"A brave man once requested me to answer questions that are key. 'Is it to be or not to be?' and I replied, 'oh why ask me?'" MASH

"You could have killed him!" Frank roared, his voice rising well above his normal standards. "I can't believe you!" He rarely yelled, rarely got angry, but when Joe told him that it was Cathy who had given him an overdose of pills, Cathy who had put his life in danger, he lost it.

For her part, Cathy was looking truly remorseful. "Frank, I'm so sorry. I thought that since he'd just gone through so much pain and he'd be out all night, he should have some more, to make sure he wasn't in pain." She flushed and touched Frank's elbow, making him pull away. "I don't have that much experience with prescription medication. I didn't know…"

Frank wasn't buying it. "You're seventeen and smart. You must know that you can't just take as many pills as you want." He was calmer now, but in a strange kind of way. His voice was quieter, but he was still seething, so angry he thought he would burst. "Cathy, you could have killed my brother. Do you understand that?"

"Yes, Frank, I do. And I really am sorry." She leaned against him and he spun out from under her, almost shoved her, but he wouldn't stoop to her level.

He was piecing some pieces together. Cathy's comments, her strange attitude around Joe, the way she'd dragged him away from the fight. "Cathy…you like Joe, right?" It was impossible for him to think otherwise. Joe was a smart-alec sometimes, and a little reckless, but he had a heart of gold and courage. And he was Frank's baby brother, always.

"I like him fine, Frank." She sounded truly surprised at the question, and Frank had to wonder whether he was being paranoid. "I'm not trying to…off him, if that's what you're implying."

"No." Was he? Did he think that Cathy was trying to kill Joe? He sighed, looked at Cathy, then looked away. "I'm still so angry at you, Cathy." He muttered, clenching his fists, thinking of Joe, at home and asleep.

Frank had been about to skip school to stay home with him --- he was really missing his parents at this point, not knowing what to do with Joe so injured and defenseless --- but Joe had pushed him out the door, insisting that he was fine, that Nicco, Tony's younger brother, would be staying with him, and that Biff, Tony, and Chet had already promised to stop by during their free periods.

Cathy touched his face gently, her face a picture of remorse. "I didn't mean to, Frank. What can I do to make it up to you?" She was quiet for a second. "What if you and me stayed in tomorrow night? I can apologize to Joe." She swallowed hard. "If he…doesn't feel comfortable around me, I'll break it off with you. If you want." Her face tilted down.

Frank shook his head slowly, began to walk away. "I can't, Cathy." Even he was surprised to hear the tears thick in his voice. He loved Cathy, God, he loved her, but she'd been this close to killing Joe. And nothing she did could make that better.

Cathy nodded. "He's very important to you, isn't he?" Something flickered across his face, in her voice. Jealousy? Hate? Impossible. And when Frank opened his mouth to answer, and, finding no words coming, nodded slowly. He kept walking away until he forgot about a girl with flaming hair and a beautiful smile, until he forgot about true love, until the only thing he could think of was a blond boy, broken and waiting for Frank to make things all right.

Joe woke up late in the morning, his entire body sore both from the pounding he'd received a few days before and the results of getting one's stomach pumped. When the door opened and the pungent odor of soup permeated the room, he groaned and turned away. "Get that out of here, Nicco," he demanded, his growl coming out squeaky as his voice cracked.

Nicco Prito, Tony's younger brother, set the bowl on Joe's bedside table and sat in the desk chair. He was a small boy of fourteen, and he tapped his head twice, signing, "Frank told me to make you eat."

Joe sighed and stretched, giving the universal signal that he was pissed off, making Nicco laugh. The boy was deaf, had been from birth, but was none the less an excellent companion. He was usually away at a privet school for the deaf, where he boarded, but was home for an extended weekend.

Though Joe's sign language was clumsy, he mouthed the words as he said them, knowing Nicco was proficient at reading lips. "Don't want to eat. Sick." He didn't particularly want to sit up either, but did that anyway, knowing he had books downstairs and homework to make up.

Seeing that Joe was on the move, Nicco bounced to his feet, signing, "Clue?" and holding up Joe's favorite game. Smiling, Joe took it and headed downstairs for the kitchen table. Clue always got him out of bed. Nicco knew him well.

