Davy cracked his eyes open, squinting against the dimming light shining in from the window. He had fallen asleep in the living room of the home that Heather had lead them to. Rubbing his head, feeling the ache in his body, Davy corrected himself. He hadn't fallen asleep, no, he had passed out.
Last night and into the earlier hours of the morning had been tense. Stressful. Ronda had instructed Heather and Davy, tasking them with getting this or doing that. She had said something about getting a bullet out and stitching George up.
Throughout the whole night, Davy couldn't help but wish that Isaac were here. He had faith in Ronda, there was no doubt about that, however Ronda herself had told him at some point that she hoped this worked for she felt George needed more than what she could provide.
A hospital would have suited him better, they could all agree with that but there weren't any hospitals anymore. Davy suppressed a yawn and wondered when he'd passed out. Was George alright?
"Morning," Heather startled Davy just a little.
The younger girl looked exhausted and, for the first time in some time, she looked so very young. It took Davy by surprise. Davy nodded his acknowledgement.
"How long have I been asleep?" he asked.
"You fell asleep around nine, it's almost about six in the evening. Sun will be down soon," Heather replied.
"Should have woken me up," Davy protested.
"Ronda thought it'd best that you sleep," Heather shrugged.
Davy opened his mouth to ask about George, but Heather already anticipated this question.
"George is fine, for now," Heather continued, "Ronda got the bullet out and stitched George back up. He lost a lot of blood though and she says there's hope but he might not make it."
"He'll make it. If he can survive through whatever happened to his arm, then he can survive this," Davy reassured her, although it was more meant to comfort himself rather than the younger, "Has Peter-"
"He hasn't shown up," Heather cut him off.
A sickening feeling began to coat Davy's stomach. Nausea. Perhaps it was merely because he hadn't had anything to eat in a while. But mostly, he thought, it was because he had no way of knowing whether if Peter, Micky, and Mike were safe.
"Yet. Peter hasn't shown up yet," Ronda appeared beside Heather, her voice a welcomed comfort, "He is a good, strong boy. He will be alright, Davy."
Davy smiled at Ronda, appreciating Ronda's optimism.
"So what do we do now?" Davy asked.
Without Mike, Davy felt that Ronda was now the leader. Not that they weren't a team, but every team needed someone capable of keeping the team on task. On track. Giving them a goal to reach.
"We cannot move George until he is better," Ronda stated, "He is in too far of an unstable condition to be moved. If he pulls through the next few days, he'll live and perhaps a few days after that has been determined, we will be able to move him. But until then, I can't say he'll make it."
"What about the others? We'll have to regroup somehow," Heather pointed out.
"Mike will go back to the house," Davy said.
"You sure?" Heather frowned.
"Yes, he knows it's the only place that's close enough that we all now. He will assume I've thought of the same thing and I know that if Mike isn't with Isaac and Micky, then Micky will think of the same thing," Davy nodded his head.
"Then we will go back to the house. It is a good idea," Ronda agreed.
"What about… what about Tara?" Heather asked, a queasy look crossing her face.
Throughout last night, he had hardly had time to think about Tara. When the goons had attacked, one of them had cornered Tara and George. Davy had burst into the room just as the church goon had fired his weapon. Tara had pushed George behind her, the instinct to protect her little brother kicking in. It had gone right through her, into George.
She hadn't even screamed. Her eyes had made contact with Davy, her mouth opening into an "oh" of surprise. Then she had crumpled to the floor. George had been covered in her blood, he himself bleeding. Davy had been rooted to the spot. If it hadn't been for Ronda coming into the room the moment after, Davy would have been hurt himself.
"Davy?" Heather's voice sounded distant for a moment and then Davy was slammed back into the present.
The nausea was too much and he quickly leaned over the chair in which he sat, vomiting onto the floor. Ronda quickly closed the gap between herself and the Englishman. She placed her hand upon his back, rubbing up and down.
"I'll… go get some towels," Heather had to get out before she too vomited.
The moment passed and Davy felt better, but he was also quite embarrassed. Ronda's hand was still rubbing his back.
