Disclaimer:  Not my characters.  This story is written for entertainment purposes only.

Author's Note:  Thank you so much for the interest and reviews.  If anyone wants an email when I update… feel free to let me know.  My email is on my profile page.  Thanks again.  And Please… keep me informed as to what you think.

Chapter 6:  Realignment.

            "Why did you do that?"  Malcolm waited until Jonathan was gone then climbed up to the top bunk to sit beside Trip.  "You didn't have to do that."

            "They would have made you go in.  Otherwise you would've had to say in front of everybody that you were scared, and then they'd never let up on you.  This way it's my fault."  Trip sat with his back against the wall and his head down on his knees.  "He probably will send me home.  Not that I really care, but I'm sorry for you that we can't continue with the whole Jonesy thing."

            "Well, I care.  Nobody's ever gotten into trouble to help me out, before."  Not like this, anyway.  Especially not just to save his feelings.

            "Yeah, well nobody's ever volunteered to get into trouble with me before.  Why the hell did you do it?"

            "I don't know.  It seemed like the right thing to do.  You weren't the only one out after curfew… even if you were the one with the cigarettes."  There was more to it than that, but Malcolm couldn't pinpoint what it was.  Well, he could, but he wasn't going to tell Trip that he'd felt sorry for him.  That he'd recognised a lonely soul and realised he'd found a twin.  He could see that loneliness again now, in the way Trip pulled into himself completely.  Trip might say he didn't care…

            "Yeah, well, you're on your own now." With a jerk, Trip straightened up and Malcolm could see he'd been crying.  " 'Cause I'm not going to wait for Mr. Perfect.  He wants me to go home?  Fine.  I'll go."  He slid down off the bunk and didn't even bother to grab his things.  Instead, he reached out and clasped Malcolm's hand in a quick shake.  "It was very nice to meet you… it's been interesting… don't forget to write."  He let go and opened the door.

            "Trip!"  Malcolm slid down after him, but too late.  Trip had already cleared the porch and was well down the path.  Oh, hell.  He could chase after and get a strip torn off him, or go back inside and hate himself.  He darted after the bigger boy, having to sprint to catch up.  He grabbed Trip's sleeve and planted his feet.

            Trip jerked to a stop.  "Let go."

            "No.  Now come on.  I'll explain to Jonathan later."

            Trip's eyes widened in – Malcolm realised – fear.  "Don't you dare.  Don't you dare tell him anything."

            "Then stay.  Either you stay, or I tell Jonathan everything."  It felt strange, this power over someone else.  He could see why Jonesy liked it so much, why he took every advantage he could.  Yet at the same time he felt like shit.  Trip was willing to get into trouble for him, and all he could do was blackmail.  I don't see any other way, though.  He couldn't physically drag Trip back to the cabin.

            He could see the internal battle waging in Trip's head.  Trip simply didn't give in, but at the same time, the wager was too high for him to lose.  Finally Trip's head dropped and he trudged back to the cabin.

            Thank goodness Jonathan didn't catch us.  The counsellor had been mad enough that Malcolm knew he'd follow through on his threat to send them home.

# # # #

            "Dad, I don't know what I'm going to do.  I've never met a kid like this before."  Jonathan had left the others in the care of one of the another counsellor and gone to the main cabin to phone his father.  "He's impossible."

            "He's twelve, Jon.  You remember twelve, don't you?"

            "I remember I didn't go around hitting people."  His face still hurt where Tucker had slapped him.  He supposed he should be thankful it wasn't a closed fist.  "Or pulling off midnight burglaries.  This isn't a kid, Dad; it's a miniature felon.  And he's pulling one of the other kids down along with him."

            "Start at the beginning, Jon.  And this time, tell me everything."

            Jonathan did, starting with that first rude conversation and finishing up with his parting shot.  "Like I said, Dad…"

            "Don't you think it's a little strange that he's let you manhandle him all those times before, but when it comes to this he turns violent?  This boy who stayed behind with him, is this the one who's been following him around?"

            "Malcolm," Jonathan confirmed.  "From what I can tell, he's a good kid.  And Tucker's…"

            "Go back to Malcolm.  How did he react?"

            Malcolm?  Half the time the kid simply faded into the background.  "He…" He'd seemed shocked, but not at the violence itself.  And for the first time… it hadn't been 'yes, sir'.  "He seemed surprised at something… and relieved, too, when I said he didn't have to go."  He'd been too angry to see it before.  Malcolm had gone into a panic when Jonathan mentioned swimming.  "It was like…like he'd just been rescued."

            Henry Archer chuckled.  "Ten says that Tucker is the oldest."

            "In his family?  No bet there, Dad.  He's got a younger brother and sister."

            "Mmhmn.  And you say Malcolm is younger than he is?  Sounds like your boy has got a protective streak a mile wide -- probably the sensitive type, too."