Somehow, during the course of the game, Nicco made him eat more than he had in several days, putting a few pieces of food on his plate, then a few more, until Joe had consumed an entire meal. Surprised at this, and even more surprised at the fact that he wasn't feeling nauseous, he asked Nicco, "Did you make this?"

The boy ducked his head, his fingers flying, "Restaurant is in my blood. I cook well. Tony…Tony doesn't like business. Wants to get out. If I cook good enough, maybe dad will let him go to school."

Joe sighed, knowing that Nicco was in the same boat he was. Both boys were restricted from doing what they really wanted to do because of their disabilities. Even as he thought it, though, his face flushed, ashamed that he was lumping himself in the same boat as Nicco. Though he would never be able to have a particularly active job, he would still be able to go pretty far in his life without being able to walk properly. Nicco, on the other hand, would always be held back because of the communication barrier.

He had been four the first time he met Nicco, then only one. Even at four, he knew the basic signs, and found that the easiest one, the only one a person really needed for their arsenal, was a fisted palm rubbed in a circle over one's heart. I'm sorry.

He used that now, then used his fingers to convey what he needed to say, "You are very good cook, Nicco, and your father will always have a place for you in his…" he forgot the sign for business so used the one for job instead. "But he wants Tony to like pizza, too. Understand?" he tapped the side of his head, and cocked it, realizing that he didn't feel quite so sick. Or so tired.

Being around someone worse off than he was…someone with a God-given talent that he just wanted to share…suddenly made him less bitter. Even as Nicco nodded, his face serious, someone else burst in the door, and sound flooded the room.

"Joe? Are you okay?" Biff called, looking up the stairs before spotting Joe and Nicco at the table, still set up around the game of Clue that had ended twenty minutes before (Mrs. Peacock in the library with the rope).

Biff came into the room, his big body suddenly filling it to capacity. Tony wasn't far behind him, carrying Joe's law text book. "Boy, it's quiet in here." Then he noticed Nicco, who waved his greeting.

"Hey Nicco. You sure your dad ain't looking for you?" It wasn't often that the Pritos let their disabled son far from the house, but Frank had asked for Nicco, because Joe could be watched by him without feeling like he was being baby-sat. Plus, Nicco was truly fond of Joe, understanding his plight at a deeper level than any of the other boys.

Biff, who didn't often remember to sign, spoke the words aloud, but Nicco followed them anyway. "Dad let me come out here for Joe." Tony translated the signs, because Biff wasn't adept at reading them. "Want a sandwich?" Tony rolled his eyes as he translated these: sometimes he thought that his brother's remedy for everything, great or small, was a sandwich.

"Did Joe eat?" Biff hedged, his voice sharp. He was obviously preparing for one of his friend's excuses and was surprised when Nicco nodded yes and went off to the kitchen, bringing out a tomato, mozzarella, and lettuce sandwich in a few seconds, as if he had it ready.

Biff took a bite of the sandwich and Tony ate his in silence. "This is really good, Nick." He complimented, smiling at his younger brother. Tony knew of Nicco's pipe dream to someday own the family business instead of Tony himself, and secretly hoped that one day everything would play out in Nicco's favor.

Unfortunately, the restaurant business was a very loud one, a very communicative one. With a few small signs to Nicco, Tony spoke to Joe. "We got to get going. You guys okay here?"

"Yeah." They chorused, and after signing their goodbyes to Nicco, the two were left in the room, alone. Biff turned to Joe, surprise in his eyes. "You really ate?"

"Yeah." Joe stared down at his hands, examining the one that had been hurt, lifting all the fingers gently one by one, wincing slightly as pain erupted in them.

Biff touched his hand, stopping the self-inflicted injuries. "Frank broke up with Cathy this morning." The words were dropped carefully, like small stones down a wishing well. Joe didn't look up, couldn't, because that would betray his incredulous smile, betray his secret.

"Oh?" As if he didn't care.

Biff stared at him, and Joe saw something in his eyes. Knowledge, maybe, or pain. "Yeah. If you ask me, it's about time. There was something freaky about that girl. She just always rubbed me the wrong way."

Rubbed me the wrong way. Well, wasn't that the perfect choice of words? Joe's suddenly full stomach growled and he glanced over at the couch in the other room, the ultimate offender, remembering a night, alone, injured, when Cathy had found him alone and bestowed upon Joe the name slut.

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