Disclaimer: do not own Transformers.

Summary: Oneshot, 07Movie, not 09 compliant. It wasn't that Miles was afraid of Sam, but still, after Mission City, Sam had an edge to him he hadn't before. It was like flopping down on the comfy sofa in the basement…and gradually realizing that the odd lump he landed on was a loaded gun.

Author note: Is another one of Silvane's bunnies. Original bunny is summary of fic. Thanks, Silvane! ETA: Bunny was, in turn, based on a metaphor made by Vathara in one of her fics. Thanks, Vathara!

Rabbit

There are probably many reasons as to why, after almost two decades of traversing this mortal realm, Sam still only has one human being he could actually call 'best friend.' One of the biggest reasons could be that Sam has a childish recklessness and naïve insolence that amuses Miles on days that are good and frustrates him to no end on days that aren't. Sam would go off, by himself, to chase yet another futile dream of high school glory, leaving Miles in the dust, and then after that he'd come back to Miles as though nothing had happened.

In short, Sam isn't really good at long-term planning, and he often takes it for granted that Miles will forgive him.

What never occurred to Miles was that maybe, just maybe, he took for granted that Sam would always come back.

When he first heard that Sam and his parents were home, Miles had hopped on his bike and pedalled there like a maniac. He must have been a sight, standing on the Witwicky's front porch, wide-eyed and worried.

"Sam!" he blurts out as Sam opens the door. He just stares, and then says, "What the hell happened to you? Your house was a mess, no one was inside, you're not answering your cell, you and your parents went up and missing for days, and now you look like you got beat up by the entire high school football team and the middle school cheerleading squad!"

It's strange, now that Miles is the one spazzing out. Sam just tiredly puts a hand on his shoulder.

"Miles, you know Mission City?"

"You mean—"

"We were there."

"But…how…?" Mission City was a mess. Everyone was saying anything between "electrical malfunction" and "alien invasion" to account for the complete annihilation of a good chunk of the city. If Sam and his folks were really there…how close must Sam have been, to come home looking like that?

"Can't talk about it now," he mutters, swaying a little and stifling back a yawn. "I'm really tired, Miles."

"You sure you don't need to go to a hospital, or something?"

Sam laughs shakily. "Nah, I just got back from there."

"How're your folks?" Miles asks urgently.

"Better than I am, Miles. They're out for some food. I just hope they remember to bring me back some…"

Miles looks at Sam pointedly. "You're not telling me the full story."

"Miles, there's nothing to tell," Sam says calmly. So calmly that Miles does a double-take. He'd always been able to tell when Sam was lying—it wasn't hard to do, Sam was a just such a bad liar, much to the teen's chagrin—but now, Miles isn't so sure. "I was at the wrong place, at the wrong time, and now, I'm really happy to be home and I really need to sleep."

"Okay," Miles says reluctantly. "I guess…I'm just glad you're back, Sam. I guess I'll leave you to sleep, or whatever it is that you were doing."

"See you in school?"

"Where else?"

Sam gives a loopy, tilted smile. Miles turns around and picks up his bike. "Miles?"

"Yeah, Sam?"

"Thanks."

"Thanks for what?" Miles asks, but Sam has already closed the door. Miles shakes his head, and his eye catches the shiny new car in the Witwicky's parking lot. In such a frenzy to make sure that Sam was okay, he somehow missed this little detail.

"Hey, weren't you a lot older the last time I saw you?" he asks the car pointedly. Then he sighs. "Miles, you're talking to a car. I think it's time to go home."

He'd see Sam in school. Maybe, in time, he'd get the full story.

X x X

It's a shock to everyone, Miles included, when Sam and Mikaela arrive at school together, pulling up in a car that looked way too expensive for someone like Sam to afford.

"Did he...offer you a ride on the way?" one of Mikaela's fellow football trophies asks, almost timidly. This was high school. There were certain stereotypical stats quos that were upheld.

"No," Mikaela says bluntly. "He's with me." And with that, both of them go inside the school building, hand-in-hand.

Miles follows them, just watching, and, oddly, he doesn't think about status quos, or football-bunnies, or how Sam's crazy scheme finally worked. He isn't even thinking about what Sam would go through when—if—it turns out that Mikaela is just using him, like a bad cliché in those movies that he'd never understand.