            "Malcolm, yeah.  Tucker?  I don't even think he has sensitive skin."

            "Why do you think he acts so tough, Jon?  You were the same way at his age.  Nothing ever hurt you.  You wanted to be all grown up.  So does he."

            "Well, then why doesn't he act like it, instead of acting like a two-year-old?"

            "What do grownups do, Jon?"  Jonathan recognised the type of question.  It was the kind his father asked when he had a lesson in mind.

            "Bathe.  Eat.  Not hit people…"

            "They make their own decisions.  They accept the consequences of their actions.  Sounds like your hotshot is better at it than some adults I've met.  Has he ever once tried to get out of anything?  Tried to blame anybody else?"

            "No."  He remembered having the same thoughts, himself.  "It's like a game to him.  And he keeps…"

            "Upping the ante.  He wants you to react, Jon.  He wants you to overreact.  I've met the type – you get enough of them around here.  He's trying to see how far he can push things  -- he'd probably make one hell of an engineer.  I'll place another ten on the fact that he's probably more freaked out about what he did than you are."

            "Dad, his last words to me were 'Kiss my ass.'  He wasn't exactly freaked out."

            "Jon.  He's twelve.  Twelve is when everything, and I mean everything changes.  You said he's a football player, right?  What position?"

            "Quarterback."

            "The best defence is a good offence.  It's probably been drilled into him for years.  So he gets scared and he lashes out.  Drives you downfield.  You've always been more into water-polo, but what happens when you let the other guy know you're scared?"

            "He's got you psyched out.  When you think you've lost…"

            "So you get up in his face instead.  Try to psyche him out.  It doesn't mean you're not scared.  It just means you're not going to go down easy."

            "So, what am I supposed to do, Dad?  Common sense says I should send him home, but when it comes to this kid, common sense does not apply."

            "He probably expects you to send him home.  He's probably got his bags packed already just so he can pretend he doesn't care.  You say you want to beat him Jon?    Show him that it's possible to back down and not lose face.  Give him a chance to back down.  Teach him that it's sometimes okay to fold on a bad hand."

            "Dad, how can I teach him anything if I can't get through to him?"

            "You already have, Jon.  The stunts you've told me he's been pulling?  What's the net result?"

            "Work Detail.  I don't sleep."

            "You pay attention to him.  You notice him.  And from the sounds of these stunts… he's trying to impress you, Jon."

            "By wrecking my clothes?  By pissing me off?"

            "By showing you how smart he is.  How capable he is.  Remember what I said about wanting to be grown up?  The work detail you've been giving him… that's grown-up work.  I'm not surprised that he excels at it.  He's picked you to be his big-brother.  I guess the real question here is… do you really believe he's a pint-size criminal, or do you think that there's something there worth straightening out?  And if it's the latter, do you think you can accomplish that if you send him away?"

            Jonathan sighed.  As usual his dad had managed to get right to the heart of things.  As angry and shocked as he was, Jonathan didn't want to send the hotshot home.  Especially not if he was trying to help Malcolm.  If that was the case, then he'd already come a long way from the piss-everybody-off loner he'd started out as. 

            Replaying the incident again, he saw the shakes -- saw the terror in Tucker's eyes an instant after the blow connected.  He didn't plan that one.  Everything else has had some level of pre-meditation but…  "What am I supposed to do, Dad?  I can't give him work detail, that'll be a reward to him.  I have to do something… or the others will take it as a cue to get away with everything."

            "Is he smart, Jon?"

            "Yeah.  Probably too smart.  Why?"

            "Then there is something you can do.  It might even work, but you've got to trust in his intelligence."

            "Okay, Dad.  I'm listening."

……………………………………………………………………………………………..

            He didn't even make it back to the cabin before he encountered Malcolm running the other way.  What the hell?  Tucker he could understand, but Malcolm?

            "You've got to come quickly.  He's sick.  It's really bad."  Malcolm grabbed Jonathan's hand and began pulling him back towards the cabin.

            "If this is a prank…"

            "No.  He's really sick."  Malcolm let go and started running back the way he'd come.

            "Shit."  Jonathan broke into a run, easily passing the younger boy within a couple of steps.  He opened the door of the cabin and found no sign of Tucker.  "You little…"  He caught sight of something on the floor, a small wet spot like someone with nothing in their stomach had tried to throw up.  Then he heard the whimper.

            Dropping to his knees, he peered under the lower bunk.  Huddled in the relative darkness was Tucker, curled up in a ball with his hands over his ears.  "Hey."  Jonathan reached out and gently touched the boy on his shoulder.

            Tucker pulled away, this time with a pained moan.  Jonathan saw a shudder run through the kid.  Oh, fuck.

            "He said he was getting a headache, sir."  Malcolm had finally caught up, and stood by Jonathan's shoulder.  "Then he got sick… and I came to get you."