"Bollocks, I'm sorry, I… didn't mean to have that happened," he apologized.
Heather returned and Davy insisted he mop up his mess.
"It's alright, Davy," Ronda assured him, "Things are still catching up to all of us."
"We should go back to the house, bury Tara proper," Davy said after a moment.
"Of course we will give Tara the send off she deserves," Ronda agreed.
"Should we wait until George is better? Until we at least have everyone back together?" Heather frowned, "I mean… Tara was his sister. We're going to have to tell him sometime."
Davy didn't want to tell George about Tara. He didn't want Tara to be dead. It wasn't fair. Not in the least, but there was nothing Davy could do. Not now. It was all in the past.
"Let us worry about that tomorrow. We should eat and then get some rest. Tomorrow, you and Davy can head back to the house to see if the others came back, and to see about Tara. We should not leave George alone, just in case anything is to happen to him," said Ronda.
"That sounds like a good plan, Ronda. I'm starving," Heather commented, "I'll go see about some soup. I spotted some in the kitchen."
Heather disappeared into the kitchen. Ronda glanced at Davy.
"You should eat something," she said.
"I just threw up," Davy pointed out, glancing at the sick covered towels on the floor that he would have to take care of.
"Yes, that is true, however you have not eaten in a while, none of us have, and we have all expended much energy in the past few hours. You should eat something," Ronda insisted.
Davy thought about Peter. Was Peter eating something right now? Where was Peter? What about Micky, or Mike? Were they eating? How could Davy eat when he didn't know if his friend's were able to eat?
"I'll try," Davy said to Ronda, which seemed to pacify her.
Despite his words, it was a lie. Davy didn't have the stomach to eat right now. His mind was too preoccupied with what fate had in store for his friends and the images of Tara dying over and over.
The sunlight filtered in through the haphazardly closed blinds. It was a warm sunlight, pale and watery just like it always was in the mornings. Peter sat up, arms stretching high up above his head as he stretched both those appendages and his back out. Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, Peter realized he was in his room.
Back at the pad. Davy's bed was across the room. It was just like normal. The covers were pulled to the end and the sheets were a bit ruffled. The thought of how Peter had gotten here flitted briefly through the bassist's mind, yet it was so fleeting that Peter barely registered it at all.
Clambering out of bed, Peter pulled on a pair of pants and a button up shirt from his closet before heading out of the room. Micky and Davy were sitting on the lounge chair, staring at each other. They seemed quite invested in the activity. A frown creased Peter's brow. He approached his friends, who continued to merely sit on the lounge chair, staring at each other.
"Hey, guys, what're you doing?" Peter queried.
"What d'ya mean?" Micky countered.
Micky and Davy continued to stare at one another, neither bothering to look over at Peter.
"Are you having a staring contest?" Peter asked.
"No, we're just having a quiet sit here on the lounge chair," Davy replied.
Peter wasn't sure if they were blinking. Were they? He couldn't tell. He assumed they were blinking but… Peter wasn't sure.
"Oh," Peter simply said.
"Peter, buddy, want to go down to the beach?" Micky asked.
Peter must have blinked because one moment Micky and Davy were staring at each other, both sitting on the lounge chair. But the next moment, they were both standing, the lounge chair missing from the living room area.
"I'm not in my swimming trunks," Peter stated.
"Yes you are," Davy countered.
Peter looked down at himself. Instead of the button up shirt and the pants, he had on his orange swimming trunks.
"Oh," Peter said again.
He looked back up at Davy and Micky.
"But you guys don't have your swimming trunks on," Peter pointed out.
"What d'ya mean, big Pete?" Micky frowned.
"Course we got our swimming trousers on, Peter," Davy agreed.
Peter must have blinked yet again because one moment his two friends were fully clothed, and then the next they were in their swimming trunks.
Yet again, Peter simply said, "Oh."
Was there something off about all of this? Had his friends painted the pad a different color, maybe one shade lighter than it originally was, during the night? Somehow, Peter felt that things weren't exactly right. As if everything in the pad was shift three centimeters to the left, throwing him off entirely.
