Stupid

Chapter Ten

Aidan was nowhere to be found.

Shaking and feeling terribly alone, Erin watched two of the shapes digging, working and, with a savage shake of herself, she burst forward, snapping under some private pressure. Hesitating as she moved closer, she finally stopped, watching as the man digging kept going, only realizing she was there when she cautiously asked, "Who are you looking for?"

Blue eyes stared back at her from a mask of dirt and blood, and he, breathing heavily, watched her warily for a few moments, and his stare, though slightly hazy with pain and blood loss, was unerringly sharp and intelligent, and, looking past him, she caught sight of an older woman, standing as regally as a queen even as she helped the digging.

"Dad."

One word, a last flicking glance up her shape before he went back to his task and she found that other woman just watching her, staring at her, and then one hand, dirty and bloody and still beautiful, offered itself to her and she moved forward without thinking, stepping quickly around to grab that older hand and, finally getting a good hold, she began to dig with them.

Jonathon was fine… he was fine and she needed to do something, needed to help everybody the way she had never gotten to help him, keep him safe and she could do something now and so she did, helping the man and the woman find his father, whoever he was, somewhere under here…

She had to be useful…

Babe Carey looked ugly when she got hateful.

It was something that Erin had discovered the first time the blonde had made her feelings about the redhead known, publicly and loudly, essentially going after the youngest Lavery like a dog after a bone. When Babe Carey got hateful, her eyes got dark and empty and her face twisted and even her forcefully sweet voice got harsh and callous.

This time was no different.

Standing before Erin with her blonde hair pulled back from her face and her fingers knotting up the bag in her hand, Babe Carey had neatly and flawlessly cornered Erin in one of the far sides of the hospital, away from the staff and visitors and, unhappily, Erin wondered how long it would take for Babe to hide her body.

With her luck, Pine Valley's self-appointed whiner/martyr would manage to lock her in closet or throw her down the stairs or throw her into the big basement—hospitals had basements, right?— or, better yet, she'd get cracked on the head with some kind of pipe, get selective amnesia and run off to Tahiti or something and she wouldn't be found in time to go to the wedding with JR.

Not that it mattered or anything because, of course, it didn't…

Erin shook herself forcefully, a few strands of red hair settling on her face and she smoothed hands nervously down the fabric of her clothes—a few favorite items she had found while shopping at one of the thrift stores in the surprisingly large town—she took a deep breath and carefully counted to ten, something she had long years of practice with.

"Having breathing issues, sweetie?"

Yep, really harsh and callous…

Staring at her for a few moments, biting the inside of her cheek, Erin finally got a hold on that building anger, something she always hated feeling and managed to let out the breath she been holding, wondering why Babe had once again tracked her down to some place for her freaky form of girl talk… she thought she had dodged her by going through that bush…

"What do you want, Babe."

There, that was simple enough for the both of them, right?

Arms crossed over a chest, small shoulders were twitched in dislike and silent fury flashed over her face and, whoa, there was that ugliness again. "I want you away from my son… you, and that psycho brother of yours." Seeing the look on Erin's features, like a slap, she smirked to herself, lifting an eyebrow.

She didn't try to hide what she was anymore.

"Jonathon is mentally ill, Babe, something that Mr. Chandler and his family is aware of and we have come to our own resolutions dealing with his illness and any connection it might have to me being able to take care of Little Adam." Erin forced a smile, hating the anger she could feel building at her temples but unable to completely keep it out of her voice. "And," she added, going to turn away, "Jonathon keeps his distance from JR's son."

"He's my son, too," Babe snapped, grabbing her and yanking her back and, predictably, Erin reacted horribly, spinning, jerking her arm out of that viselike grip and shoving Babe back, taking a few steps away from the blonde to loosen up the sudden clenching of her ribs around her heart, making breathing difficult.

"Oh, really, Ms. 'Your son drowned but I'm going off to Argentina with your brother?'" Erin hissed, hands beginning to shake slightly with fury. She was angry, horribly so, and she took a few deep breaths, trying to ease the way she felt at the moment, trying to beat it back down, but it was hard with how Babe kept backing her into a corner, smothering her and cutting off her ways out of the corridor.

Jesus, if looks could kill… Erin took an involuntary step backwards when Babe took a quick lung, almost tripping and falling. The bag was thrown down and the blonde took a few more steps forward, effectively causing Erin to flinch, too many images in her head connecting horribly with the movement.

"Babe?"

Said pig-wannabe froze, hesitating before turning, finding herself the object of the cool stare of Dixie Cooney, standing behind her, looking as worn and weary as she always did but there was an edge there suddenly, a glint of something deeper than her usual shattering grief, something that sized Babe up and said, with unshakable strength: I can take you, you two-faced, whiny, cookie-cutter bitch with bad hair.

Erin shook herself, the quick movement attracting that stare, one that flicked along her, taking in the clenching of hands in her clothes and the paleness of fury on her face and they narrowed, shifted back to Babe. The change, a few moments later, was almost frightening.

Arms crossed over her chest, the spine and back straightened, the eyes chilled to blue ice, the legs shifted into an almost fighting stance. When Dixie spoke again, there was nothing sweet or gentle about her voice, nothing but a vicious edge that, when heard by Babe, caused the younger woman to jerk in slight surprise. "What are you doing with my grandson's nanny?"

