done since Field Day in his senior year. When he was done he tossed the bottle to the floor. 

"You have a trash can, you know," Ian sighed disapprovingly. 

Barley ignored him. "Now what?" he grunted. 

"Now, your least favorite thing to do...shower time." 

To his credit, Barley didn't protest. He did, however, insist on bathing himself. Ian was completely fine with that--having had his fill of playing nurse--but he still warned Barley not to try taking the tape off until he'd been soaked for a while. Goodness only knew if Barley would follow his advice, but Ian knew he would be in for a painful time no matter what. 

Barley was in the bathroom for a whole hour, and during that time Ian sat at the dining room table, torn between anger and sympathy. Ian didn't want Barley to suffer like this but at the same time, it was hard to deny that he'd brought this on himself. And sure, Barley had made it home safely, but he'd done so without Guinevere...meaning he'd been running around who-knew-where for who-knew-how-long. Alone, apparently. Ian shook with this knowledge, and he wrapped a hand around his empty cup as a way of centering himself. 

Barley, how could you be so dumb? he wondered, Where were your friends? Didn't you know what would happen? What if you got hurt? What if something happened and you-- 

Ian slammed the brakes on that train of thought. Barley was here. He was in one piece. He was okay, and he made it back to them. Still, one last thought intruded...

This time.

Feeling restless, Ian got up from the table and walked to the bathroom door. As he approached it, he could hear Barley hissing inside. He must've been in the process of removing the tape. Gingerly, Ian knocked on the door. "Barley?"

"Yeah," Barley responded tersely. 

"You good in there?"

"Right as rain, bud." Barley's words were immediately contradicted by a ripping sound, followed by a muted whimper. 

Ian fidgeted, undecided as to what he should do. He wanted to make this painless for Barley, but he didn't think there was any way he could do that. The best thing he could do was to help him feel comfortable after the tape was off. So Ian waited in the hall, grimacing at every rip and cry he heard from his brother. It took a while, but at last, the door opened. Barley emerged, his arms now bearing a pinkish tinge in addition to tape residue. The two of them stood there, staring awkwardly at each other. Then Ian gestured vaguely with his hand.

"We've gotta get that cleaned up."

"'We' don't have to do anything," said Barley, "I got this." 

Ian didn't believe him. As Barley walked to the sink and reached for a dish towel, Ian could see his arms trembling slightly. Ian exhaled through his nose and went to Barley's side, snatching the cloth from him.

"Hey, what--"

"Go sit down," said Ian, "Let me help you. And don't say you don't need it," he added sharply when he saw Barley's mouth open to argue. Barley's jaw clicked shut, then he did as he was told. As Ian turned towards the sink to wet the cloth, he heard his brother huff behind him, and he had to bite back a testy retort. Barley had never been the type of person to enjoy being "pampered", as he put it. For as long as Ian could remember, Barley wanted to prove that he could look after himself. But Ian was well past the point of taking Barley's assertion that he was okay at face value. 

Once the dish towel had been wet and wrung, Ian returned to the table. "Hold still," he instructed, and he began to rub Barley's arm with the fabric. He tried to be gentle, but Barley's skin was obviously sore--Ian saw his fingers twitch every time he put pressure on it. 

Barley cleared his throat. "So, uh...would you like to inform me on why I was wearing duct tape this fine morning?"

Ian's eyes shot up to his brother's face, eyebrows raised. "Uh, dude? I was hoping you could tell me." 

Barley blinked in confusion. "So you didn't wrap my arms up in all that stuff?"

"Barley, why would I do something like that?"

"I dunno," Barley shrugged, "Maybe I made you mad?"

Ian scoffed. "The worst I would do is yell at you. I would never actually hurt you like that, no matter how mad you made me." 

"Oh, that's nice, then," Barley said with a smile, his eyes considerably brighter. Then he frowned. "But if it wasn't you, then..."

"It was probably you...but I don't know for sure," Ian admitted. Finished with one arm, Ian switched to the other. "So you really don't remember that happening?"

Barley's eyes squinted in thought. And he stayed that way, with Ian continuing to work in silence. As he neared the end of his task, Ian noticed that Barley's expression was becoming strained. It must've hurt to think when he was still hungover. Barley held his forehead with his hand, and Ian placed his hand on Barley's wrist. "Never mind...we'll come back to that later," he said. The tension left Barley's face at those words, and he now looked both relieved and lost. 