"Peter," said Davy.
"Yeah?" Peter frowned.
"So, do you want to go swimming?" Micky asked.
"Sure, I guess it makes sense, if we're in our swimming trunks and all that. Might as well," Peter finally answered.
"Groovy," Davy grinned.
Simultaneously, Micky and Davy walked to the back door. Peter followed them, his mind wondering what had happened. He vaguely remembered a feeling of danger, of despair. He vaguely remembered monsters, being a monster himself. His friends in danger, an infection, George was bleeding out.
"Pete, buddy, old pal, you in there?" Micky's voice jolted Peter from his thoughts.
They were at the edge of the ocean, the waves lapping at Peter's bare feet. It was a friendly invitation into the water. Davy was already out quite far, doing little laps, like he always did.
"I'm here," Peter answered, feeling very confused.
"Something wrong, Peter?" Micky questioned.
"I just… I feel like I'm missing something, Micky. Forgetting something, you dig," Peter rubbed his cheek, "Like it's right there, in the back of my mind, but it's too foggy to see clearly."
"Oh, you're only forgetting about the gig," Micky beamed, as if Peter's problem had been completely solved.
"Gig?" yet again Peter frowned.
"Yeah, gig. The gig of all the gigs. The gig that'll either make us or break us," Micky nodded his head.
"I didn't know about any gig," Peter protested, hands rubbing up and down his arms.
How had he forgotten a gig? That would make or break the band? How had he forgotten anything like that?
"Yeah, it's no big deal," Micky shrugged.
"No big deal? Mick, we should be practicing!" Peter couldn't understand why Micky was so calm about all of this.
Micky laughed. It was a playful one, a friendly one, yet Peter couldn't help but feel like Micky's laugh was hollow. Or monotone. Maybe both. He wasn't sure.
"Nah, babe, we don't need to practice. You do," Micky said after the laugh subsided.
"Me? What are you talking about?" Peter demanded.
"The gig's all up to you," Micky explained, "Go talk to Mike. He's up at the pad, in our room. He'll tell you all about it."
"Okay," Peter said, although there was a tiny voice in his head saying that nothing about what Micky just told him made sense.
"Bye, Peter!" Davy waved at him from the ocean.
"Bye," Peter said to him.
As Micky made his way out to Davy, Peter turned around and walked up the wooden stairs, back up to the pad. He'd have to go talk to Mike about this gig. What had Micky meant by it was all up to him? It took him no time at all to get back up to the pad. Standing besides the stairs that lead up to Micky and Mike's room was Mr. Schneider. He waved. Peter waved back.
"Music is a higher revelation than all wisdom and philosophy," Mr. Schneider said to Peter.
"Thank you," Peter said in return.
"Ludwig van Beethoven," Mr. Schneider said, sourcing his quote.
"Thank you," Peter said again.
Mr. Schneider waved again and then walked away, heading towards the kitchen. Peter watched him go for a moment, wondering how exactly the dummy was able to that. Then he returned back to the task at hand. He had to talk to Michael. Quickly walking up the stairs, Peter knocked on the door to Mike and Micky's room.
"C'mon in," Mike answered.
Peter opened the door and entered. Mike was sat cross legged on his bed, his guitar in his lap. He was plucking away at some odd little sequence of chords. Peter sat down on Micky's bed.
"Hiya, shotgun," Mike greeted, giving him a comforting smile.
Peter beamed back at Mike. There was a warm feeling in the pit of his stomach, spreading out from there to his arms and legs.
"Hi, Mike," Peter replied.
Mike strummed out another series of chords.
"Something you need to talk about, Pete?" Mike wondered.
"Yeah, uh, Micky and Davy were talking about this gig. A make it or break it gig. That, um, well they said it was all up to me. And I was wondering, uh, what they meant by that?" Peter questioned.
"Aw, Pete, they got the right idea," Mike began, "See, this gig's all up to you. Me and Mick and Davy, well we ain't apart of this gig. This one's all to yourself."
"Like a solo music career?" Peter frowned, a hand absentmindedly rubbing at his cheek.