            "Thank you."  He reached up and patted Malcolm on the shoulder, then reached under the bed again.  "Come on, kid.  Let's get you out of there and to the nurse."

            Again he saw the wince and heard the whimper.  "It's okay."  Slowly he pulled Tucker out, and realised that the boy's eyes were tightly shut.  "It's…" His voice trailed off in shock as Tucker buried his face in Jonathan's shirt.  It had to be bad… whatever this was, if the hotshot was going for personal contact with him.  He felt Tucker's forehead but couldn't find evidence of a fever.  "We are definitely getting you to the nurse."  Even more frightening:   the kid didn't even try to protest.  Instead, he went into another round of dry heaves, never letting go of Jonathan.  I don't know if that's on purpose or not.

            Despite his size, the kid was heavy… every ounce on him was solid muscle.  Still, Jonathan could think of no choice but to carry him.  He obviously couldn't walk…but Jonathan didn't want to leave him under the bunk either.

            He moved as quickly as he dared, not wanting to jostle Tucker any more than necessary.  Malcolm trotted alongside, his face full of concern.

            "Is he going to be okay?  We were just talking, and then he said he was getting a headache, and then he tried to be sick… what's wrong with him?"

            "I don't know," Jonathan confessed.  It seemed unreal for Tucker to be the fragile one.  There'd been nothing in the file:  no allergies, no health alerts.  On paper, Tucker was healthier than he was.  Yet he knew it wasn't an act… even this kid wasn't that good.

            Malcolm opened the door to the nurse's cabin and then ran across to the bed. He hovered beside the bed, practically vibrating.

            "What have we here?"  The nurse came over, a look of concern on his face.  "Somebody…"

            "I don't know.  Apparently he's sick, has a headache.  I found him under one of the bunks."  Jonathan lowered Tucker down to the bed, noting how the kid didn't let go until he was in a position to turn his face into the pillow.

            "What happened?"  The nurse pulled out a scanner and began running it over Tucker.

            Malcolm repeated the story again.  "Is he going to be okay?"

            The nurse nodded, placing a finger to his lips.  He then went over and dimmed the lights in the cabin, before motioning Jonathan and Malcolm outside.  Only when the door was closed did he speak.  "Does his file say anything about him being prone to migraines?"

            Jonathan shook his head.  "Migraines?  He's twelve."

            "Kids can get them.  It's more than just a bad headache:  it's a collection of symptoms.  The headache is part of it, as is the nausea.  It also comes with a sensitivity to light and sound… some people even experience intense anxiety around other people.  Now, anything I'm allowed to give him isn't going to touch it.  We can either take him to the hospital, or we can let it run its course.  It's not fatal, but it will keep him out of commission for a while."

            "He should make that decision."  Actually, it wasn't Tucker's decision at all… not according to any reasonable interpretation of the rules.  But if Henry Archer was right, and Tucker's greatest desire was to be treated like an adult… Jonathan pushed open the door and walked as quietly as he could up to the bed.

            "Hey, hotshot."  He spoke softly, keeping in mind the nurse's words about sensitivity to sound.  "The nurse here says you can either stay – and let this end on its own – or go to the hospital.  Do you want to go to the hospital?"  He carefully phrased it to leave a yes or no answer.  He didn't want Tucker to have to say too much if he didn't want to.

            "No."  Pain drenched the voice, backed up by the stubbornness that defined this kid.

            "Okay."  Jonathan stepped back from the bed.  "We'll be waiting for you when you decide you can rejoin us.  I want to talk to you when you're feeling better."  Somehow that had been the answer he expected.  This is not a kid who picks the easy way out.  He looked at the nurse – who shook his head – and they both went back outside.

            "That is not the answer I would have picked."  The nurse gave a low whistle.  "That is either one very tough, or one very stubborn kid."

            "I'll give you the stubborn."  Jonathan glanced back towards the closed door.  "Which is why I thought he'd go that route."  His voice dropped until he spoke mostly to himself.  "God, forbid he show a weakness."  Still, he remembered the way Tucker had clung to him and how helpless the kid had seemed.  Poor guy.  Even as he thought it, he moved to dismiss the idea.  Except…  what had Dad said about the best defence? 

            Jonathan turned to Malcolm and dropped a hand on his shoulder.  "What I said to him about a talk applies to you too.  What do you say we start right now?"

            Malcolm nodded, all of the tension, and whatever fight he had, gone from his body.

            I need your help here, kid.  You're the only one with any idea of what goes on in his head.  Which was something Jonathan needed to know, if he was going to stand a chance here.

# # # #

            Shit.  At least Malcolm had been the only one there when it hit.  He'd known, with that first wave to roll over his skull, what was coming next.  I can't even have a fucking summer at camp… At least they'd turned the lights off in here, too.  It was dark and it was cool, which helped.  He'd freaked Malcolm out with the puking – the poor guy had probably never seen a full-blown migraine in action before.  Even his mom and dad didn't know about them:  all they knew was that he'd sometimes go hide out in his room and not come down for a while.  At school he'd escape to the bathroom:  all the better for losing your lunch in, anyway.  And now… not only did Malcolm know, but Jonathan knew too.  Damnit.