"We were talking—"

"Looked more like threatening to me, Babe," she said brightly, all-too pleasantly, tilting her head and, despite how exhausted and weary and worn that body was now, even months after everything had finally gone quiet, it still seemed as if whole pieces of her were missing, as if bits and pieces of her core were gone…

Erin flicked a glance at the open door that Dixie had slunk out of and shook her head, deciding to stop being so morbid…

Not that anyone could blame her, really, could they?

"So, Babe, why were you threatening the woman who takes such good care of your son?" Dixie cocked her head again, lifted one blonde eyebrow and asked, more gaily, "Or have you just run out of boys to play with and so dropped by to see my ex-husband?" A pause, a slight smile that made Erin feel oddly comforted, recognizing the edge it held from the countless times she had seen JR flash it. "Which is it, sweet ex-daughter-in-law?"

Greg had changed her and being found that night had changed her so much more…

Erin took Babe's speechlessness moment for a blessing and cautiously moved up a step, holding up the bag for JR's mother, for Dixie, smiling nervously, feeling like normal now that all that anger had thankfully dissipated. "Here, Ms… Ms. Cooney—" Seeing a bit of bafflement, she elaborated, "It's, um— it's something from Ms. English… for the wedding," she added hastily.

Babe made a noise of vehemence but the sharp glance she got from Dixie in answer made her blanch, falling back a nervous step and smoothing down the blouse she wore, showing off her new money happily, in some vague attempt to intimidate them. Erin never found money all that interesting and Dixie, of course, had enough money—both from her uncle Palmer and from other avenues—to make Babe's head spin.

Dixie, however, had no need to flaunt it.

Jonathon's coffee, harsh and bitter and black, fit his mood and he studied it intently for long minutes, watching the cooling dark liquid with equally cool dark eyes. Every few minutes, remembering his pretense, he lifted it up a few inches and gave it a light swish, just enough movement to keep people from thinking he was planning some bombing or planning a shoot-out, no matter how ruined or broken this side of the town was.

No worries, folks, just your friendly neighborhood serial killer, out for a morning coffee, waiting for the Pretty Boy!

The flyaway thought, flicking through his still-fragile mind like some dark beast, made him grimace, reaching up and pinching the bridge of his nose, the sleeping headache in the back of his mind playing along the edges of his consciousness with metaphorical fingers. With a harsh exhalation, he finally took a swig of the java—never did understand that name for it, anyway—and then swallowed it down, shaking himself.

Ah, there was the pretty-boy now…

Jamie Martin stuck out like a sore thumb, shockingly so, and Jon rolled his eyes slightly, watching in a mix of amusement and pity as the younger man began looking around nervously, not having any idea where the Hell he was and immediately being targeted by some of the of the more… loose women who spent their nights on the corner across the street, flaunting leg and cleavage and anything else they had to make ends meet.

Just as the Martin seemed ready to run right out of the place, Jonathon finally gave in and raised one arm, signaling him over and then choking on a laugh at the blatant relief on Martin's young and painfully naïve face as he practically bolted over, throwing himself down across from Jonathon and nearly folding himself in half in an attempt to hide himself from Marina's gaze, who stood across the room still, knowing the heir of Phoebe Tyler when she saw him.

Yeah, Marina was actually a good one…

Shaking his head, he tossed back the last half of his coffee, throwing it all back in a few large swallows, coughing slightly as he dropped the already cracked mug to the sticky, grimy table that Martin was now regarding with a childish amount of revulsion, looking as if he might gag at any moment.

When he looked up and saw the remains of something hanging from the lamp, he did gag.

Poor pretty-boy…

"What are we doing here?" he hissed lethally, when he could speak, despite the green tinge of the skin and the way one large hand covered everything but his face. "I mean… I said we could meet at my apartment or even at the hospital." Nervous eyes took in the shape of Marina beginning to slink towards them, bugging out as he scooted deeper into the shadows he sat in. "This is not a suitable place for a young doctor."

"Ah, good thing there isn't one in here," Jonathon said with a slight smirk and a pointed look at the intern, who immediately blushed harshly, clearing his throat nervously a few times, shooting Jonathon a dirty look like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. It just made Jonathon grin, a real grin that felt strange but okay at the same time. "Trust me, Martin!"

"What about you?"

"What about me?" he asked with more calm than he felt, picking at the empty mug with his fingers, pointedly ignoring the surprisingly intense gaze peering at him from across the table. "Jonathon—" He cut him off, angry and slightly frightened, taking a shaky breath before snapping, "You don't— it doesn't have anything to do with you."

"You missed two of your sessions, Jon."

Strange, to see caring like that… and yet, there it was, a touch of genuine caring in those usually foolishly naïve eyes. Here was someone who had no idea what pain was, not like he and others did and yet around he had run, speaking of his horrible suffering and his so terrible life at the hands of the Chandlers and look how he had ended up.

Fascination.

Jonathon, shaking his head tiredly, stood, yanking a wallet from his back pocket and ripping out several bills, tossing them down and, with a nod towards Marina—who fluttered her fingers back at him in girlish delight—he fled, easily escaping the grab of two large hands… he had learned to avoid such grabs and now was no different.

Emerging into harshly bright morning sunlight and quickly taking off before Martin could follow him, he had never felt so horribly empty.