He didn't want a solo music career. He loved being in the band, he loved being a Monkee.
"Naw, Peter, that ain't it. This ain't a music gig," Mike corrected, strumming away still at his guitar.
"Then what is it? What sort of gig is it?" Peter was very confused at this point.
"You got two choices, shotgun," Mike explained, "That's the sorta gig this is. Ya got the choice to stay here, where you won't feel no pain no more and ya can do 'bout anything ya like. Or ya can choose to wake up, Peter. Where there'll be lots of pain and disappointment."
The choice seemed pretty straightforward to Peter. The option that involved no pain would be his choice. But there was a nagging catch.
"If I stay here, I'll be with you and Davy and Micky, right?" Peter asked.
Mike put his guitar off to the side. He stared across at Peter, a sigh escaping the Texan.
"Pete, you ain't thick. You're real smart. But you ain't figured out where you are yet," Mike informed him.
"Where I am?" Peter repeated.
"Yeah," Mike confirmed.
Peter hardly needed to think about it. He had known from the start where he was. It just never occurred to him until now to acknowledge it. He closed his eyes. It was snowy, the ground cold. Peter was cold, very cold, but he was also hot, very hot. His whole body ached, but it was his legs that were on fire.
He was being chased. For how long he had been running, he didn't know, but he finally had a lead on those who were chasing him. Maybe he had finally lost them. Then he was falling, sliding down a long hill. He tumbled head first, then there was a sharp pain on his forehead. Then he had seen nothing but darkness.
Then he had woken up in the pad. But that wasn't true. Peter opened his eyes.
"I'm dreaming," Peter stated.
"Right, shotgun," Mike smiled gently.
Mike picked his guitar back up and resumed the odd sequence of chords he had been playing when Peter had originally entered the room.
"So… I have to wake up to be with Micky, Mike, and Davy. The real ones," Peter said, at this point talking to himself.
"Yeah, but you'll also have to deal with everything else that comes with wakin' up," Mike pointed out.
"But if I stay here…," Peter trailed off.
"You'd die," Mike finished, "But you wouldn't have to worry about anything anymore."
There was a moment of silence, the only sound being Mike's guitar as he continued to pluck out a tune.
"You guys need me," Peter declared, "I can't just leave you guys. I'm going to wake up."
"Alright, shotgun," Mike nodded his head.
"Okay," Peter said. Then, everything seemed to melt away.
As soon as Mike woke up, he began to panic. Micky wasn't in the room. Mike didn't even remember heading to a motel, let alone getting into a room. Micky was nowhere to be seen and, despite the rational voice in his head telling him that everything was fine, Mike couldn't help but think that Micky was in trouble.
"Micky? Micky!" Mike leapt out of bed, frantically looking around to see if there was anything he could use as a weapon.
Micky might need him to fight them to safety. He needed to find Micky. Just as he spotted a tire iron he could use as a weapon, the motel door opened and in rushed Micky.
"Micky!" Mike gasped, quickly going to the drummer and wrapping him in a hug.
Micky hugged Mike back.
"It's okay, Mike, I'm here, I'm okay," Micky informed him, before pulling away and leading Mike back to his bed.
They sat down and Micky unslung a bag from his shoulder. Mike hadn't noticed the bag. Micky rummaged around in it for a moment before pulling out a muffin.
"Look what I found at the reception area, or whatever it's called," Micky grinned, handing the muffin to Mike, who reluctantly accepted it, "It's banana, I think, but I'm not entirely sure."
"I'm not that hungry, Micky," Mike said.
He felt too worried to eat. They needed to find the others. They needed to find Davy and Peter.
"C'mon, Mike, you gotta eat, babe. You haven't eaten since last night," Micky pointed out.
"I'm not hungry," Mike repeated, hoping Micky wouldn't push the issue.
"Michael, eat the muffin. Eat it for me? Please?" Micky pleaded.
Mike looked at the muffin in his hand, then up to Micky.
"Fine," he sighed and to prove it, he peeled the paper off the bottom of the muffin and took a bite.