Once Ian felt he'd cleaned Barley's arms as best as he was able, he made a quick trip to the medicine cabinet, and came back with some antibacterial spray. He applied it to Barley's flesh, his nose wrinkling at the chemical stench. Then he reexamined it to determine whether or not bandages were necessary. After a few moments he decided against it: the skin still looked angry and quite a bit of hair was now missing, but Ian didn't see any cuts, scabs or blood anywhere. Hopefully they would look better in a day or two. His objective completed, he slumped back in his chair with a heavy sigh, his head tilted back to stare at the ceiling. 

"You know," Barley spoke, "I could've done all that myself." He saw the dirty look Ian gave him in response, and he hurriedly clarified, "I mean, it's not that I don't appreciate it! I just...you don't have to take care of me."

Ian pinched the bridge of his nose. "I do when you're too drunk to take care of yourself," he said quietly. 

Barley's mouth hung open, but for once nothing came out. He almost looked as though he were seeing Ian for the first time. Finally he said, "Hey, I'm okay now. I mean, yeah, my head still hurts something fierce, but nothing bad happened!"

"That you know of," Ian replied stiffly. He saw the defensive look in his brother's eyes, and he plowed on ahead. "Why don't we go over what you do remember?" He didn't want to start a fight. 

Barley hummed. "I don't know where to start."

"How about the beginning?" Ian suggested, scratching the back of his neck, "You left the house last night to meet with Shrub. What happened after that?"

"Well..." Barley said thoughtfully, "a whole bunch of us got together to go to the movies, then we went to Shrub's house. His parents were out and he threw a party." 

Ian tapped his fingers on the wooden surface. "Is that where you started drinking?" he asked warily.

Barley hunched his shoulders sheepishly. "Yeah..."

"Why, though? You told me that you tried beer once, and you didn't like it. That you wouldn't drink it again!"

"It wasn't beer," Barley corrected, "Yaldina's sister works as a bartender, and she's been picking up some skills from her. She learned how to mix alcohol into other drinks, and it was really tasty! Though I guess maybe too tasty...I may have overdone it."

Ian shot him a deadpan look. "You think?" Barley let out a half-hearted chuckle, and Ian sighed. "Well, what next?"

"I dunno--we played some games, had snacks...not really much else."

"And after that?" Ian pressed. 

"...I'm not sure," Barley said, his frown deepening, "The memories are there, they're just...foggy." His gaze met Ian's. "Maybe you can fill in some of the blanks for me, little bro. How did you even know where to find me?"

"Simple," Ian replied wryly, "you called me."

"...I what?"

Ian explained everything that had occurred earlier this morning. However, he left out how absolutely stressful the whole experience was, as well as Barley's more...incoherent moments. As he did Barley's expression alternated between wonder and bafflement. When Ian was done, the first thing Barley said was... 

"Thanks for not telling Mom."

"...You're welcome." Truthfully, Ian had been tempted to let their mother know what Barley had been up to, reasoning that whatever punishment or lecture she dealt to him would discourage him from repeating this incident. But in the end it had been buried by his hope that this was just a one-time event. That from here on out Barley would know better. 

"You said I came home without Guinevere?" Barley questioned.

"Yeah--you didn't have your keys, either."

"I know where they are," Barley assured him, "Before we had those drinks I left them with Shrub, just in case."

"Huh," said Ian, astonished, "That was actually pretty careful of you." 

"Why do you sound so surprised?" Barley asked, slightly offended.

"So Shrub still has your keys?"

"Most likely," Barley confirmed, "Alcohol doesn't effect him as much as the rest of us, being a troll and all."

Ian stood up. "Then all I have to do is go to Shrub's house, get your keys, and pick up Guinevere!" He made his way down the hall. Then he paused and turned around. "I'm uh...I'm gonna need Shrub's address."

Barley had stood up as well. "No need, little brother, for I shall go instead!"

"What?" said Ian, alarmed, "No, you're not. You're still not in great shape, Barley--you're staying here!"

Barley crossed his arms defiantly. "Ian, I am much better now than I was half an hour ago, and I'm getting more sober all the time. Guinevere's my steed--it should be up to me to bring her home." 

"Fine...but you're taking me with you," Ian said with a scowl, "One of us has to make sure you're still standing!"

Barley grinned as though they were just starting on a new adventure. "Then let's go!" he declared as he passed Ian and walked out the door. 

"Barley," Ian called.

"What?" Barley answered, turning to face him.

"...You're still in your pajamas."

Barley glanced down at his ratty clothes. "I'm sure the bus driver won't mind," he said nonchalantly.

"Barley..."

Barley threw his hands up. "Okay, okay! Spoilsport." 

Sometimes Ian regretted being the responsible sibling. 

