Chapter Six: The Death Of A Shaman

Peter watched avidly as Lucy bent over Micky, dragging her fingers down just above his prone form. Her movements were fluid and graceful where his had been stumbling and frantic, and he marveled at how calm she seemed. She caught him staring and smiled.

"You did unbelievably well, Peter," she said softly as she continued her healing, backing towards his feet and making small, dainty pinching motions. He could see the sickly gray-green of the disease, could see as she tugged it all together, molding it into one long thread. He could see the tiny splinters being squished together and drawn out of Micky's aura.

Davy was watching, too, with wide, worried eyes, though Peter know he couldn't see what they saw. "Where does it go?" he murmured in the same soft tones, leaning over the back of the couch and tracking her fingers with his eyes like a cat.

"Nowhere," she said simply. "It's not really anythin' but energy, focused and twisted into something unnatural. I'm just drawin' it out and breaking it apart into natural energy again. Then I just use it to replace what I lose in the healin', and as a bonus, I don't have to draw as much from Micky to get it done."

"Send some Peter's way, then," Davy replied. "He's burnt himself out at least three times in the last couple of days."

"I can tell." Moving back to the head of the couch, Lucy perched on the edge and pressed her fingers to Micky's forehead. "Well, your friend is gonna be okay. He'll probably wake up in a few hours or so-"

Micky's eyes snapped open, and Lucy blinked.

"Or, you know…" She looked up at Peter, bewildered. "He could wake up now."

"Peter," Micky rasped, wriggling weakly as he tried to sit up.

Mike approached then, pushing Micky back down with a hand on his shoulder. "Take it easy, there, babe. You've got a lot of healin' to do before I okay you for active duty."

"Mike?" His fingers scrabbling weakly at Mike's wrists, Micky tried to smile. "Oh, good, we were worried you'd eaten someone…"

As the drummer trailed off, eyes slipping shut, Mike lifted his head and stuck a throw pillow underneath it. Davy handed him the well-loved purple and orange quilt, and the taller man draped it over Micky gently.

"So," he said quietly, looking up at Peter. "Wanna tell me what's been goin' on since I've been gone?"

"Why don't you try telling us why you were gone first," Davy returned with a hint of steel in his tone.

Raising his eyebrows, Mike crossed his arms over his chest and shrugged. "Had a feelin' things weren't gonna go so well here, and I knew we'd probably need a healer sooner or later. Not to mention, I had a couple of big ol' holes in my shoulder that I wanted put back together. So, I called up Lucy."

Shaking his head, Davy rolled his eyes. "Mike, it was the middle of the night. You couldn't have mentioned you were leaving? Saved us all a heart attack or two?"

"I had to leave immediately - I didn't have time to stop and explain things, Davy."

"Yeah, and that's another thing." Circling the couch, Davy matched Mike's defensive posture and lifted his chin challengingly. "Aunt Kate's farm is a two day round-trip, Mike. How'd you manage to get there and back in half the time?"

"I didn't." Jerking his head at Lucy, who was watching them curiously, he smirked. "She was in Albuquerque, visiting with a friend. I just picked her up from there."

"Fine, then let's go back to why you left without even saying goodbye," Davy growled.

Mike glowered. "I don't think I have to-"

"Just stop it. Stop it!" Waving his arms jerkily, Peter frowned as mightily as he could manage at them. "Stop fighting, okay? I just…I can't take any more anger today."

He collapsed into the armchair, shoulders slumping, and didn't look up, even when Michael came and perched on the arm, sliding a hand into his hair and petting him comfortingly. "Sorry, Shotgun. I've just been a bit out of sorts."

Davy sat on the other side, arm going around Peter's shoulders. "I'm really sorry, Peter. Just…I was worried, you know?" He looked up at Mike, eyes dark and hurt. "I was worried about you."

"I know. I just…" Sighing, Mike ran his free hand through his own hair. "I knew that if I'd let you know, you woulda started askin' questions, and I just really did not have the time to stop and explain."

"You couldn't have left a note?"

"I know, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, okay?" Leaving off Peter's hair, Mike reached around and ruffled Davy's. "I'm sorry I worried you guys. And I'm sorry I wasn't here for whatever went down. All I knew was that you guys were in danger and I had to go get help."