By the looks of it, Sam and Mikaela aren't thinking about those subjects either.

It had only been a few days since Miles had last seen them, but they're different now. Something has pushed them, has forced them to change. Mikaela no longer has that eternally bored, greater-than-thou look, which, in Miles' opinion, isn't much of a loss, but Sam...

Miles remembers all the nature shows he'd sometimes stumble across, and how they'd focus on a hapless deer or rabbit, little vulnerable animals going about their business while all the time remaining ever watchful. He always felt sympathy for those creatures, especially since, as a viewer, he knows about the wolf lurking nearby.

But Miles sees Sam make his way slowly through the hallways, shoulders hunched in almost a defensive pose and his gait without his usual wannabe-a-football-champ swagger, and Miles feels almost like he's watching one of those documentaries again. This time, though, it's not just sympathy he's feeling. He's worried, and confused, and more than a little disturbed.

He doesn't know where the wolf is, this time around.

Miles chalks it up to some kind of shock. Mission City must have been traumatic. Sam would be back to his normal, spastic self in no time, and everything would be back to normal.

X x X

The teacher finishes explaining the finer details of their project, and there's a buzz of noise as students start splitting off into partners and dividing tasks before the period is over. Miles looks behind him, and he sees that Sam has already made his way across the room, and is saying something to Mikaela. She's nodding. Miles pulls a face, and then turns around.

So it's going to be like that, huh?

It always seemed to work like that in the movies. Boy meets girl, and then no one else but girl exists to boy. But, as Mikaela-crazy as Sam was, Miles hoped that he and Sam could escape that cliché.

Idly, with his back turned to the two love-birds, he scans the room, looking for a possible partner. He almost jumps when he feels a tap on the shoulder. He looks up, startled. Sam is peering at the clock. "So, you want to meet at the library later?" he asks. "Say, about five?"

Miles is kind of shocked, so all he manages is an inarticulate, "Huh?"

Sam looks at him confusedly. "You're my partner, right? Unless you don't want—"

"No, man," Miles said, feeling relieved but also at the same time confused. "Five's good. I just thought—" Miles narrows his eyes suspiciously. "Hey, this thing just got assigned. Since when did you start thinking about projects seriously?"

Sam starts pulling on his backpack, not meeting his gaze. "Well…you know, the sooner we finish…"

"The sooner you get to make out with your girl?"

"Miles!" Sam squawks, and that scared-rabbit aura that Sam's giving off disappears, if only for a moment. "She's not my girl. She's Mikaela."

Miles sighs. "Five's good," he says, letting Sam easily off the hook—yet again.

Sam's grin is tight. "Thanks," he says, and then just like that, he's off.

Miles looks at his retreating form, noting disappointedly that whatever happened in Mission City was taking Sam a lot longer to recover from than he had hoped. He even looks both ways before entering the hall, for goodness' sake.

Sam is acting as though this world is made of glass, what with all his carefulness. He's acting as though all this is an illusion or a dream instead of hard reality.

But then again, Miles thinks, maybe it did seem like a dream to Sam. Maybe, after Mission City, this peace just seemed too delicate to be real.

Maybe Sam just needs more time.

X x X

Standing on Miles' front steps, Sam is absently looking at his car, not even noticing that Miles already opened the door for him.

Miles rolls his eyes. "Sam?" he asks, drawing out the name patronizingly.

Sam jumps a little, and Miles raises an eyebrow. "Sorry, Miles," he apologizes, and then brushes past Miles to get inside, already jabbering about some mundane bit of information that he probably only half-heard from a less than reliable source. Miles sighs. At least some things never change.

Miles' room doesn't really look like the room of a teenager. It's not like Sam's room, where the teddy bears and baby blankets had long since given way to game consoles and badly hung posters. Miles' bookshelf lining one wall is still filled with his children's stories. A little train set lines the floor. The walls are plastered in photos, a good chunk of them consisting of him, Sam, and their crazy plan of the day. Worn stuffed animals, with the stuffing spilling out, rest on and under the bed. Miles keeps all his toys, even that clumsy birdhouse that he and Sam made in summer camp that was more a fitting abode for dust bunnies than for birds.

