Author's note - I am SO sorry about the lack of update for like a month. Sometimes I get like that. This is supremely Beaver and Jackson. I've been trying to work some Melissa in, but it's not working. Don't worry this is strictly Jackson/Melissa. It's just all of the repercussions center around Jackson and Beaver is more familiar there, more than Melissa. But Rodney returns in this chapter in flesh and blood. There will some angst in the future because I like angst. Sorry. Beaver is having some problems and they need resolutions, and he's an angsty person. I love him. But yes, enjoy. It's sad and Beaver and Jackson are the only people in this chapter. Sorry.

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"It's fine,' Jackson told the nurse quietly, but the nurse still tilted her head to the side, like maybe she didn't trust his at all. He stared hard at Jackson's hand, which she'd been hold. And then she shifted her hand and her thumb grazed across the span of Jackson's hand. Jackson flinched back and then frowned. He hadn't meant to do that and it pissed him off. "Okay, it hurts...a little."

The nurse chuckled softly. "Doctor Mahone isn't sure why your hand is healing so slowly now. It is quite possible that the first time your hand hadn't healed at all. It just showed the symptons of healing. What happened to you unstitched what little healing your hand had accomplished."

"It was one bullet," Jackson told her. "It couldn't have ruined my hand."

The nurse shook her head. "Yes, it could have. But it didn't. The pains that you feel when you put pressure on specific parts of your hand will eventually subside, given appropriate time. I won't lie to you, Mr. Jackson -- it will require a lot of waiting. There is no necessary training you'll have to undergo but you must wait until your hand heals." Jackson nodded, gingerly withdrawing his hand from the nurse. "And I must address the other marks on your body..."

Jackson jerked his head up. "It's not abuse or anything like that."

The nurse nodded. "Your friend explained your different situation. She told us what happened, with you and the island. But all those marks did happen on an uncivilized island, your cuts very well may have infections."

"What happens when the infections go untreated?" Jackson asked.

The nurse shook her head in a sort of shrugging motion. "It depends on the type of infection. Sometimes the infection will be treated by your own antibodies, but sometimes the infection may lead to death or other abnormalties within the body."

"So fix it," Jackson told her.

The nurse nodded. "I'll alert Dr. Mahone," she murmured and left the room.

The soft knock from the door drew Jackson's eyes away from the solitary tile to his right. Beaver was slouched against the open door, staring at Jackson with sad eyes. "Things are changing too rapidly," he murmured but he didn't enter the room.

Jackson couldn't recall the specific look on Beaver's face being anywhere near familiar to him. Jackson shook his head slowly, trying to avoid the numerous onsets of nausea. "That's what happens when you become an active part of other peoples' lives."

""I wished this never happened," Beaver said quietly, cross his arms tightly across his chest.

"It's not healthy to fear change, Beeve," Jackson murmured darkly. He had feared change for so long; his fear slowly boiling down to simmering, yet distinguished hatred. He knew that the repercussions of ignorant fear was too numerous to risk.

"I don't fear it, Jackson," Beaver murmured darkly. "I hate it."

"Why?" Jackson asked, eyeing Beaver; gazing evenly at his best friend;s eyes, even though the eyes were diverted. "Why can't you just tell me?"

Beaver shook his head, his eyes securely locked onto a stained tile that lay a few feet in front of him. "I don't know," he answered sorrowfully. "It's not fear...you know it's not shame, Jackson. I can't explain it...I just...I can't bear to tell you. Not yet."

"I'll wait," Jackson offered quietly.

Beaver quietly cleared his throat, mindlessly massagng a particular stitch in his chest; trying to swallow the suddenly large lump in his throat. He could distinctly identify the burning sensation in the back of his throat that notified him of his own mental state. "I know," he said quietly, surprised at the lack of emotion in his voice. "I just don't know how long you'll be here to wait. The world's not safe...it probably never was but...out of all our years together I never...I've never felt fear like this before, Jackson. It's killing me."

Jackson straightened up further in the uncomfortable bed, squinting across the room as he considered the fact that this dear friend of his - Cassidy Casablancas - could actually be crying. "C'mere Beaver."