The bus wouldn't be able to take them all the way to Shrub's house. Once they got to the bus stop they'd have to walk the rest of the way. 

"Are you sure you can walk that far?" Ian asked his brother anxiously.

"Of course I can!" Barley asserted, patting Ian's shoulder, "I'm not crippled, you know. Stop worrying!"

Maybe Barley was right. He hadn't been caught drunk and Ian hadn't been caught trying to hide the fact that his brother was drunk. On top of that, they knew where Guinevere was, and they were going straight there. The only real trouble they were having right now was that the bus was still making stops to either let people on or drop people off, which was slowing their progress. But even that wasn't a very big deal. Overall, crisis averted.

Barley whistled a few notes, then he said, "I don't know about you, but I'm having a nice time right now."

"That's because you got the window seat," Ian grumbled. 

Barley turned his face from the window, where he'd been watching the world pass by, and raised a taunting eyebrow at his little brother. "You still upset about that? That's what you get for not calling dibs!"

"That's a stupid rule," Ian complained. 

"Well, as the person who successfully called dibs on the well-loved window seat...I'm gonna have to disagree!"

Ian just crossed his arms and sulked.

Despite his cheerful attitude, Barley wasn't at 100% just yet: Ian could tell from the fact that his eyes still had a somewhat glossy look to them, not to mention that his face was slightly pale. Almost as soon as they stepped off the bus Ian spotted a small cafe on the corner of the street and he got an idea. 

"Hey, Barley," he said, getting his brother's attention, "why don't we get you some coffee?" It wouldn't speed up Barley's recovery, but perhaps it would help him feel at least a little better. 

"Eh, I appreciate the thought, little brother, but I really want to get Guinny back," Barley replied. 

"We'll get it to go," Ian said reasonably, "I'll even pay for it." 

Barley held up his hand. "Nah, I'll..." His voice trailed off, and he swayed on his feet. 

Ian tilted his head. "What's wrong?" Ian asked in concern.

He shook his head a bit, then cringed, as that seemed to agitate the headache he undoubtedly still had. "Just a teensy-bit out of it, that's all."

"Coffee?" Ian offered again, "Or maybe hot cocoa if you want." 

"You know what? Coffee sounds nice," Barley relented. He was rubbing his forehead. Ian made a mental note to ask the workers for a bag of ice, too. 

The brothers made their way down the sidewalk, Barley with a cup of coffee practically loaded with sugar, and Ian with a cup of Dr. Fizzard (he desperately needed the caffeine, but he found coffee too revolting for his tastes). With his other hand, Barley held a bag of ice wrapped in paper towels to his skull.

"Feeling any better?" Ian asked.

"Oh, stupendously so!" Barley responded, giving Ian a thumbs up. 

They walked a little more, then turned a corner. And there, by the curb two houses down, was Guinevere II. Barley pointed. "There's our girl!" he exclaimed joyfully. He broke into a sprint, dropping his cup and the makeshift ice pack as he did so. As soon as the cup hit the ground the lid popped off and the remainder of Barley's beverage spilled onto the concrete. He didn't seem to notice.

"Barley, don't push yourself!" Ian cried. Of course his brother didn't listen. Ian huffed and picked what was now trash off of the sidewalk. Then he stalked after Barley. 

By the time Ian caught up to him, Barley was inspecting Guinevere, no doubt looking for any signs of damage. Seemingly satisfied, he patted her hood affectionately and dashed to Shrub's front door. He rang the doorbell once. Then twice. Then three times. All in the span of five seconds. 

"Do you always have to play with the doorbell?" Ian griped. 

"How else is he gonna know I'm here?"

"Well, I think ringing it once should've been enough of a clue." 

The lock clicked, interrupting their conversation, and the door swung open. A young troll's face appeared, his relief plain to see. "Barley!"

"Greetings, Shrub! Last night was some party, huh?" He reached his fist out for his friend to bump, which he did. 

"Quite," Shrub answered with a smile. He didn't wear it for long, though. "I'm glad to see you, though. I was getting worried. We all woke up and I couldn't find you anywhere in the house." 

Barley let out an embarrassed laugh and rubbed the back of his head. "Yeah, funny story..." 

"Well, could you tell it in here?" Shrub requested, "I've gotta get this mess cleaned up before my parents get home, and I could use a hand. This is partly your mess, after all."

"Fine," Barley said grouchily.

Shrub stepped aside to let the two brothers in. "Hey, Ian," the troll said, his voice tired but friendly, "it's been a while since I saw you last. How've you been?"

"Good," Ian told him politely, "I've just been..." His sentence trailed off as he took a good look at the house.