            It was the not eating, and not sleeping, and stress that did it:  he knew that.  They were always at their worst during summer – right in the middle of baseball season.  That let him pass it off as nerves sometimes:  after all, didn't stars get to have their quirks?  He'd go away and hide, and people would just pass it off as him going off to psyche himself up.  And if he missed the first couple of innings because he was too 'edgy' to pitch?  Well, coach just throws me in as relief.  The guy might take his head off over control… but he certainly had no problem keeping him on the team.  Hypocrite.  Did they think he couldn't see that?  Did they think he didn't know that they didn't want him around, that if they could isolate his arm, they'd take only that?

            Another wave passed over him, and he scrunched his eyes tight.  Shit.  Funny, though:  Jonathan asking him if he wanted to go to the hospital.  Wasn't that supposed to be somebody else's decision?  Since when had anyone given a rat's ass what Trip Tucker wanted?  When he'd said 'no', he'd half expected to be overridden.  Not that it would've changed his answer any… he hated hospitals, even if he did spend a lot of time in them.  And hospital would have been bad.  Brightly lit and noisy… yeah, that's just where I need to be.

            It had been humiliating, too, the way he'd clung to Jonathan back in the cabin and on the way here.  But light and noise were the worst… they amped everything up.  Even the transition from under the bunk had set off another round of near puking.  Now I wish I'd had breakfast.  At least then he'd have had the satisfaction of being able to throw up on the guy.

            And he still wants a 'talk'.  What good were these things if they didn't even get you out of trouble?  He was quite willing to suffer:  if there was a point to it.  But these… what kind of gain is there for the punishment?

            He lay on the bed for an hour, until the last wave subsided and left only grogginess in its wake.  Slowly he pushed himself to a sitting position and slid off the bed onto shaky legs.  He could do this now; he would do this now.  Into the valley of death, rode the ten thousand… if he waited, he'd keep waiting. And that wasn't how Trip Tucker did things.

            He let himself out of the nurse's cabin, half-surprised to hear no protest.  Instead, he started off slowly towards the cabin.  What's gonna happen is gonna happen.  You can either walk in there and face it… or run away forever.  Well, 'coward' was not a word in his personal dictionary.  If Jonathan wanted to deal…  well then they'd just have to deal, wouldn't they?

            The chatter of the other campers ceased as he walked in the door, refusing to look at any of them.  He walked straight through – past even Malcolm who looked lonely and worried on his bunk – and knocked on the rear door, two sharp knocks and nothing more.

            "Come in."  He could tell by the tone that he'd been expected, and that this time there would be no 'friendly counsellor' attitude.

            Good.  Because I didn't buy it anyway.  He opened the door and walked in, closing it tight behind him.  He said nothing, just waited for Jonathan to begin.

            "Tucker."  Jonathan remained seated on the bed, the only place to sit in the room.  "What am I going to do with you?"

            I really wouldn't know, sir.  A sober, respectful side took over when serious trouble hit.  He braced himself for the words that he knew had to come next. You're going home.

            "I'm sorry about this afternoon…"

            What?  That wasn't in the script.  Wasn't Jonathan supposed to tell him that he'd gone too far, that the slap had been unacceptable?  He tried to keep the shock and confusion from his face, but knew that he failed badly.

            "…I should have recognised that there was a reason behind your behaviour, and I should have displayed more patience…"

            No.  Those aren't your lines… those are my lines.  I hit you, remember? What the hell was Jonathan up to?  It sounded like he actually meant what he was saying.  This is all wrong.

            "…I had a long talk with Malcolm earlier…"

            Oh, shit.  Not that he blamed the younger boy for caving – Malcolm didn't have the temperament to withstand an interrogation.

            "… which didn't prove very fruitful."

            Oh.  Then what…

            "But I know there was a reason for it, Tucker.  You pretty much told me that, yourself."

            When?  I didn't say jack-shit to you about why.

            "I'm supposed to send you home, Tucker.  But I don't think that's the best course of action in this situation.  Do you?"
            I don't know.  This conversation was getting weirder by the word.  He wondered what kind of plants Jonathan had found out there in the woods and if he'd ingested any.  Aren't you supposed to be yelling at me? Aren't you supposed to be at least mad?

            "Because if I send you home… how do we move past this problem?  How do we resolve it?  And I really don't like loose ends, Tucker.  So I'm afraid you're going to have to stay."

            And down the rabbit hole tumbled Trip Tucker.  If this wasn't Wonderland, then he had no idea what it was.

            "But what we are going to do is hammer out some ground rules, got it?"  Jonathan reached behind him and pulled out a pad.   "The next time you're feeling sick… tell me, don't just haul off and plow me one."