Beaver didn't shake his head or discline Jackson's informal request; he merely strode forward. His posture had changed, sagging beneath the recently formed fear that was crushing his soul, his body. His thin chest was breathing heavily but there was no pant to his shallow breath. His fragile shoulders sagged, as though physical force had somehow accumulated on tope of them - forcing them closer to the ground beneath his miscalculated steps. His walk was a lot straighter than it had ever been before, suddenly unconcerned with the little surprises of life - suddenly in a hurry to be finished. Yet it took at least a minute for Beaver to cross the room.

Beaver stopped beside Jackson's bed and they stared at each other for a minute; Beaver's trembling hands burried deep in his pockets and Jackson's bruised hands laying limp in his lap. Beaver didn't say anything and Jackson didn't feel the obligation to make shallow comments on their current situations. Until a glitch forced itself across Beaver's normally calm face. His demeaner suddenly crumbled, and the angry tears forced themselves to his dark eyes.

Jackson had seen tears fall from Beaver's generally innocent eyes before; when they'd been sentenced to ten months in the local juvinile detention facility; when Beaver had lost a fight in that very same juvinile facility less than a month later (and still ended up in solitary); when Beaver was sure Jackson was on the verge of death after his father had beaten him badly; bad enough to need a blood transfusion. Beaver hadn't ever been shallow enough to fear the humiliation of well deserved tears, and this time was no different. Beaver had attempted to prolong this passing occurance, until maybe he was out of Jackson's room, but now that it was already here, Beaver didn't rush to wipe away the times or bury his face. He just stood there as they rippled down his face, his tired eyes growing red.

Jackson reached out to Beaver with his untainted hand and pulled the younger boy into a rough hug. He leaned back so that Beaver was forced onto the hospital bed, the younger child's knees supporting him, discomfort slowly reaching the uncomplaining boy. Jackson wrapped his arms around Beaver's trembling form, and Beaver clumsily returned the hug, the tears of his diminishing anger soaking through Jackson's thin hospital gown.

The deep clearing of a throat riffled through the room and Jackson and Beaver pulled apart, both turning toward the door. Rodney nodded toward each in turn and Beaver began to sponge his tears away with the back of his hand, his other hand uncharacteristically still clutching the back of Jackson's gown in a grip that turned his knuckles white. "What are you here for?" Beaver asked quietly, his voice distorted from the aftermath of crying.

"I heard my little brother was in the hospital," Rodney said, eyeing Jackson. "Again."

"So?" Jackson asked defensively.

"Don't be like that," Rodney murmured.

"Why are you here?" Beaver repeated, his voice steadier. When Jackson glanced to the side he noticed that Beaver's death grip had fallen away from his gown and Beaver was now standing beside his bed. Jackson glanced from Beaver's pale face to Rodney.

""I want a truce," Rodney murmured.

"Why?" Jackson asked.

"It's getting out of hand," Rodney said.

"And I don't have your money anymore," Jackson commented.

"You and I both know that that money isn't all you've taken from me, Cody," Rodney snapped.

"You remember when I was thirteen," Jackson asked suddenly. "And I wanted to go to the last dance of junior high school. And I worked for three months to save up enough money for the ticket and cab. And I even asked the right girl to go with me. And everything was set. And then you went and told dad exactly what I had in mind. And he hit me so hard I couldn't muster the energy to even care about the dance when the night had come. And then the next day I find you with her, the girl I had been fantasizing about for the previous three years. You started dating her, Rodney. And you took every first from her. Do you think that's any less important to me than your stupid money was to you?" Jackson asked bitterly. "You did that every time I ever even thought about dating."

"You know I'm sorry about that," Rodney told him quietly.

"Except you're not Rodney," Jackson argued. "There won't be a truce - not when you don't care about anything you've EVER done to me. You shot me!"

"Hey," Rodney snapped. "You shot me too."

Jackson shook his head and leaned back in the bed. "Get out," he said quietly.

Rodney shook his head in disbelief. "Alright. But when your little friends get hurt because they stumble into the wrong territory, just remember to tell them that it's your fault because you were busy being a stubborn prick."