It was indeed a banana muffin, unless Mike wasn't remembering the taste of a banana muffin correctly. Micky grinned, clearly happy to see Mike eat.
"So when are we moving out? Going back to the house to try to find the others?" Mike questioned as he ate the muffin.
"We'll talk about that later," Micky assured him.
Mike swallowed the food in his mouth, the stirrings of anger furrowing his brows.
"Let's talk about it now. We gotta find Peter and Davy," Mike stated, if not a bit angrily.
"I want to find them just as much as you do, Mike, but let's talk about that later," Micky insisted, "For now, let's talk about how you're feeling."
Mike gritted his teeth. He didn't want to talk about his feelings. They didn't have time for that. The more time they spent wasting, the more likely Davy and Peter could be dead.
"Look, babe, I know you hate talking about yourself but… it won't be that bad," Micky tried to reassure his friend, although Mike was hardly listening to him in that moment, "So I'll tell you what I think you're feeling. Then all you have to do is confirm."
That got Mike's attention. He looked at Micky, although Micky turned his gaze to the window. The blinds were closed.
"I think you're ready to get back on the road, ready to regroup with the others and go back to the pad," Micky began, "But I also think you're tired. You're feeling confused about taking another person's life, you're worried sick about Davy and Peter. You're blaming yourself for everything that went wrong. And, I think Mike, you're tired of being the leader."
Mike picked at the banana muffin, a trickling of of unwanted realization washing over him. Micky was hitting too close to home, was too right about how Mike felt. He didn't like it.
"But, Mike, you're forgetting that we aren't, like, an army, man. We're a family. And sure, you can lead us whenever and however you like, but that doesn't mean you can't… take a break. Let someone else lead for a little bit. You can… Mike, you can lean on others during the tough times because one person doesn't have to shoulder the weight of the world," Micky continued, "You don't have to shoulder everything, Michael."
Mike popped the last bite of muffin into his mouth. He chewed slowly, swallowing slowly.
"And I think that you're blaming yourself for everything, Mike, but that's crazy. Like, man, I blame myself for everything that's happened so far too. I blamed myself for Peter getting infected and I blamed myself for letting Lyn literally kidnap me. I blamed myself for not doing a better job of keeping the group together. But each time, I thought of what you'd say to me, you'd tell me that none of that could be my fault," Micky said at length, "And I think you need someone to tell you that, too. You can't blame yourself, Mike. Because none of this, none of it, could have been predicted. You couldn't have predicted all of this. I couldn't have. It just happened. There is no one to blame. You just have to keep moving forward."
It was taking a lot of Mike's willpower not to cry. He didn't want to cry in front of Micky. He needed to be strong. But after he finished speaking, Micky looked at Mike and placed an arm around his shoulder. That was the point in which Mike gave up trying not to cry. It reminded him too much of his Aunt Kate, the only woman who mattered to Mike family wise.
He wondered if she was still alive, still out there, fighting the good fight. She would be proud of him, for leading his friends this far. She'd be proud of him for keeping his friends together. Everything Mike had built up around the things he didn't want to think about fell to pieces right then. He leaned his head against Micky's shoulder and sobbed.
At first, Micky was taken by surprise. He was shocked. He'd never seen Mike cry before, not actually seen with his own two eyes. Of course, over the year of the outbreak, Micky had heard Mike crying early in the mornings when he thought Micky was asleep. But he had never actually seen Mike cry.
The initial shock of seeing someone so strong break down finally passing, Micky instinctively wrapped his arms around Mike, bringing the Texan into a strange, half hug. Mike clung to Micky, clung to him as if at any moment gravity would stop working and if he didn't hold tight, Mike would float off into space.
Mike felt Micky's hand stroking his hair, reminding him even more about Aunt Kate. It reminded him of nights when Peter would come into their room, crying about his dreams, and Mike would comfort him, almost exactly how Micky comforted Mike now. This lasted for a few minutes, although to Mike it seemed like hours had passed. Eventually, Mike pulled away from Micky and stood up, quickly wiping away the tears left on his cheeks. He apologized to Micky, embarrassment setting in now that the moment had passed.