            Is that what you think it was?  The migraine had come later.  Smacking Jonathan had nothing to do with him.  But if Jonathan wanted to think that… keeps you away from Malcolm.  And kept him from thinking that Trip was a softie.  I can't have that.

            "And it's important to me that you accept my apology, Trip."

            Trip's head smacked around at the sound of his name.  Jonathan never called him 'Trip.'  What the hell had happened to 'hotshot?'  And accept Jonathan's apology?  He still hadn't figured out why Jonathan felt the need to apologise in the first place.

            "So, do you accept my apology?"

            Trip said nothing, just chewed his lip in a panic.  This had to be a trap of some sort.  People didn't just apologise for making you hit them.  They told you that you weren't supposed to hit them.  They got mad at you.  Hell, if it had been my dad, I wouldn't be able to sit for a week.  It was one of the canon rules of the Tucker household:  You do not hit.  Okay, so maybe spankings… but no hitting.  Hitting was bad.  End of story.

            "Trip…"

            "Um…" He supposed it would be easiest to simply say 'yes', but the word didn't want to leave his throat.  He wasn't getting away with this.  No way in hell he was getting away with this.  He nodded, unable to trust himself to do anything else.

            Jonathan smiled.  "Good.  I'm glad.  I'll see you at dinner then."

            Right.  Just as soon as I make sure the sky hasn't fallen in.  He assumed he'd been told he could go, and scrambled to make his escape.  That guy is crazy.

# # # #

            Jonathan lay back on his bed.  That had gone well, better than he had expected.  Thank you, Dad.  The old man had certainly called it right on that one.  Trip  -- might as well start, it suited him -- couldn't handle the change of pace.  According to Trip's rules, he was supposed to be the unpredictable one and Jonathan was supposed to follow established procedure.

            I'll bet you expected me to yell at you.  It had been his original plan, until speaking to his father.  And had been reminded that the best way to rattle a smart kid was by not playing by established rules.  Now Trip had no idea what the rules were, and was probably going to be more cautious because of it.

            "He always accepts the consequences,"   Dad had reminded him when Jonathan questioned the strategy.  "What's he going to do when there aren't any?  What's he going to do when there's nothing for him to push against?"

            He'd thought the kid would laugh at him.  Instead it had been just like Dad suspected:  Trip hadn't known how to handle it.  He's not used to that sort of thing.  It was like the kid lived by the laws of physics:  Every action has an equal and opposite reaction.  By taking away the opposing reaction, Jonathan had yanked the bottom out of Trip's world.

            And that look on your face.  I never thought I'd see that…  Trip's eyes had rolled back so far he must have been able to see his own brain.  For a dicey moment, Jonathan had thought that the kid was actually going to pass out on him.  He'd had to let Trip think that he thought the migraine had been the cause… had to give the boy some sort of escape route.  The truth was, Malcolm told him everything within seconds of Jonathan's questioning.  No wonder he'd reacted so violently (and Tucker in turn) to the idea of going swimming.  And once he knew… he had to admit there was a certain elegance to Trip's methods.  If the other boys in the cabin had found out about Malcolm's fear, they might have teased him mercilessly.  This way… well, blaming Trip was status quo, wasn't it?

            Yeah, he could see that protective streak now.  Putting himself in danger to save someone smaller and weaker – like a mother bear protecting her cubs.  Not that I think you'd appreciate being called a mother.  He could see the sensitivity now, too.  Not a lot of kids his age would pick up on what a phobia meant and even less would have the sympathy to deal with it.

            A sudden rumble interrupted his thoughts, followed by a loud roar.  Oh no.  Those sounds only meant one thing.  He opened his door to see a bunch of campers staring out at the curtain of water that extended from the sky.  Instantly his own eyes went to the roof, looking for any signs of leaks.

            Tucker – funny, now that he was back in 'hostile' mode out here, it was Tucker again – seemed to be following Jonathan's train of thought.  A little more quickly, too, for he pulled his sleeping bag out of the way just before a drop came plunging down to the mattress.

            They looked at each other, Trip seeming to imply that it was Jonathan's fault.  Hey.  You picked out that bunk, hotshot.  The drip grew steadily, but Trip didn't climb down.  Instead he sat just out of range of the water and pulled out his music player.

            "Sorry, guys.  Looks like the rest of today's stuff is cancelled.  It's just a thunderstorm, everything should be over soon."  He dreaded this more than anything:  the thought that eight easily-restless people would be confined to one small space.  Better make that nine.  Because, while he could escape to the back room, he still had to make sure these guys didn't kill each other.

            At least this time Tucker shouldn't be the problem.  He'd made himself comfortable up there, listening to music and reading something.  And taking notes.

            Weird kid.  Malcolm sat huddled on his own bunk while the rest of them regrouped on the other side of the cabin to play cards.  Poker, from the looks of things.