Sam never mentions any of it, though. Maybe he doesn't notice, or maybe because he thinks that it's normal. Miles hopes it's not because Sam doesn't care.

Miles works at his desk while Sam sits, cross-legged, on the bed, his laptop tilted on his knees and resting on the comforter and a teddy bear on his lap. It was an unconscious, but still amusing, move on Sam's part.

They're researching Peter Pan for their project. Researching a little too early, by Sam's usual standards.

"So," Miles starts. "Why did you want to start this early again?"

"I kinda have a meeting, or whatever, to go to," Sam mutters vaguely, his eyes not leaving the screen. He starts to stroke the teddy bear's fur, and Miles raises an eyebrow. He's about to call Sam on that telling sign of duplicity when Sam says something that unexpectedly throws him off that trail of thought.

"Never liked Peter Pan," Sam remarks.

"What?" Miles says sharply, but his incredulity is lost on Sam.

"Miles," Sam says patiently, finally looking up at him, and just for a moment, Miles can see some of the old Sam in that look of exasperation. "The guy had a ton of crazy and loyal friends who'd follow him anywhere, and the love of a girl who could not only stand him, but who'd also, given a few years, grow up to be really, really hot. He had that one chance to live, and he gave it all up for pirates and crocodiles. No self-respecting human being would admire someone like that."

At the end of Sam's slightly caustic tirade, something inside Miles dies a little. Miles gives an uncharacteristic grunt that could be interpreted as acquiescence, and then pretends to focus all his attention on the research. In his peripheral vision, he sees Sam blink in surprise—maybe Sam knew him a little better than Miles gave him credit for.

"Hey, did I say something wrong?" Sam asks, in all the innocence and ignorance that only someone like Sam could have.

"No, nothing's wrong."

"But you seem—"

"Nothing's wrong."

Sam continues to look at him, but Miles stubbornly refuses to meet his gaze. Sam sighs, shrugs, and then turns his attention back to his laptop.

And Sam has gone and done it again.

Sam would never know how much those words stung. Miles liked Peter Pan. He was almost envious of him. He was just a kid clinging to his innocence. The child who never grew up.

Not like Sam. Sam was growing up quickly, and growing up without Miles.

Miles doesn't know why that thought has been occurring to him more and more often, especially since Sam got back from Mission City. He doesn't know why, sometimes, he wouldn't be able to fall asleep at night, thinking that, in Sam's life, he'd just become yet another childhood remnant, like the forgotten teddy bears and the moth-eaten baby blankets stored in the attic.

Maybe it's because only those you truly love could make you hurt that much.

X x X

"Miles!" Sam says upon opening the door. "I didn't know you'd be here this early." He rests his hand against the door frame.

"Yeah, well," Miles says, ducking under Sam's arm. "I figured, the sooner we start, right?" As usual, Miles heads down the basement. "So you wanna start on that poster here or—"

"No, no, we can go to the library," Sam says, stumbling after him. "Um, let's go now, okay?"

Sam was usually very spastic and clumsy, but not to this extent before. Miles just gives him a look. "Come on, Sam," he says. "Since when did the basement become a forbidden zone?" Miles lazily slumps into the nearest sofa, and lies down on it, just for emphasis. He raises his eyebrows when Sam eyes the sofa warily, as though expecting a monster to burst from underneath it at any moment. "Hey, Sam," Miles says, and Sam's attention snaps back to him. "The sooner you grab your stuff, the sooner we get outta here."

Sam all but bolts upstairs. Miles rolls his eyes. Now why was Sam so paranoid about the sofa…?

Wait, he thought, getting slightly panicked and jumping up from the sofa. Did he and Mikaela…He immediately got his mind out of the gutter. Sam could be crazy, lazy, and hormonal, but even he wouldn't go that far…and Miles doubted that Mikaela would let him in the first place. Plus, even if he and Mikaela did have sex, there was no way that they'd do it on the unaccommodating sofa, in the basement of Sam's house where the walls were paper-thin.

He settled back down. So what was—

Then he felt it. An odd lump, poking him in the back.