The place was absolutely trashed. The living room floor was littered with blankets, empty cans and bottles, half-empty bags of chips and crackers, the carpet and furniture stained with food and liquid. Chairs had been pulled out for use and then were abandoned all over the place. The kitchen counter was covered with bottles of alcohol, juice and soda, as well as bowls that had clearly been used at some point or another for holding snacks; Ian could see popcorn kernels at the bottom of one when he stepped close enough. There were crumbs scattered all over the linoleum floor. 

Barley whistled. "You weren't kidding about a mess."

"Doesn't look too different from your room a lot of the time," Ian remarked.

"Hey!"

Despite the attempt at light-hearted banter, Ian could feel his stomach tensing. Before he could give voice to his feelings, though, he felt Shrub tap him on the shoulder. "I hate to ask," he said apologetically, "But if you could use your magic to help clean all this up, it would be a huge help."

"Huh? Oh!" said Ian, looking at his staff. He nodded. "Yeah, I can do that." 

And that's what he did. Compared to when he had to put the school back together all those months ago, cleaning up a few rooms was a cinch. But all the anxiety he'd felt when Barley had come home last night was resurfacing as Ian was able to get a closer look at the chaos that had been caused by his drunk brother and his equally drunk friends. In the kitchen, he'd cringed as he glanced at the alcohol bottles and realized just how much of it had been consumed. 

"Hey, Shrub?" Ian said nervously, "You, uh...you said you were asleep before you realized Barley was missing?"

"Yeah," Shrub replied as he stuffed something into a trash bag. Barley was in the living room, using some kind of soap to scrub the furniture with.

"You didn't notice anything was off about him?" Ian questioned, trying not to sound accusatory. 

"Well, not really," said Shrub with a shrug, "but on the other hand I wasn't thinking so straight myself. That drink I had was some pretty powerful stuff." 

"I thought trolls couldn't get affected by alcohol."

"Not the usual stuff, no," Shrub corrected, "The thing is we're resistant--not immune. Even we have our limits, and some kinds of alcohol are a whole lot stronger than others." 

Okay, so Shrub hadn't been lucid enough to keep an eye on Barley when things were getting crazy here. But surely somebody must've been. Right?

"Okay, so, um..." said Ian, "who was your designated driver?"

Shrub blinked. "Our what?"

Ian swallowed. "Who wasn't drinking last night? Who was supposed to take everybody home safely?"

"Uh...nobody. We all kinda lost it. Everybody stayed for the night and left this morning...albeit with some nasty headaches."

Ian's head was spinning. No one had been responsible last night. No one had refrained from drinking themselves stupid. And because of that, nobody had noticed when Barley left the house. 

"Was..." stammered Ian, "...was anybody else gone this morning? When you woke up?"

"Nope," Shrub said, shaking his head, "just Barley. Didn't know what happened to him. I was about to go out and look for him when you two showed up." 

Barley hadn't even had anyone with him. He'd been completely alone...

"Hey Ian, I remember now!" came Barley's amazed voice from the living room. Shrub walked out of the kitchen to see him, and Ian numbly followed. 

"Remember what?" asked Shrub curiously.

In response, Barley held up a DVD case--something about zombies. "The characters wrapped duct tape around their limbs for extra protection when they went to fight against the zombies! You know, to keep them from sinking their teeth in. And it looked sweet!" 

"And...?" Shrub said blankly.

"Barley came home with his arms wrapped in duct tape," Ian explained dully. 

"Just duct tape?!" Shrub gaped, horrified, "Barley, they wrapped padding around their arms before putting the tape on!" 

Barley pouted. "Well, it just so happens that I missed that little detail while I was feeling tipsy..." he said indignantly. Ian tuned out the rest of his brother's words and went back to work, his mind reeling.

In the background Ian could hear Barley bragging about his younger brother and how he'd come so far in his magical training already, but he couldn't really focus on it. It was a good thing that he only needed the most basic spells to tidy the place up; he wouldn't have been able to apply the decrees of the more advanced spells with his mind as distracted as it was. And with each passing moment alone with his thoughts, Ian could feel his distress growing. 

How could they let this happen? Barley...why couldn't you be sensible? What if something terrible happened?

Ian's grip tightened on his staff to the point where he could feel the wooden fibers digging into his palms.

...Do you even care...?

The rest of their time at the Rosehammer residence passed in a blur. Everything was either put up or thrown away, and the house looked almost as good as new. Ian was ready to leave, but Barley wanted to stay and chat with Shrub for a few more minutes. Ian didn't object, but he did take Guinevere's keys and curtly tell them that he'd wait in the van. He walked out the door without another word, not wanting either of them to see how disturbed he was. Ian sat in the passenenger seat, his temper simmering, until Barley (now wearing his vest, which had apparently also been left here) finally exited the house and joined him. He drove them home, chattering about something or other, but Ian didn't care to listen. He just stared out the window, sullen. 