            Don't let the hotshot play --  there was little chance of that… their very body posture was designed to exclude Trip and Malcolm completely -- you won't have anything left when he's done.

            Satisfied that things were remaining peaceful – for now at least – Jonathan returned to his room.

# # # #

            A snicker from the card players caught Malcolm's attention.  He saw them glance his way, and the snicker turned into a laugh.

            "…baby…" He caught the single word of a whispered conversation, followed by more giggles.

            "I wonder what they do together on their long walks in the woods."  This time the comment was louder, voiced by Dutretre.

            We talk.  Like human beings.  And it's a far more intelligent conversation than I could get from any of you.  Malcolm tried to ignore them and imitated Trip's stare towards the ceiling.  It wasn't as easy as it looked – he realised – Trip must have had a lot of practice.

            There was another low mutter and then "…I bet the baby's good at that."

            Oh, God why do you…

            "Hey!"  A snap from the upper bunk cut into his thoughts.  "Shut the fuck up, asshole."  Malcolm could practically feel the glare that must be radiating towards the card game.

            "Actually, that's what we were discussing.  Do you like…"  Dutretre didn't even get to finish the sentence before Trip had crossed the room and was in his face.

            "You know… I don't really give a fuck about your fucking prejudiced little mind and all it's little paranoid fears.  Now I could say exactly the same fucking thing about you and your little asshole buddy here, but I don't.  Because it's crass… and it's stupid… and it's beneath me.  What I do give a crap about is you disturbing me while I'm trying to work.  Because unlike some people, I use my brain for a hell of a lot more than keeping my skull from imploding."

            Oh, no.  Malcolm could see that Trip was seconds away from launching another blow, this time at Dutretre.  Trip's entire body had tensed and he leaned in until he practically breathed in Dutretre's face.

            "Hey.  Guys.  Break it up."  Jonathan came in from the other room.  "What's going on here?"  He took each of them by an arm and forced them apart.  "Can't I leave you for two seconds…"

            Trip twisted away and ran for the door.  He ran outside, and Malcolm heard him go down the stairs, heard the splashing as his friend ran away.

            "That does it.  They usually do a movie night on nights like this… but none of you are going."

            "But…" Dutretre's voice rose in protest.  "He was going to hit me.  We were just sitting here playing cards and…"

            Liar.  Malcolm couldn't believe it.  Trip would at least have taken his share of the blame.  In fact, Malcolm was willing to bet that the only reason Trip left was to cool off.  But Jonathan hadn't seen everything that came before:  only saw Trip pulling back for the punch.

            "Bullshit.  Now, I don't think he was going to hit you unless you gave him a damn good reason to do it.  And I don't want to know what that reason is, just in case it's one that's going to make me want to deck you too.  Now every single one of you had an opportunity to do or say something that could've stopped this.  I heard your entire conversation, guys.  Maybe not the words, but enough to know you were all laughing at the same joke."

            Malcolm blinked.  Was Jonathan taking Trip's side?  What had they talked about during that closed-door session?  Or was it the headache that made Jonathan feel sorry for Trip?

            "It was just a joke…"

            "Well, I'd say someone didn't find it funny.  You guys are supposed to be here to learn how to get along with each other, not to start World War Four.  You can't learn to do that…"

            Dutretre sneered.  "What makes him so special?"  He gestured towards the open door.

            "He," Jonathan spoke slowly and clearly, like someone not wishing to be misunderstood in any way, "is not special.  Except for the fact that he at least has the guts to own up to what he does.  That's one thing, Mister…  I may have had my trouble with him, but I've never once heard him come up with an excuse.  I've never heard him blame someone else for things he's done."

            And he wasn't trying to save himself.  As near as Malcolm could tell, Trip never did.  He took a lot of abuse from other people and never flinched, but when it became directed at Malcolm… he knows how to be a friend.

            "Now, the rest of you, stay here."  Jonathan looked over at Malcolm as though confirming that he too was part of the order.  "And if I even suspect that anybody here has said anything out of line while I'm gone… you think I've been nasty with Tucker… you haven't seen anything yet."  He gave them all a final glare before heading out after Trip.

            Malcolm watched as the other boys settled back into their circle, occasionally throwing glances at the door.  They didn't say anything, however.  But he recognised the look.  Oh, God.

# # # #

            Fucking bastards.  Trip finally slowed his pace when he'd reached the woods.  The rain was no lighter in here, but at least there was something to sit on.  He'd be damned if he was going back in there, with those assholes.  He'd wanted to smack Dutretre so badly; wanted to knock those words right out of the guy's mouth.  Malcolm's got enough bully trouble as it is.  The least you guys could do is treat him like a human being.  Okay, so the kid was small and not so tough.  He was also only ten… he'd grow.  And he was the only smart person Trip had met who didn't treat Trip like an idiot just because he was an athlete and amateur mechanic.  The jocks think I'm a geek, and the geeks treat me like a dumb jock.  Malcolm though… he'd actually seemed to recognise that both things could come in one package.  He didn't try to slot me into a category.  So… of course I'm going to look after him.  He's like a little brother.  A smart little brother who had no trouble keeping up with a plan.