Peter blinked up at Mike, bewildered. The Texan was staring at the far wall, his expression tight, but otherwise inscrutable. Clearly, there was something that wasn't adding up. Wouldn't it have made more sense for Lucy to come to them? I would have taken half the time, after all. And...and...

Tilting his head, Peter tried to make Mike look him in the eye. "Mike, you wouldn't have just left if you thought we were in danger. Not even to get Lucy. You would have stayed and helped us."

"Unless…" Tipping his head to the side, Davy mimicked Peter in trying to catch Mike's suddenly wary gaze. "Unless you thought you were the danger."

Mike swallowed visibly, staring down as his fingers as he picked at his jeans. "Well, y'see…when I woke up, I was more that a little out of sorts."

"The ghoul bite." Groaning, Peter let his head fall into his hands. "I knew I didn't get it all. I'm so stupid."

"No, Peter." Moving to take the shaman's hands, Lucy shook her head. "No, for an untrained healer, you did incredibly well."

"Not well enough," he breathed, looking back up at Mike. "Michael, I'm so sorry, really. I shouldn't have stopped, I should have-"

"You can't 'should' on yourself, Shotgun," Mike said firmly, going back to threading his fingers through Peter's hair. "You did your best, I know."

"He really pushed himself too far, I think," Davy put in. "He blacked out after."

Mike's fingers stilled for a second before resuming their soothing motions. "There, see? You did everythin' you could. And I'm fine now."

If she hadn't still been holding his hands, Peter wouldn't have noticed the way Lucy tensed, but she was, and he did, and he didn't like it.

"Are you sure?"

"Peter." Moving his hand around to grasp the blonde by the chin, Mike turned his head so they were eye-to-eye. Mike's gaze was open, honest, and soft. "I would not have come back here if I didn't think I was okay. I would never, ever put any of you in danger. You know that."

The tightness in Peter's chest eased. He and Davy let out simultaneous relieved sighs.

Of course Mike wouldn't have come back if he'd still been infected. He would never have let himself get close to them if that were the case. Lucy's tension had to have been incidental, right?

Right.

Nodding to himself as if to help that confidence set, Peter leaned back in the chair, pinning Davy's arm behind his neck. "This is all a mess."

And all my fault, he added silently.

Davy seemed to read his mind, though, because he curled his arm as best he could, drawing Pater to him in an awkward hug. "Not your fault, Peter. We'll figure it out."

"But not right now," Lucy said firmly, finally letting go of Peter's hands. He realized, abruptly, that she'd been carefully feeling him out. He felt exposed, and he flushed under her knowing gaze. "Peter's runnin' on fumes, and I know Mike's in no state to be runnin' around right now. And am I right in assumin' you let Peter borrow from you, Davy?" At his nod, she sighed. "Then really, none of you are fit to be fightin'. Let's all give it a rest for tonight, and we can work out what to do in the mornin'."

Peter struggled to his feet, taking a moment to untangle himself from his friends' arms, and staggered towards the back door.

"Uh, Peter…where do you think you're going?"

Blinking at Davy, Peter gestured to the door. "I have to check my barrier. I didn't even feel Lucy, so it's probably-"

"Oh, like you'd even be able to walk in a straight line," Lucy said admonishingly, pointing towards the downstairs bedroom. "You get your hind-end to bed, and I'll take a look at the barrier. I have more than enough energy left over from the healing."

She shooed them each off to bed, following Mike up the staircase with hands outstretched, about which Mike laughed.

"Kid, if I fall, I will squash you flat. I've got about half a mile's height on you."

"Yeah, yeah, blah, blah, get your scrawny butt up there and get to bed."

Peter heard her muttering to herself as she came back downstairs.

"Stubborn as a goat and about as ungainly as a baby giraffe, that boy."

He heard Davy snickering into his pillow and, with a grin, Peter rolled over and let the gently wave of her barrier weaving lull him to sleep.

He dreamt of a small white house with a gray roof and blue shutters. Slowly, as if moving through molasses, he skipped up the steps, steps he knew like the back of his hand. He could hear the clatter of acorns dropping onto the roof from the gray old tree in the backyard, but it was oddly magnified, echoing in his head until it became a rain shower.

It was freezing, and the sun was nowhere to be seen, and a light mist dampened his face as the wind blew forlornly down the porch. Lightning illuminated the windows, windows with odd, dark handprints on them, handprints that oozed. His breath stuck in his throat, and Peter coughed and coughed.