"No need to apologize, man, I'm… glad you let that out. It makes me less worried about you," Micky confessed.
Mike picked up the green wool hat, the one that Aunt Kate had made him some years prior, and positioned it on top of his head.
"Can I ask you something?" Mike wondered, fingers lingering on his hat.
"Course, always," Micky replied.
"You remember my Aunt Kate, right?" Mike asked.
Micky's face scrunched up in thought before he said, "Yeah, I do. She was very nice."
"Do you think… do you think she's still alive? I mean, I don't know, I was just wondering, I suppose, what you thought," Mike felt out of place asking Micky about this.
"I do believe she's alive," Micky answered, almost as soon as Mike had finished speaking, "I think she's alive and kicking infected butt."
Mike smiled a bit at this comment. It made it easier for Mike to lie to himself that of course, there was no doubt that Aunt Kate was alive. Before either Monkee could say another word, there was a knock on the motel door and Isaac appeared.
"Is this a bad time?" he queried.
"No, what's up?" Mike replied.
Isaac stepped into the room, keeping the door ajar.
"I thought it best to discuss our next move," Isaac explained, "The sooner we regroup with the others, the sooner we can move on from last night."
"We'll have to go back to the house," Mike stated.
"Yeah, it's the only place we all know," Micky agreed.
"Alright, that sounds like a plan," Isaac put in his two cents, "However, we should wait a day, perhaps, to make sure that there is no chance we will run into any of those church goers again."
Mike wanted to protest, but he was too tired to argue. He sat down on the bed again, waiting for Micky to decide whether or not to argue with Isaac.
"I second that, it'll only give us more trouble if we run into those guys again," Micky nodded his head.
It was decided then. Mike felt oddly satisfied that he didn't need to contribute to the decision.
"Then we'll go tomorrow," he said.
"Lyn is most appreciative to you and what you did for her last night," Isaac informed Mike, out of the blue.
Thinking about last night made Mike's legs feel numb. He wasn't entirely sure why, but it happened.
"I'm just glad I was able to protect," Mike admitted.
"I think we're all glad," Isaac offered him a small smile.
Freddie kept trying to reach his informat. She wasn't entirely the most reliable source but she got around, knew a lot of survivors on West Coast, the area in which Dr. Wilkins had found the unnamed immune. Around nine, she finally picked up the radio.
"Hi," she greeted in a long, drawn out tone of voice.
"Bunny, I need your help," Freddie informed her, immediately jumping into the thick of what he wanted.
"Need my help? Something personal, Fred," Bunny giggled.
A red flush colored Freddie's cheeks.
"No, not that sort of help, Bunny. I need your help finding someone," Freddie explained.
"Oh, I see, it's that sort of thing. You owe me a kiss, my sweet prince," Bunny sing-songed.
"I need you to find someone who is immune. As in, someone who can't get infected," Freddie informed her.
"Okay, I'll keep my eyes peeled, baby. I'll call if I find anything," Bunny agreed.
His comment had sobered her up a bit, or at least that's how it sounded to Freddie on his end.
"Thank you, Bunny," said Freddie.
"No, thank you, baby," Bunny murmured. Then the radio line went dead. Bunny had signed off.
Freddie leaned back in his chair, pressing his hands against his eyes. The world was slowly falling apart around him and he felt so helpless.
When Peter opened his eyes, he was first greeted by an immense pain in his head. He tried to sit up, but the room began to violently spin, so he laid back down. Unknown to him, he let out a groan.
"Lawrence, Bunny, he's awake," a strange, male voice announced.
Peter's vision cleared and he saw a black haired man kneeling next to him. His heart leapt into his throat, threatening to suffocate him. He'd surely been captured by the church goons. He was going to die.
"Hey man, you're head hurt?" the man asked.
"Yeah," Peter said, his body tense as he waited for the moment of death.
"Hold on," the man said and leaned over to his left.
He straightened himself in a moment, a syringe in hand. Peter must have looked frightened because the man's features softened.