He sits up again, and starts fishing around between the cushions. His fingers meet something cool, and smooth, and he draws out his prize.

He stares at this thing, lying heavy and cold in his hand.

It looks like a handgun, but of no kind Miles had ever seen before. The basic design looked right, but the silver metal had a strange tint that just seemed off,although Miles couldn't figure pinpoint exactly what was wrong about it. There were strange markings on the side...perhaps a foreign language? Almost everything about this weapon looked almost alien.

But it's not how the weapon looks that Miles is preoccupied with, inasmuch as what the hell is it doing in Sam's sofa?

Miles can see it in his mind's eye. Sam, looking at this thing in the dark of the basement. Opening the chamber, maybe. Looking up, wide-eyed, when Miles rang the doorbell too early. Hastily stuffing it between the cushions, and then running up before Miles could suspect anything...

Miles fights down the wave of irrational panic. A lot of responsible and sane people owned guns for perfectly legal reasons. It probably belonged to Sam's parents. Heck, Sam probably didn't even know about it. There was nothing creepy or suspicious about its hiding place, right? A lot of people probably did this.

Gingerly, keeping his fingers well away from the trigger, he opens the chamber.

The bullets glow a soft blue.

It's fully loaded.

He hears Sam start coming down the stairs, and Miles hastily puts the weapon back where he found it.

"Ready to go?" Sam asks. His glance at the sofa is too quick to be noticed...unless you knew what he was really looking at.

"Yeah," Miles finally says.

Later, at the library, Miles can't focus. He closes his textbook audibly. Sam looks up at him.

"Sam," Miles begins, trying to change his tone so that it didn't convey what the hell are you doing?! "Is there anything that...that I should know about?"

Sam blinks. He almost looks innocent. "What do you mean, Miles?"

"Sam, I know these past few weeks have been tough on you, what with Mission City and all..."

"Miles," Sam laughs—too shakily to be sincere. "Hey, I got the car, I got the girl, school isn't trying to kill me…Life's good. Really."

"You know you can always come and talk to me, right?"

"Right."

"I mean it, Sam. I...I worry about you. You're hiding something."

Sam's smile falters.

"It's okay," Miles continues quietly. "You can keep your secrets, if you want to. Just...just don't go and do something stupid, okay?"

Sam manages to hold Miles' gaze for five whole seconds. Then he glances downward, at his papers, and then starts babbling some nonsense.

It's all white noise to Miles. Maybe Sam isn't even listening to his own words.

Miles can't tell if he got through to Sam. Miles still can't tell what was making Sam act this way. And Miles can't tell if that gun hidden beneath the sofa cushions beckoning to Sam like his own little tell-tale heart.

All that he can tell for sure is that Sam is hiding something from him, and that something was really, really bad news.

X x X

Sam almost manages to act normally for the next few days. He still holds himself with a peculiar wariness, though he had never been watchful or careful in his life, relaxing only when he was around his car or around Mikaela.

Miles notices that last part with more than a little bit of jealousy. Sam had been with that football trophy for just a few weeks, and already he was more relaxed around her than he was with his long-time best friend.

Then, one day, Sam doesn't show up to school. Neither does Mikaela.

When Miles calls the Witwicky residence, a strange-sounding Mrs. Witwicky tells Miles that Sam has come down with a nasty bout of the flu, and, no, Miles can't come over to drop off homework. She doesn't want Miles to catch it or anything.

She sounds just like Sam when he's lying.

Mikaela is back to school after a week, and Sam is in a couple days after her.

Watching his friend, all Miles can think of was:What happened this time?

That scared-rabbit air that Sam had been carrying around for a good while changed. He's watchful, and…and angry. Even Trent stays away from him.

Miles tries catching up to Sam, but Sam slips away from him in the crowds. Miles finds himself aimlessly looking for his best friend, and, after a few minutes, hears voices as he is heading down a stairwell.

"—need to be here," he hears Mikaela say. "If we keep up and disappearing, someone's bound to…" Her voice dips into a whisper.

"—trying to protect me!" he hears Sam burst out. "Why was I so stupid?!" Miles blinks at that sound. He's never heard Sam speak with that tone before.