Teeth, not his own, but fangs like a ghoul's spilled from his throat amidst blood and bile and bounced away underneath the front door. Thunder rolled, became roars of rage and screams and sobs, and Peter scraped at the door with his fingers, trying to shout, to say anything.

Nothing came out.

As he fell to his knees, more blood pooled, this time seeping from underneath the door. Gasping for air, Peter scrambled backwards on his butt.

Blood flowed in the old cracks in the wood, from the edges of the door, from the windows, from the clapboards. It poured in great, slow, sticky floods, inching towards him as the thunder and the rain and the screaming rattled in his skull.

"Peter! No! Peter! Peter!"

Scooting further back, he reached the steps, and suddenly he was slipping down, farther than he should, down and down until-

"Peter!"

Jerking awake as he hit the floor, Peter scrabbled at the blankets around him, breathing heavily. Davy knelt at his side, reaching out to help him untangle his arms and legs from the bedding.

"You were having a nightmare," Davy explained quietly. "You were screaming."

"Sorry," Peter quavered, scrubbing at his damp cheeks. "S-sorry."

Finally tugging the blanket free, Davy carefully wrapped it around Peter's shoulders and pulled him close, hugging him tightly. "Don't be sorry, Pete. It's okay. It's just a dream."

Peter's breath hitched a bit, and he hugged Davy hard. "I was s-scared. I couldn't…couldn't do anything. I was so scared. It was all my fault."

There was a moment of silence before Davy replied. "You mean, what happened to your parents?"

Peter nodded against Davy's shoulder. "N-not just them. E-everything. They ruined everything. Everyone got hurt - my aunts and uncles and cousins…Grandpa…everyone. It's all gone now."

"That isn't your fault, Peter. That could never be your fault."

"When Gran found me…I thought she'd be mad at me. I didn't do anything to stop them. They murdered them. They murdered everyone I loved, and I didn't do anything to stop them." Peter clutched at Davy, so afraid that if he didn't he'd just crack apart into all his ugly pieces, and that Davy would see how empty and useless he was inside. "I hid. The whole time, I hid."

"Good." Davy squeezed him so tightly he could almost feel all the cracks in his heart sealing back up. "I'm glad you hid, Peter. I'm sure your Gran was, too."

"They wanted me then," Peter admitted weakly. "They each wanted me to go with them, but I didn't want to."

"I know."

"I don't want to go with them now."

"I know." With a final, rib-creaking squeeze, Davy let Peter go. "We won't let them take you, Peter."

Peter nodded numbly, thinking back to the last time he'd heard someone say that, of the blood and the pain that had followed, and sighed. He was terrified of history repeating itself, but what could he do? How could he stop it?

When they'd managed to wriggle into their clothes and trudge out to the living room, they were surprised to see Micky arguing quietly with Lucy.

"He needs his friends, damn it, just let me go-"

"Peter does not need his friends trippin' all over the place and getting' themselves hurt, you-"

"Would you just-"

"Peter!" Smiling in relief, Lucy straightened up. "Could you tell Micky you're okay so he can stop behavin' like a spoiled brat and get back to recuperatin'?"

Smiling as best he could, Peter went to Micky's side and patted him on the shoulder. "I'm okay, Micky. Just rest."

Micky, sleep-rumpled and still alarmingly pale, scowled at him. "That's just a load of crap, Peter. You were screaming. You've been crying. You're not okay. I just…" Shaking his head, Micky let himself flop back onto his pillow. "I just wish I could do something other than lay here like a sack of utterly hopeless potatoes."

"You're not hopeless," Peter promised. "You saved me, you know."

Grinning lopsidedly at his best friend, Micky waved one hand vaguely. "Yeah, well. That's what I do, babe - rush in, save the damsel in distress, nearly get my dumb ass killed, get saved by another guy half my size. All part of the plan."

"Watch it," Davy said teasingly. "I may be half your size, but I can still hold you down and make you eat broccoli."

"Oh, god, anything but that."

Peter looked at Lucy, who was busying herself with tucking in the quilt around Micky. "Where's Mike?"

"I sent him out for some provisions," she said absently. "If nothing else, you're out of milk."

Peter nodded, tamping down the urge to pace. "Okay. Well…I'd rather do this with him here, but we really need to discuss what we're going to do about Ellis and Lydia."