            Trip pulled his sneakers up on the log until he sat in his favourite thinking position:  chin on his knees, one arm behind his legs and one over top, each hand grasping the opposite elbow.  Yeah, it looked uncomfortable, but it wasn't.  People left him alone when he was like this.

            "Hey."  Well, most people.  Some needed training.  "Why don't you come back inside?  You'll catch your death out here."

            You can't catch anything by getting wet.  You caught things by crowding around inside with sick people.  Besides, he liked getting wet.  I'm a swimmer, remember?

            "Hey.  You can't stay out here, like this.  Now come back.  Come inside."

            Trip said nothing, just pulled tighter into his huddle and turned his face away from Jonathan.  He felt a hand land on his shoulder and waited for the inevitable.

            "They're in trouble too.  I know they said something, and I know you were probably just standing up for your friend.  That takes guts.  But the only person you're hurting if you stay out here is yourself."

            Well, who else am I allowed to hurt?  He wished Jonathan would go away and leave him alone.  It was better when the counsellor fought with him.  Then, at least he knew where he stood.  He stared straight ahead, thankful that the rain running down his face hid his tears.  I'm crying 'cause I'm mad.  I'm so fucking mad that all I want to do is pound that guy's head into the dirt until it's nothing but broken bone and brains all over the place.  I'm crying because he's an asshole and there's not a fucking thing I can do about it.  But there's no way in hell you're going to know that, buddy.

            Jonathan sighed.  "I'm not going to force you to come back, Trip.  You do that when you're ready.  But think about what I just said to you.  I'll see you later."  Trip heard the twigs snap as Jonathan walked away.  Only then did he bury his face on his knees and let the sobs come.  If having friends bought this much trouble… then what was the fucking point?

# # # #

            Aw, kid.  Jonathan turned around when he heard the sobs behind him and saw Tucker with his head on his knees, his shoulders shaking.  Most kids were the other way around:  cry when you yell at them -- feel better when you comfort.  But Trip… Jonathan could practically see the world bowing the boy's shoulders.  It was the first time he'd seen Trip acting even close to his age.  Even with the migraine, he'd been more like an adult:  suffering through it with barely a word.  This, however…  Jonathan wanted to head back over and give him a hug.  Let him know that it would be okay.  But he knew Trip would never believe that:  okay wasn't a word in Trip's lexicon.

            If one of those kids even says one word to him…  Jonathan chewed on his lip to keep from thinking what he'd do.  He felt like crying himself.  I actually get through to the kid, on some level, and then this happens.  I take down his shields just so someone can break his heart.  No wonder Trip pushed people away, if this was his experience…  Turning again, he trudged up to the cabin, knowing there was nothing he could do out here except stand and get wet.

            Inside, he caught sight of Malcolm who stared back at him.  Wordlessly he shook his head and Malcolm slipped off his bunk and headed outside.

            Good luck with that, pal.  Maybe Malcolm could get through to Trip.  He'd managed it once… maybe he could do it again.  I certainly hope so.

# # # #

            Will you just go away?  Trip heard another set of steps behind him and pretended he couldn't.  You'd think Jonathan would figure out by now…

            "I thought you might be cold."  Malcolm climbed onto the log beside him and held out a thermos bottle.   "It's hot chocolate.  I got it from the mess hall.   They were getting ready for the movie night, so they never saw me."

            Trip turned wide eyes on his friend.  "You stole this?"  He took a sip.  It was a little weak, and would have been better with coffee in it, but it was still good.

            "Well, it's not really stealing.  I mean it was going to be for the campers anyway…"

            Trip nodded.  "Nice work.  Thanks."  He took another sip and offered the thermos to Malcolm.

            Malcolm took it hesitantly, then drank some.  "This is the first time I've ever stolen anything."

            Trip gave him a weak smile.  "Tastes better this way, doesn't it?  Makes you feel like you did something to earn it.  Look.  I'm sorry I lost it back there… he's just such a fucking asshole."

            "He is a jerk, yes."

            Trip snorted.  "You can say it, you know.  I mean, you've already stolen something, you might as well learn how to swear."  He reached over and lifted the thermos from Malcolm's hands and took another swig.  It felt good, warming him from the inside out.  The fact that Malcolm had actually stolen it made it that much better.

            "I just never have.  I…I know the words, I just don't use them."  Malcolm studied his feet like they'd suddenly become interesting.