By the time they entered their house, Barley must've sensed his brother's mood. "Ian, you have been increasignly silent since we departed Sir Shrub's humble abode," Barley said, using his warrior's voice. Ian didn't say anything in response, and Barley's eyebrows creased. "Is something the matter?"

Ian looked inside the refrigerator, not because he was hungry, but because he wanted an excuse not to look at Barley. "No, I'm fine," he said, forcing his voice to sound casual. 

"Oh, that's good," said Barley, relieved. Ian could hear the sound of cabinet doors opening and closing. "What a morning, though! I mean, yeah, the hangover sucked, but man. I gotta say, I had a lot of fun."

Ian felt a near-instantaneous flash of fury at his brother's oblivious words, and his mouth opened before he could stop himself. "Well, goodie for you." 

He heard Barley's movements cease. "Ian?"

Ian wanted to regret his cold tone, but found that he couldn't. And something about that scared him. He closed the fridge door, feeling his throat beginning to close up. "Forget it," he said tightly. 

"No," Barley said, crossing his arms, "What's wrong?"

Ian didn't say anything. Instead, he made his way toward the hall. But Barley strode forward and grabbed Ian's arm. "Ian, answer me," Barley insisted sharply.

"Let go, Barley," Ian growled. He still wouldn't look at Barley, so his brother grasped his shoulder and turned him around.

"Not until you tell me what the problem is."

"It's nothing." 

"It doesn't sound like nothing," Barley countered, frowning. Ian just glared at him. The seriousness in Barley's eyes deepened. "Ian, don't make me pull the older brother card."

Ian let out an incredulous bark of laughter. "Are you kidding me?" he said scornfully, "You have the nerve to say that after the way you came home last night?! 'Older' doesn't mean 'responsible'--you've made that pretty clear!"

Barley's hazel eyes widened, and for a moment it seemed like he was going to release his hold on Ian...but he didn't. "Ian, I know I let myself get carried away--"

"Like you always do," Ian interrupted.

"Hey," said Barley, his eyes narrowing in warning, "I made sure I didn't have my keys on me when I started drinking. And nothing bad happened to me. I came home, and no one got hurt." 

Ian yanked his arm free of his brother's grip. "Well, that's just fantastic, isn't it?" he snapped furiously, "I suppose I should congratulate you for the one good decision you made on a night full of bad ones!" Ian could see genuine anger appearing on Barley's face, but the sight just made him angrier himself. "And yeah, no one got hurt--this time. What about next time, huh? What happens next time you drink so much you can't control yourself anymore? What happens when everybody else does the same thing and they're not aware of what you're doing, or where you're going?" The anger was draining from Barley's expression, but Ian wouldn't let up, his voice raised to a shout. "What happens when you still have your keys and you decide to go for a drive? Or you don't have your cell phone and you can't call for help? Or when you decide to run off on your own without telling anyone? Suppose you stumble into a bad part of town and you can't defend yourself? Or you get into a horrible car wreck? Or you don't realize how much you're drinking and your body destroys itself? What if the worst happens and you hurt or kill--" Ian's voice cracked on that word. "--somebody or...or yourself?" His next words were quiet, but no less intense. "Any of those could've happened last night, and...and nobody would've known. Not until it was too late..." He was heaving for breath now.

"Ian," Barley said softly, looking slack-jawed. "It's gonna be o--"

"It's gonna be okay?" Ian finished hoarsely, "Barley, that's what you always say to Mom whenever you do something stupid, and then sometime later you're doing it again!" The rage was gone--now all Ian felt was fear. "You're off getting in trouble with the cops, or picking fights with some shady thugs, or doing some idiotic daredevil stunt that leaves you with a broken arm! You're so determined to be fearless and carefree that you don't think about the consequences of anything! I understand now why you've always been like that but I hoped--" Ian abruptly stopped talking, mortified at what he'd been about to say. 

"...Hoped what?" Barley asked faintly.

"Never mind," Ian said wretchedly. Maybe he could salvage this conversation, end it before it got worse. Of course Barley never made it easy for him.

"No! Tell me what you were gonna say." His eyes were glistening.