Davy shrugged. "What can we do? I mean, they're not getting their hands on you, Peter, but…"

"Isn't there some way we can, I don't know, trap them in a magic mirror or something?"

Lucy snorted, and Peter even managed to crack a smile. "No, Micky," he said fondly.

The four of them were still and silent for a long time, each wrapped up in their own thoughts.

"I'm going to have to do this a lot smarter," Peter murmured suddenly, tracing his lips with the tips of his fingers absently. "I won't be able to stop them if I keep doing things the way I have been."

"Stop them?" Micky struggled into a sitting position, ignoring Lucy's annoyed huff. His hands shook as he reached out to grasp Peter's sleeve. "Peter…what does that mean, 'stop them'?"

Peter regarded him with sad eyes, and Micky's shoulders slumped.

"Aw, Peter, no," he breathed.

Davy let his head fall into his hands. "Peter…Peter, you couldn't even kill a ghoul to save your own life."

"This isn't just about my life, though." Hugging himself, Peter swallowed thickly. "It's about our lives. Your lives."

"We were there when you killed that thing," Micky said, allowing Lucy to press him back down onto the couch and tuck the orange and purple quilt around him. "We saw how it tore you up, man. You really think you'd be able to kill humans?"

Peter shrugged.

"No," Davy said, standing up and pacing agitatedly. "It was hard enough for you to kill a ghoul. Killing those two isn't going to be any easier."

"Killing should never be easy, Davy," Peter replied. "And…I don't know if I can. I might not be able to. They might…they might get the better of me. But at least then-"

"No." Micky was wrestling with his quilt again. As he tore the bedding off and lurched half-off the couch, Peter met him halfway, lifting him back into place and frowning at him disapprovingly.

"Micky-"

The curly-haired man grasped at Peter's shirt as tightly as he could manage in his weakened state. "No," he repeated, struggling to draw in a deep breath.

Then Davy was there, helping Peter calm their friend, laying the quilt back over him as Peter threaded his fingers through Micky's tangled mop of hair. "It's okay, Micky. It's okay. I'm still here."

Davy pursed his lips as Peter soothed Micky back to sleep. "You are not going to just run off and get yourself killed, Peter. We are your friends. We are your family. You can't just leave us behind and go traipsing off on some kind of misguided suicide mission."

"Then what else am I supposed to do, Davy?" Perching carefully on the arm of the couch, he cast his eyes toward the second floor bedroom, wishing he had Mike at his shoulder, guiding him. "I don't know what to do, okay? I don't know how to save you guys, and the longer I wait, the worse it'll be when they make their move."

"I don't care," Davy ground out, grabbing Peter's shoulder and giving him a little shake. "You aren't going to do it, you can't do it, and we won't let you do it. That's that, Peter."

Slowly, reluctantly, Peter nodded. It was one of the most painful things he'd ever had to do, but he nodded, and watched sadly as Davy, seemingly satisfied, released him and went to sit down.

There was another awkward silence which Mike handily broke by trudging in with arms full of groceries. "Courtesy of Lucy and Aunt Kate," he grumbled petulantly as Davy moved to help him. "Apparently, we're tragically under stocked."

"Who knew?" Davy joked.

Peter turned and moved to kneel backwards on the armchair, folding his arms over the back of it and resting his head on them, watching his friends move about the kitchen fondly. He memorized the way they moved in perfect sync born of years of working and living together. He couldn't hide a small smile when Davy easily ducked under Mike's arms to get past him, watching as Mike tossed boxes and cans over his shoulder, trusting Davy to catch them. He listened to their easy patter, Mike's soft, gentle wit and Davy's bitingly cheeky humor. He traced their auras in his mind carefully, etching it into his consciousness as deeply as he could.

Twisting, he looked at Micky, who had managed to curl up on his side, as usual. His curls fell into his face, which was relaxed in sleep, and Peter was glad to see a bit of color returning to his cheeks. He looked so still in sleep, such a glaring contrast from how he was in his waking hours. Peter curled up properly in the chair, sitting cross-legged, and watched Micky breathe. He traced Micky's aura, too, pressing it into his mind, deeper and more indelibly than he'd ever memorized anything else. He let it sink in with all his other memories of Micky, who had been his first friend, the first member of his new family. Micky, who had saved him from the self-loathing and the fear and the loneliness.

He would miss him. He would miss all of them.

Looking up at Lucy, he met her eyes. She looked sad, and resigned, and she smiled at him and nodded.