"It's okay, buddy, it's just some morphine. You have a nasty wound on your forehead and you got a bullet graze on your shoulder," the man informed him, bending down and grabbing Peter's arm.
He pulled up the sleeve of Peter's sweater, found a vein, and then injected Peter with the morphine. Almost immediately Peter's pain disappeared. A girl appeared behind the man, another man standing next to her.
"Hiya there, stranger. I'm Bunny, that's Kitty, and this is Lawrence," the girl introduced themselves.
"Peter," Peter said, figuring that they most likely posed him no threat.
If they were church goons, he'd be dead by now. Lawrence made some gestures with his hands and then Bunny returned with some gestures. Sign language.
"Lawrence would like to know if you would like some water," Bunny informed Peter.
"Uh, yes,thank you," Peter replied.
Bunny translated and Lawrence nodded before disappearing.
"So, Peter, why were there a lot of armed folks after you?" Kitty asked.
"They want me dead. Because they think I'm someone I am not," Peter explained.
Kitty and Bunny exchanged looks. They giggled, Bunny's hand brushing against Kitty's shoulder.
"That's some heavy stuff, man," Bunny commented.
Peter found himself smiling. It occurred to him that these two were high. They probably took morphine too. Peter didn't blame them, who could blame anyone for wanting to escape this hellish reality.
"I know, but it's their hangup, not mine," Peter said.
"True," Kitty agreed.
Lawrence reappeared then, a glass of water in his hand. He handed it to Peter. Peter smiled his thanks and quickly gulped down the water. Once he was finished, Peter handed the empty cup back to Lawrence.
"So, you've been all patched up, but maybe there's brain damage. We just don't know," Bunny tried to suppress a laugh as she spoke.
"But good old Lawry here, he patched you up. He's a nurse, you know. Or was," Kitty interjected.
Peter was glad to know that at least someone with some basis in medicine had patched him up, no offense to Kitty or Bunny.
"Thank you," Peter said, "Thank you for helping me."
Bunny moved her hands again, translating what Peter said for Lawrence. Lawrence made motions and then Bunny said, "He says you're welcome."
Peter sat up slowly. This time, the room did not spin.
"I have to go," Peter announced.
He had to go back to the house. He had to find the others again. He had to regroup with them.
"Whoa, Peter, you can't go anywhere yet!" Kitty exclaimed.
"Why not?" Peter frowned.
"Those guys who want you dead, they're still hanging around," Bunny explained.
"You gotta wait until they're gone, else you'll end up with a cap in your ass," Kitty agreed.
Lawrence tapped Bunny on the shoulder and signed something. Bunny signed back. Ten Lawrence signed something again.
"Stay here for the night. In the morning, those guys will be gone and then we'll help you get back to wherever you're itching to get back to," Bunny said, tilting her head back towards Lawrence, "He insists."
Peter rubbed at his cheek, his hand moving from there to the small of his neck.
"Alright, deal," he agrees.
Whatever happened, there was safety in numbers. Without the others, Peter needed new numbers and despite the drug use, these three seemed nice enough.
"Groovy, man!" Kitty grinned from ear to ear, "Get some sleep."
Peter nodded and he laid back down. It only then occurred to him that he was laying on a bed. His eyelids were too heavy all of a sudden and he had to close them. The last thing he thought of before falling into unconsciousness were his friends. He hoped they were okay.
Author's Note: Thank you for reading this chapter! I hope it was enjoyable. This was a really fun chapter for me to write, since I loved writing the dream scene in this chapter AND I got to introduce three new characters. Hopefully the next update will be either this week or this weekend, one of the other, but I can't promise anything. I really hope that everyone out there reading this is enjoying it! Please, feel free to leave a comment, as those are always very appreciated and I read every single one of them! So you can leave criticism, praise, or even questions, and depending on the comment, I'll respond here. Thank you to everyone who's commented so far & given such inspiration for me to continue. Although I write for myself, I also write for you guys. I also wanted to thank everyone who didn't give up entirely on this fic despite such a long hiatus. So, thank you everyone for reading and I hope all of you have a wonderful day! :)