"I..." Ian bit his lip, and he could feel his eyes stinging. He looked away, unable to meet Barley's gaze. "I know...I know you've always blamed yourself for...for not saying goodbye. Because you got scared. A-and that you decided you'd never be scared again. B-but...I hoped that...t-that when you talked with Dad on the hill, that...that would be the end of it. That you wouldn't be so reckless anymore." Ian closed his eyes, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "But nothing's changed. You're still a mess, Barley. And someday, you're gonna do something to yourself that you'll never be able to undo." 

Ian finally looked up and saw the devastation on Barley's face. He could feel his tears about to spill, and without thinking he spun around and ran for the stairs. He ran all the way up to his room and shut his door. Then he sat down on his unkempt bed, hugged his pillow to his chest, and cried. 

Ian awoke to the sound of his phone pinging. He scrubbed the grit out of his eyes--he hadn't even realized how exhausted he still was. He wasn't even sure how long he'd been asleep. As he stirred, Ian felt the blanket that covered him. He didn't recall pulling it over himself. If Laurel and Colt still weren't home, then...Barley must've checked on him. Sighing, Ian reached out and took his phone off his nightstand. He looked at it and noted the time--3:09 pm--and a text message from his mother.

Mom: Eating out with Colt tonight. You boys are on your own for supper. We'll be home later! :)

Honestly, Ian was okay with that. He didn't feel like talking to anyone right now. He put his phone back where it was, shifted onto his back, and stared listlessly at the ceiling. Maybe he should go downstairs and heat up some leftovers--he hadn't eaten all day. But he wasn't hungry. Not only that...but he was remembering his fiasco of a talk with Barley earlier, and he could feel shame seeping into his heart. He couldn't believe he'd brought up Barley's final moments with their father. That was a topic that Ian had always been determined never to approach. But now...

What have I done? Ian thought despairingly. 

A knock sounded at his door, jerking Ian from his thoughts. 

"Ian?" 

He couldn't bring himself to answer--not after everything he'd said. He turned over on his side and curled up, facing the wall. Maybe if he was lucky, Barley would think he was still asleep and leave.

More knocking, tentative this time. "Ian..." said Barley timidly. Timid was a term Ian never associated with Barley, and his stomach twisted as he understood how badly his brother wanted to get back on his good side.

And how much he loved him.

"Talk to me...please."

Reluctantly, Ian sat up and contemplated his door. As much as he hated to acknowledge it, sitting here and giving the silent treatment wasn't going to solve this problem. All it would do was make the gap that had just opened between him and Barley even wider. But Ian was still afraid of facing his brother. He couldn't help but want to keep hiding...

"I brought your backpack."

That...that wasn't what Ian was expecting. He looked at his desk chair and sure enough, his backpack was sitting right there. What was Barley trying to do? Make up an excuse to speak with his younger brother? Ian took a deep breath and stood up. There was only one way to know. 

Apprehensively, Ian opened the door. There stood Barley, his expression cautious, yet hopeful. "Barley," Ian said wearily, "I already have my backpack."

Barley's eyebrows furrowed. "So this isn't yours?" he asked in confusion. In his hands was the red-and-black backpack that Barley had been wearing before. Ian had completely forgotten about it. 

"Barley, you came home with that," Ian told him.

"I did?" said Barley, staring at the backpack in curiosity, "Why?"

"Why do you keep asking me? You know I wasn't there."

Barley's face flushed. "Yeah..." he said awkwardly. 

Ian wrung his hands. He hadn't said that to lash out at Barley, but he felt guilty anyway. Desperate to escape the tension they were both drowning in, Ian said, "It does look familiar, though."

Barley's eyes lit up. "Really?"

"Somehow, yeah."

"So you know who this belongs to?"

Ian cupped his chin in thought. "I don't know..." He reached out and took the bag from Barley. He opened the largest pocket to find a few notebooks, what appeared to be a textbook, and...

"...A teddy bear?" Ian uttered, baffled. 

"A what?" said Barley incomprehensively. 

Ian stepped over to his desk, allowing Barley entry into his room. And from the backpack he pulled out a stuffed bear. It was in an awful state--its head was hanging from its neck by almost literally a thread, stuffing pouring out of the hole, and one of its arms had been ripped completely from its body. 

Ian gazed at the damaged object, more dumbfounded than before, but Barley gasped. "I remember," he murmured.

"Remember what?" Ian asked, directing his attention to his brother.

Barley didn't answer right away. Instead his eyes were trained on the poor toy. He picked up the severed arm and held it in his hands. He looked so crushed that, despite not even knowing why, Ian felt sorry for him.

"Barley...?"

"I ran into this cyclops kid--it was kind of hard to tell, but he looked about your age." His eyes darkened. "He was nowhere near as nice, though." 