"Don't beat yourself up about it, Sam. Bumblebee will be fine," Mikaela says soothingly.

Bumblebee? Who is Bumblebee?

Sam and Mikaela talk for a little while, unaware that Miles is on the stairs above them, trying to be as quiet as possible. He doesn't hear anything else, and they leave through to the hallway.

Even though there wasn't a reason to be silent anymore, Miles comes down the stairs carefully, looking after them.

What was that about?

X x X

"Hey, Sam?" Miles says as calmly as possible. School is over, and he and Sam are starting to walk back home. Sam's shiny new toy is conspicuously missing. "What happened to your ride?"

Sam keeps going, and Miles thinks that he's not going to answer. "…My car got wrecked in an accident," Sam mutters.

Miles' eyes widen. "You were in an accident?" Damn, first Mission City, now this? How unlucky could a person get? No wonder he was so antsy that earlier on.

"Yeah, but I'm fine," Sam assures him. "But…"

"Was there another person in the car with you?" Miles asks gently, remembering Sam's words back at the stairwell.

"Yeah, you could say that."

"Are they okay?"

"Getting better."

"Did you…was anyone else hurt?"

"Only those that deserved it."

"What did you say?"

"No, Miles," Sam sighs. "No one was seriously injured."

"So what's there to worry about?" Miles asks is fake cheerfulness, trying to lighten up the mood. "Sure, your insurance is going to skyrocket, but you and everyone else came out okay, and that's what's important, right? It's just a car."

Sam whirls around to face him, eyes narrowed, and Miles takes a step backward.

"What? What did I say?" Miles asks, wondering why in the world he felt…

Like a cornered rabbit?

And Sam calms down again, his fury dying as quickly as it rose. "I'm real sorry, Miles," Sam mutters, rubbing his eyes and trudging along. Miles blinks, then follows after him. "I'm sorry. I'm just—I just…I'd really like some sleep."

X x X

Miles continues to watch Sam over the course of the next few days. Colour comes back to his cheeks as his car is returned from the repair shop, but he still has…not a wariness anymore, but a strange watchfulness, and something else, too.

Sam is different. Something has snapped, and Sam just isn't a lost little rabbit anymore.

When Miles goes to meet up with Sam for their next class, he finds his best friend in a stairwell, pinning football-boy Trent up against the wall.

"Sam?" Miles asks, rushing in. "What do you think you're doing?"

But Sam ignores him. "Don't talk about Mikaela like that," he says to Trent quite amicably, and his tone is so pleasant that it sends shivers up Miles' spine.

Trent, for his part, just stares at Sam, immobilized by shock rather than by Sam's non-existent physical prowess.

And as much of a bully as Trent is, even he has limits. Trent is the quaint jock-bully, but Sam isn't the loser-victim. Not today, anyway. Trent is out of his league now, and playing his part will only lead to more trouble.

Calmly, Trent pries Sam's hands from his shirt collar, and then releases him. Sam's fists curl tightly on either side of him. "Maybe next time, Witwicky," Trent says, carefully pronouncing Sam's last name, and then walks away.

"Why do I get the feeling that Trent just apologized to you?" Miles asks.

Sam shrugs. "I don't know."

Miles blinks, and then rounds on his friend. "Now what was that about? Why did you do that, Sam?" Miles felt extremely sympathetic towards the elder Witwickies, right there and then, if their child was turning out to be like this.

"He called Mikaela—"

"So now we're using names as an excuse?"

"I'm…having a bad day."

"A bad day? A bad day? That's not a reason to go around beating people up!"

"I wasn't beating him up!"

"Sam, what is with you?"

"You wouldn't understand."

"And just how am I supposed to understand when you're keeping me in the dark?"

"Miles…" Sam puts a hand on his shoulder, and Miles fights from shrugging him off as a petulant child would.

"Sam, is there something I should know about?" Miles asks, tone softening. The memory of that gun, guiltily hidden between the cushions, flashes in his mind. "Are you involved in, like, gang warfare or something?"

Sam chuckles, not comforting Miles in the least. "Some people could call it that."

"Sam, seriously," Miles presses, feeling desperate now. "How am I supposed to help you if you won't let me?"