            "Shit.  What'd you go learning them for if you weren't going to use them?  Fuck, you think anybody really cares?  And believe me, 'fucking asshole' is a way more accurate description of Dutretre than 'jerk'.  It's like I said to him:  I don't give a fuck what his prejudices are, because I'm not into crap like that.  What I do hate is guys who think it's cool to talk like that -- like they're so fucking perfect that their shit doesn't stink.  I'm a pain in the ass.  I know that.  But I don't go picking on people smaller than me, or weaker than me, or when they're outnumbered.  I fucking hate bullies, and I fucking hate cowards."

            "I'm a coward."  Malcolm said it so softly that Trip could barely hear.

            "You are not a coward.  You think a coward would've gone and got this?"  He waved the thermos in front of Malcolm's face.  "You think a coward would've bothered to be friends with me in the first place?  Why the fuck do you think I make it so hard?  You are the first person who's ever had the guts to deal with me when I'm not Mr. Perfect.  You are the first person who had the guts to stick by me when you weren't going to get something out of it."

            "But I don't do anything.  I…I let people like Jonesy beat me up, and people like Dutretre say things, and I don't do anything about it.  I don't even say anything about it.  And… and I told Jonathan everything even though I told you I wouldn't… I was just so scared when he started asking questions…"

            Son of a bitch.  Bastard lied to me. Trip took another sip while he thought.  "Look.  He got me rattled too, so it's no big deal.  And…"  He tried to think of how to put it so Malcolm could understand.  "…and you were brought up different from me.  I mean… I bet if you talked back to your dad you'd get a major league spanking, right?"

            Malcolm shook his head.  "He'd simply confine me to my room for several days and not speak to me.  And give me a lecture on why that wasn't permissible.  My father doesn't believe in corporal punishment."

            "Well, mine does.  Maybe that's why I do talk back.  Spanking goes away after a couple of minutes.  And they don't lock me in my room so much any more because I just go out the window.  I mean they try… but it's not like they can chain me to the bed or something.  Mostly they send me to bed without dinner or make me clean up the basement or the garage.  And they don't ignore me either, because they know I'm more likely to do an oil change or tune up my bicycle if they do.  I guess what I'm saying though… you've… you've never really had the back-up to stand up for yourself, have you?"

            "Huh?"

            Trip sighed.  Why was it always so hard for people to understand him?  "My parents have given me hell for talking back, sure.  But they've always encouraged me to stand up for what's right.  I know they'll always back me if I do, even if it means breaking the rules to do it."

            "My father would simply inform me that there are ways to do it that don't require breaking the rules."

            Trip shrugged.  "Whereas mine would say: 'you might want to think first, next time.' But he wouldn't tell me that I was wrong for doing it.  The only time I ever caught super-major-league-hell from them was when I was really little and I picked on this other kid."  He blushed, thinking about it.  "Both Mom and Dad went up one side of me and down the other.  Ever since then… I've always felt guilty when I've seen someone being bullied.  And I'm bigger and stronger than you are.  It's not being a coward, it's being smart that you don't try to take those guys on."

            "So it's smart just to let it keep happening?  Just to let them keep doing stuff like that?"

            Trip ground his teeth.  Was Malcolm deliberately being dense?  "It's not your fault.  When there's nothing you can do… there's nothing you can do.  Look, we're planning to do things now, right?  Now that we can?"

            "But they're all your plans." Malcolm looked away from Trip, his lower lip trembling.

            "So?  That's just because you haven't got the same level of experience as me.  That's not your fault either.  Malcolm.  You are honestly one of the bravest people I have ever met.  Like I said… do you see anybody else out here?  They're all so scared of me, or scared that they'll get in trouble and have to do a little work detail that even if they did feel sorry for me, they wouldn't be here."  He reached over and gave Malcolm a shake.  "You're not only here, but you risked getting me something to drink.  You jumped in with both feet to get work detail with me… hell, you even blackmailed me, kid.  Me.  I'm not even crazy enough to do that."

            Malcolm gave him an odd look.  "You know, that last statement of yours made absolutely no sense."

            Trip started to laugh and found he couldn't stop.  He flung one arm over Malcolm's shoulders then pulled him into a headlock.  "Yeah, well you're the one who decided to hang out with me.  I'd say you're the one with no sense."  He released Malcolm as quickly as he'd grabbed him and gave him a grin.  "Come on.  You said it was movie night, right?"

            Malcolm nodded.  "But Jonathan said we can't go."

            Trip wrinkled his nose.  "Right now, I don't really care what Jonathan said.  And I don't think we'd want to watch their movie anyway.  Probably something about a little lost dog or something.  We're not that far from town, though.  Only a couple of miles.  I know I saw a theatre there, and they've got to be showing something halfway decent.  Are you with me?"

            Malcolm smiled and nodded again.  Trip held out his palm and Malcolm slapped his hand down in to it.

            "All right.  Butch and Sundance ride again."

            "Who?"

            "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.  What kind of movies do you watch anyway?"  They continued to argue as they traipsed through the woods.  It felt good to be doing things again.  Butch and Sundance.