Nice? Ian thought, certain that he'd heard wrong, After the way I yelled at you, you honestly still think I'm nice? Then he processed the rest of Barley's words. My age...

He reached inside the pack and pulled out the textbook. And sure enough, it was a biology textbook--specifically, the version that was loaned to sophomore students attending biology class at New Mushroomton High. "I know whose backpack this is!" Ian exclaimed, "His name is Sewall Barkspinner. He's a kid at my school--he got this bag recently and he was boasting to everyone about it!"

Barley tilted his head. "He was boasting about this bag...but you didn't remember it was his?"

"I, uh...I kinda tuned him after after a few minutes," Ian admitted, "What you said was true...he's not exactly a nice guy. He's very full of himself--thinks he's better than everyone else." 

"Yeah, I know the type," Barley muttered, a glint in his eyes. 

"Barley, you're telling me you met him?"

"Well," Barley said, making a so-so gesture, "really more like...I was chasing him."

"What?" Ian gaped. "Why?!"

"Because..." Barley paused, taking the rest of the toy from Ian's hands and holding the pieces gently, "he stole this." He closed his eyes and shook his head, a look of disgust on his face. "I was out in front of Shrub's house. I saw him, across the street and maybe a house or two down. But there was also a girl. About...I dunno...eight, maybe nine years old? An elf. She was crying, she kept telling that kid to give her toy back. He just laughed at her. He ran off. Ian, I remember her. She was screaming at him, saying that this bear was a present from her grandma. I...I got angry. Really angry. I couldn't let him get away." 

For a moment, Ian was speechless. Completely awestruck that, even out of his mind from alcohol, Barley's first instinct had been to help a child in need. "So you got it back from him," Ian concluded breathlessly. 

"Yeah, but...Ian, look at this. I can't return it to her like this." Barley looked at the pieces regrettably.

"Now I understand! That's why you called me!" 

"Huh?"

"Barley, when I was bringing you into the house last night, you kept saying you wanted me to fix something. This is it!"

Barley grinned. "That's right--you've always been better at sewing than me. You can put little Teddy here back together again! I mean..." He hesitated, then fixed his eyes imporingly on Ian's. "Little brother...will you fix this toy for me? Please?" 

Ian nodded. Reattaching the stuffed bear's arm and realigning its head would be easy as pie for him. That still left one small problem, though. "Barley, we don't know who this girl is. We don't even know where she lives."

From the look on Barley's face, it seemed he hadn't considered this. "Well, uh...she must live near Shrub."

"Do you know that for sure? For all we know she was just there to visit like you were."

"Well, I'm not giving up," Barley declared, his expression determined. "I'll call Shrub and see if he knows anything. You go ahead and repair Teddy." 

An hour and a half passed as Ian went to work on reassembling the plush toy. During that time Barley had engaged in a lengthy phonecall with Shrub. By the time Ian was finished, Barley was able to confirm that there was a young elf girl who lived on Shrub's street, in a house belonging to the Westcloud family. 

"Ian, it looks as good as new," Barley said in awe, holding the bear like it was sacred. He hopped in excitement. "Okay, let's go return it!"

"Barley, it's starting to get late," said Ian as he put his sewing kit away.

"The sun's still up, isn't it? Ian, this kid's been without her toy long enough. It was a gift from someone she loved! I...I can't make her wait anymore."

Barley was right. "Okay, but...why do you need me to come?"

"Well, I just think that little girl should know who fixed Teddy, don't you think?"

An embarrassed laugh escaped from Ian. "I, uh...it's really not a big deal."

"That's not true," said Barley seriously, "It's not true and I won't let you say that it is." 

Ian felt a small smile appear on his face. "You've got the address?"

"We're ready to go," Barley affirmed happily. 

A little while later, Barley and Ian sat in Guinevere II, idling on the street near the Westcloud house. Barley took the keys out of the ignition and moved to open his door and leave the vehicle...but a hand on his elbow stopped him.

"Barley," Ian spoke, his voice small, "I...I'm sorry about earlier. What I said to you, and the way I said it. I just..."

"It's okay," Barley answered, "You weren't wrong. I wasn't thinking before. None of us were. And...I know I hurt you because of that."

Ian's view grew misty, and he put the toy on the dashboard and wrapped his arms around his big brother. He squeezed his eyes shut when he felt Barley's arms enfold him, a large hand rubbing his back soothingly. "Barley, I..." he said, his voice wobbly, "I care about your safety, and I wish you would, too. I can't see you like that again. I-I don't wanna lose you." 