"I just...I don't want you to get caught up in this mess."

"What?"

"Nothing. Forget I said anything."

Sam breaks eye contact, and then goes out into the hall, leaving Miles staring after him in the shadows…yet again.

As much as Trent annoyed Sam, Miles never would have thought that Sam would actually do something like this.

Miles isn't afraid of Sam. Not in the least. But Sam has an edge to him that he didn't have before, almost as though whatever happened in Mission City had been eating away at him, and it had reached the breaking point.

X x X

Now I'm the one acting paranoid, Miles thought as he waited for Sam to come out of the house. Judging from Miles' phone calls to the house and from Mr. and Mrs. Witwicky's tones on the other end of the line, Sam always disappears on Friday nights, and doesn't come back until well into the Saturday afternoon.

He goes off on his own, and Miles is pretty sure that it isn't just for a date with Mikaela—otherwise, his parents' tones would be jubilant rather than hesitant.

Sam eventually comes out, hops in his car, and then drives off.

Miles, man, you're being ridiculous. But Sam is up to something—something that could get him into trouble. Best friends don't let best friends wander off in the middle of the night all by themselves.

He sticks to the shadows of the sidewalk, pedalling on his bike quickly, trying not to lose him.

Sam, what are you doing? Sam is driving rather erratically, back-tracking and going in circles, and more than once Miles had to stop behind a bush or a tree because Sam would be driving back in the direction he came from. It was almost as though he knew he was being followed.

They're in a small neighbourhood, now. Miles looks around for that obvious yellow car, wondering where the hell Sam could have gone, and then—

Then there's an awful noise. He hears Sam yell, then something that could only be described as a lightning strike, and then a terrible scream of machines.

What the—

Then Sam drives out, right into Miles' lane, tires screeching and headlights glaring. Sam's eyes go wide as he sees Miles there. He swerves the car into a stop, and then scrambles out.

"Miles, get in!" He yells, already pushing his shocked friend into the passenger seat.

"Sam, what the—"

"Barricade!"

"Barricade what?"

But Sam doesn't answer. He rushes into the other seat, and slams the door, his foot pushing the accelerator before the door even closed.

The sounds of police sirens blast at them only a second later, and Miles, his eyes as wide as saucers, looks at the rear-view mirror and then looks behind him in complete disbelief.

"Sam? Sam, are we running from the police?"

But Sam isn't answering. Sam is laughing as though he has lost his mind. Miles is starting to think that he has.

"Well, looks like Red was right, 'Bee," Sam says, a little too loudly. "Good ol' 'Cade did jump us."

"Um...Sam...?"

"Barricade was probably looking for your base..."

"Sam?"

"Well, the bullets did what Ironhide said they'd do, huh 'Bee? Guess we don't need to ask Ratchet to be our guinea pig."

Miles usually wasn't one for curses, but all he could think of, watching Sam talk to his car, was: Fuck. Sam's really lost it.

"Sam," Miles says again, a little more loudly now, but still trying to keep calm. His hand is gripping the car door tightly. "I'm pretty sure this is called 'evading police,' or something illegal like that, maybe we should just—"

"Miles," Sam says, giving another shaky laugh which only serves to freak out Miles all the more. "I'm pretty sure this is called 'running for our lives.'"

"Stop the car, Sam."

"I can't."

And Miles finally snaps. "Sam!" he yells. "You're acting insane. Always looking behind your shoulder. Acting all paranoid. Being all ticky and jumpy. Snapping at Trent, of all people. Keeping secrets like how you're hiding a gun in your sofa—yeah, I know about that, too. Now you're running from the police? This isn't you, Sam. Stop. The. Car."

"No, I mean—" As though it took so much effort to let go, Sam takes his hands off of the steering wheel. Miles stares in disbelief as the steering wheel moves of its own accord. After a moment of silence, the radio comes on without either boy touching it. A slow, calming tune fills the car, but it might as well have been playing the theme song of a horror movie. Numbly, he turns to look at Sam again, who is looking back at him, dead-eyed and his free hands visibly trembling. "I mean," Sam continues, "that I reallycan't."

