Drained of his spirit, Craig lazily walked back into the house, curious to know where Emma was and what she was doing. The only reason he had decided to come back was the fact that he had cut his finger on the garbage top outside and it was bleeding. But he had just suffered a breakdown and knew better than to think it was the last. Casually taking the steps two at a time, he teetered on the top, wondering weather to go further.

He placed his two hands lightly on his door and lighly pushed it open, seeing Emma. He let out a sigh of pity. She was balled in the corner, her hands grasping her hair in agony, toes curling and uncurling.

"Craig," she shouted in desperation, looking up, her hands still latched onto her hair, pulling it as though she was insane. "Help me. Please. Snake is -- S-Snake is in the hospital and... and he's lost a lot of blood, and -- Craig, he's been in my life so long, he can't leave now!"

And breaking down into a fit of sobs, she hid back under her hands, shaking uncontrollably. The only figure of a father she had ever had... and he was dying. Her hair was dry by now.

Only a freak like Craig could find her attractive like this, but he did. It wasn't a conventional beauty, it was... it was different. Maybe it was another demension he had failed to take into account.

"Emma," Craig whispered. He tentatively took a step forward. It occured to him that he was wearing nothing on his feet. He must have looked so weird wearing no shoes. He spent a good minute or two, standing there, realizing he'd never been barefoot in front of her before, smirking. The smallest things effected him.

"Craig?"

Craig then looked back at Emma, remembering the job at hand, and turned to close the door. /b

He had never consoled anyone in his life. As far as he could remember, it had always been the other people consoling him, other people trying to help him. He had always been the destruction, never the other way around.

"Emma -- iEmma/i -- just --"

Talking wasn't going to do the trick, not while she was absorbed in her misery. He knew underr normal circumstances, he would never touch her, but here, it seemed like the only way. It was an awkward physical grace at first, his delicate hands meeting her distubed red ones, which were still claped onto her head. His hands, on her hands, on her face. It was layers of trauma.

Prying her fingers off her face, he pulled them lose to his chest. She was listening now. He began to stand, taking her along gently so that their silloheusttes were dancing together on the walls.

They were each other's entire world now. It would have been nice if it had stayed like that, too.

"Craig, you don't get it!" Emma yelled, yanking her hands away and pushing past him in a huff. She was pacing the room, passing him over and over. "Snake's hurt and he's alreayd weak --"

"I cut my finger...?" Craig said, holding his hand up in a pathetic attempt to change the subject or by chance get some sympathy.

Emma hadn't noticed. "He was happy -- he was happy to be going and now, the stupid trip might be exactly what kills him!"

"Emma! You're dad is going to be fine. He's at the hospital inow/i. Do you think they're going to let him die?"

Okay, he was pretty bad at consoling people.

"Craig, I get that, but --"

Craig had no subtlety. He just leaned forward and kissed her, the only part of their bodies meeting being their lips.

"Craig -- I -- what are you doing?"

Craig paused, immediately regretting what he had just done. He had been waiting for it, anticipating it -- and he had liked it, but what iwas/i he doing?

"I mean... I've liked you for the longest time," she went on breathlessly, "but... that was pretty unexpected."

It was a kiss, their first, and he didn't want to stop there. What they were doing was wrong, sinful, but he was completely willing to feel ashamed afterward, as long as he could do this first. He had to ask.

"Do you still like me?"

He was so nervous -- so fidgety. He wasn't like one of those guys in the movies who knew exactly what they were doing.

"I don't know..."

He noticed her eyes lingering on his lips. He bent his head to kiss her again. This time it was less of a shock, and they went on from there.

Her lips on his was exactly what he had been looking for, but the second she reached for his jeans, he felt himself seize up. He hadn't been expecting this, but he had wanted it.

The bed was inevitable; it was obvious they were going to end up there, but they refused to stop. He was kissing her, kissing her everywhere, roaming areas he swore to avoid, muttering things he never had the courage to mutter outside of the bedroom.

This was it. This was the closest their bodies could get, as far as anyone could go. It was impossible to stop, no one could have pulled them apart. He was letting his hormones get the best of him.

Emma was finally his, and him hers. It was fair. It was the way it should have been. The next morning they would wake up to each other with the knowledge of what they'd done, and not be able to diffrenciate the line. The line between what is love and what is tragedy.

Picture this: Close up on Craig, head lying awkwardly on the pillow, neck craned back and eyes tightly shut. Now picture a loud banging out of nowhere, jerking him from his sound sleep.

Craig instinctively grabbed a handful of covers and wrapped them around his body, eyes dialated as he looked up at a sleeping Emma.

"Emma! Jo-Joey!"

Despite his panicked summons, she didn't retort, simply lay there half-hidden by her blanket.

"EMMA!"

Oh, it was so ironic. The sheets an immaculate white... after what they had just done with them.

"Emma, please wake up, please."

Giving up, Craig seized his jeans and jumped into them with a temendous amount of difficulty, hopping out of the room and buttoning his shirt as he went. He would be killed -- he would we stabbed for letting anything other than his brain dictate his actions. He thudded down the sunlit stairs, preparing thousands of half-baked excuses in his mind, makeshift plans, but it all went out the window once Craig hit the floor. Angie was standing in the kitchen with a vase in pieces at her feet.

"Angie!"

"I'm cleaning it -- up!"

There was no relief in this. No relief in not being caught. This simply proloned his agony. He had done something that reality was supposed to keep a fantasy. Sanity was supposed to keep what he had done from happening, because he would have to be insane to do such a thing.

"Dad said to start making breakfast! He said I should make myself some cereal, and --"

"Wait, you talked to Joey?"

"He called this morning, when you and Emma were in bed." /b

"Angie!" Craig shouted, "You saw me and -- you looked in at Emma and I?"

"You were sleeping, I was hungry!"

"Well -- what'd you tell Joey?"

"I told him you were sleeping and that I was hungry. Craig, can you make pancakes?"

Craig took hold of her shoulders, trying to make her focus. "Angela, no, no, did he say anything, anything at all about Mr. Simpson?"

"Just that he was getting better. Let go of me, Craig!"

He released her and let her go off on her breakfast. How much did she actually know? Did she have any idea what he had been up to last night?

There wasn't time to obsess over something so trivial. Check on Jack, call Joey, make Angela breakfast... wake Emma. There was so much to do. Jack was upstairs, so he would just nip on up there and --

"Emma."

No such luck. It wasn't going to be that simple.

Passing his room, he had seen that Emma was wide awake. She was kneeling on his bed, face expressionless, tugging at his pillow. That was his pillow, the one he slept with every night, and she was holding it. He still couldn't get over it. But she was standing there, staring at him, waiting for a reply. The pressure was unbelievable. Sorry wasn't good enough, I love you wasn't believable enough...

"We can never tell."