Barley held him a little tighter. "You won't. I mean, I can't say I'll never drink again...but I will limit how much I do. Whatever happened last night...I will never let it happen again."

"You promise?" Ian pleaded.

"I promise."

And Ian believed him, because Barley never broke his promises. He felt as though a weight had slipped from his shoulders. And when Barley lightly pushed him away and ruffled his hair, his expression showed that he felt the same. "Ian...thank you for fixing Teddy. But more than that...thank you for taking care of me when I couldn't do it myself."

"Well, you always took care of me. It's only fair that I'd do the same for you," Ian replied warmly. He bumped Barley's fist with his own. 

The two of them stepped out of the van and made their way to the front door. Barley moved to ring the doorbell, but Ian quickly intercepted him and did it himself, feeling that a complete stranger wouldn't appreciate Barley's antics. 

An elven woman answered the door, a combination of puzzlement and curiosity apparent on her face. This had to be Mrs. Westcloud. "Can I help you?" she inquired. 

Though Ian felt he'd made leaps and bounds in his social interactions since the Phoenix Gem quest, he could still feel the familiar tongue-tied sensation he'd always felt when talking with people he didn't know. Lucky for him, Barley had always excelled in that area.

"Yes, madam," Barley said confidently, "Something was taken from the young lady that lives here. We came to give it back to her." 

Ian pulled the toy out from behind his back, and Mrs. Westcloud gasped in shock. She accepted the item from Ian, and she smiled much the same way Barley used to whenever school got cancelled. "Shisa!" she called, "Come here and see what these nice boys brought you!"

It took a few minutes, during which Ian became more and more uncomfortable with the sudden attention he and Barley were getting, but a young elven girl wearing pigtails and a denim dress emerged. Her eyes made it clear that she'd been incredibly upset for most of the day, but when they landed on the bear in her mother's hands, her jaw dropped. She took a few slow steps forward, as though afraid it was merely a dream. Realizing that it wasn't, she sprinted forward, grabbed the bear and hugged it to her chest. She laughed in a way that sounded like she was crying at the same time. But the sheer joy on her face was very much real, and Ian felt like his heart was glowing at the sight. "Roosey's back!" she squealed.

"Yes, he is," Mrs. Westcloud agreed, "These young men came here to return Roosey."

"Well," Barley said, clearing his throat, "Roosey got a little roughed up. But my brother Ian here--" He clasped Ian's shoulder. "--he put Roosey together again!" 

"Well, I mean, I--" Ian stuttered, but his sentence halted when Shisa crashed into him and gave  him a squeezing hug. Ian all but froze--he'd always felt out of place around young children.

"Thank you so much, thank you thank you!" she cried.

"U-um...you're, uh...you're welcome," Ian responded, his words stilted but sincere. He couldn't bring himself to hug her back, but he did pat her shoulder. She let go and dashed further into the house, keeping her toy close to her. 

"We have some cookies," Mrs. Westcloud said charitably, "Won't you boys come in?"

"Oh, no," Ian declined politely, "we couldn't possibly intrude on--"

"Of course we'll come in!" Barley cut in, already walking inside and pulling Ian along with him, "We'd be more than happy to try any cookies you made!"

"I'm flattered, young man, but most of them are store-bought" Mrs. Westcloud confessed. 

"Well, then, we'll be happy to devour cookies that were bought by such a nice lady!" Barley amended. Ian shook his head in fond exasperation. 

They talked over cookies and juice, and then later Barley was playing with Shisa and her toys in the living room. They seemed to be played House...only Shisa's version of house ended up merging with Barley's Quests of Yore trivia, the results being that House evolved into Castle, complete with tea parties in the "banquet hall" and the time-out corner being located in the "dungeon." Ian and Mrs. Westcloud stayed on the sidelines, content to observe them.

"The guy who took Shisa's bear," Ian said to her, "He goes to my school. I can make sure he never picks on Shisa again." 

She looked relieved at his resolve to defend her daughter. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate you fixing Shisa's bear," Mrs. Westcloud murmured gratefully, "She was a wreck all day because we didn't know where to look for it."

"I can't really take all the credit, ma'am," Ian informed her, "Barley was the one who tracked down the jerk who took it."

Mrs. Westcloud smiled. "Your brother is a fine young man. He has such a good heart."

"Yeah," Ian concurred. He gazed at his brother, laughing as he was rolled up in the numerous blankets that had been pulled out for their game, and he felt affection for him. "He sure does."

Barley wasn't perfect. Nobody was. Everyone had their flaws, and his older brother was no exception. But Ian knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Barley's flaws were outnumbered by his virtues. And Ian wouldn't trade Barley for anything.