X x X

The following events, and Sam's rushed commentary, are a blur to Miles—well, apart from the whole 'Sam's car turning into a giant alien robot and proceeding to beat the parts out of the other giant alien police car robot' part.

Miles waits quietly in their hiding place, having ordered to stay there until this "Bumblebee" returned—and having been ordered to run for their lives at the soonest sign that Bumblebee was losing.

Sam finishes talking to someone—radioing for help, Miles presumes.

"Damn," Sam says as he turns the device off. His attention goes to the droid death match. "I hate déjà vu."

"Sam?" Miles asks quietly. All his emotions were running high, and the result was that he just felt numb.

Sam turns to face him. "I wanted to tell you, Miles—"

"About what? About how, I don't know, how you are involved in an alien war? Or how about how you were being stalked by a vengeful police car? Or how about the simplest thing you could have explained—that your car is a giant alien robot?!"

Sam flinches. He reaches for Miles shoulder, but this time, Miles does shrug him away.

Miles," Sam says, very slowly and with hands spread out, as though trying not to frighten a hurt animal. "I'm real sorry. I didn't want you to be caught up in this."

"And you were freaking me out all these weeks, letting me believe that you were in a gang fight or were doing drugs or—"

"What? No—Miles! You know me better than that!"

"I thought I did." That came out a lot colder than Miles wanted it to. "Sam..." he begins again, but Sam is already turning away from him. Nervously, Sam takes out a gun—the gun from the sofa—and opens the chamber. Miles notices that one bullet is missing.

"Once this is over," Sam says, his voice flat. "We'll have to bring you to base. It isn't safe anymore, Miles."

Miles just looks at him. "Has it ever been?"

"Miles—"

"Just take me home, Sam. I don't want anything to do with this."

Sam looks like he's about to argue, but something in Miles' expression stops him. "Okay."

Pretty soon, back-up does arrive. The evil police car runs off.

And Miles is taken home.

X x X

Despite the multiple revelations about how humans really weren't the only sentient life out there, all Miles can think about is his best friend.

Miles' room still holds the impish childishness of his earlier days. The books and the toys are still there. But, when Miles returns to it, dirtied and tired, it doesn't seem the same anymore. It doesn't seem safe anymore.

It looks almost...empty.

Why didn't he tell me?

Miles collapses on the bed, thinking.

What were you trying to keep from me? Why were you so distant?

What did you lose?

And after anger gives way to a dulled shock, Miles realizes that Sam did lose something in Mission City, and that loss hurt. Sam...just didn't want Miles to go through the same loss.

He left Never-Neverland, just so Miles could live in it.

But what use is such a world when your best friend isn't in it?

X x X

For the next few days, Miles finds that he is acting differently. He's walking around, shoulders hunched, eyes wide, movements careful...He's even looking both ways before entering the hallway.

He's acting like a scared little rabbit.

He avoids Sam for a long while, but decides that he cherishes Sam too much to hold a grudge against him. He approaches Sam in the library. The relief on Sam's face is palpable.

"Miles!" he almost yells, awarding him a reprimanding look from the librarian and disapproving glares from fellow students.

"What, you actually missed me?" Miles asked, smiling for the first time in a long while.

"Yeah, of course I did," Sam says, in that careless Sam-way.

"Really?" Miles asks, even though the question sounded very childish.

Sam rolls his eyes, but he is still grinning. "Yeah. You're my best friend."

"And Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"I was thinking…maybe you were right."

"Right about what?"

"That maybe...maybe that Pan kid isn't all he's cracked up to be."

X x X

Sam's acting differently, now.

Sam had started acting strangely ever since Mission City. Something had happened there, and Sam's little summary of events didn't explain exactly what. But that something in Mission City didn't just affect Sam; it broke him.

Something is gone.

But something else is there in its place, and, slowly but surely, Sam is rebuilding.

Sam walks through the halls calmly, now. Gone is the clumsy colt of pre-Mission City, gone is the scared little rabbit of the events after.

Sam had done some major growing in the past few months. He still laughs and jokes, and he still means it, but he is ever watchful.

Because the world—everything, and all the people in it, human or otherwise—is made of glass. But you have to keep living anyway.

Maybe, in time, Miles will learn that, too.