When Mike and Davy returned, they woke Micky, and he laid out his plan for them. He explained that Ellis' powers would be weakest at noon, and Lydia's at midnight. He told them he would take the rest of the day to gather his strength, and that he would take them on tomorrow, separately. He nodded when they insisted on going with him, agreeing that they would all be fit enough in time. He smiled when they reassured him that they would do everything they could to protect him.

He believed them.

It was nearing dawn, though, when he crept out of bed. He looked over at Davy, his heart heavy. The Englishman was curled up with his pillow, mumbling quietly as he dreamt.

Tugging on his boots, he leaned over his roommate and kissed him on the temple. "Thank you, David," he breathed, nearly silent. He pulled Davy's blankets up to his chin and left.

He crept up the stairs next, easing into Mike's room. The Texan was sprawled across his bed, mouth hanging open, looking far younger than he ever did awake. Brushing his bangs aside, he kissed him on the forehead, and he whispered, "Thank you, Michael."

Finally, descending the stairs and moving to the couch, he sat beside Micky as he slept, threading his fingers through Micky's curls one last time. Leaning down, he kissed his best friend on the nose, smiling when the snoring young man sighed and reached out in his dreams. Catching his hand, Peter placed it carefully over the quilt and squeezed it briefly. "Thank you, Micky. For everything."

"You're really goin'," Lucy said as he stepped onto the balcony.

Peter nodded, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. "I have to."

"You really don't."

"If I want them to be safe, I do."

Lucy looked at him then, long and hard, and reached up to take his face between her dainty hands. "You are stronger than you know, Peter Tork. Stronger, braver, and better than any shaman I've ever met. And I've met quite a few."

Pulling his face down, she kissed him on the cheek.

"I'll be keepin' an eye on you, okay?"

Peter nodded, unable to answer past the lump in his throat. He turned and, without once looking back at the home he'd made with the three greatest people he'd ever known, he walked away.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been walking when they found him, but a quick glance up and down the beach showed that the Pad was nowhere to be seen. He hunched his shoulders, turning back to face the pair of them.

"You've decided, then?" Lydia asked, smiling at him gently.

Peter nodded, still not trusting himself to speak without bursting into tears.

"And?"

"And…" Taking a shuddering breath, Peter clenched his fists in his pockets. "And, I want you to go away. I want you to go away, and never, ever come back."

"Peter." Ellis stepped forward, curling his lip at Lydia when she did the same, warning in her eyes. "Peter, you know you belong with me. Our power would be unlimited. The things we could do, the people we could help!"

"Help?" Lydia snorted, tossing her wavy locks back from her face. "You've never done good in your life. All you know how to do it tear things apart."

"Stop it," Peter breathed tiredly, shaking his head. "Just stop it."

Either they hadn't heard him, or they didn't care, because the roiling anger surrounding them only grew, sand shifting away in great ripples as they faced each other, Peter's existence all but forgotten. Curling in on himself, Peter watched helplessly as they raged at each other.

They had been in love once, or so he'd been told when he was very young. Madly in love, despite being on opposite ends of the shamanic balance. Like yin and yang, circling each other eternally, forever joined. And, so the story went, they'd been happy.

He watched their faces twist in ugly, hateful ways, watched their hands slash violently through the air as they shouted, and wondered how they could ever have been happy.

Then it happened, seemingly in slow motion. Shoving Ellis backwards, Lydia drew her hand back. Peter watched her chaotically swirling aura, golden as the sun, concentrate and sharpen and flame around her palm, and he knew what she intended to do.

"No," he whispered, lurching forward. Without thinking, he lunged, tumbling to a stop between them. "Don't-"

Too late, Lydia stopped. Far too late, he knew as he watched her lovely blue eyes widen. He watched with morbid fascination as her energy burst from her, slamming into his chest and straight into his heart. The pain was excruciating, searing white-hot in his marrow, and then suddenly, there was nothing beneath him, and he was falling away from the world.

He heard, dimly, Ellis' voice, thick with rage.

"You killed him! You killed our son!"

And then there was nothing.

A/N - Oh. So…did I just get Peter murdered by his mother? Whoops. Shout-out to Tiger Lily, who totally called it. You get a cookie! Everyone be honest, though - how many of you already had it figured out?

Aaaand now I'm taking the weekend off. =3 See you with a new chapter in a few days, my dears!