Its short and sweet. The next one is longer so brace yourselves :)

Pat cursed under his breath yet another attempt to extract the coffee from the jar failed, his shaking hands causing the spoon to tip and deposit the grains all over the counter and floor. Bracing himself against the countertop, he pulled in a deep breath knowing he had to get it together before Pete came into the kitchen. There was no point at all in him losing his temper, it was the last thing the poor lad needed after today was him going off on one. A faint click sounded down the hallway and Pat turned, his teeth grinding painfully as he watched his nephew wince and limp down the small corridor, coming to a stop in the kitchen doorway and attempting a smile.

"Allie's out for the count," Pete jerked his head in the direction of the living room, his tone hushed despite the door being closed. "She didn't get much sleep last night,"

Pat smirked at him and raised a knowing eyebrow.

"Behave," the younger man chuckled, pulling out one of the chairs around the small table and collapsing down into it, hissing as his bruised back rested uncomfortably against the wooden spokes.

"She's a good girl, that one," Pat nodded, filling the cups with boiling water and stirring them slowly, trying to collect his thoughts. "Always has been,"

"She 'as her moments," Pete grinned and shook his head but there was a light that flashed in his azure eyes that Pat didn't see very often which made him think otherwise. "I owe her for this though," he gestured down to himself. "She went after the old man like a Rottweiler and then patched me up."

"Now that I would have paid to see," Pat laughed, sliding into the seat next to him and placing the two steaming mugs down. "You sure I can't make you a sandwich or somethin'," he glanced warily at the cooker. "I 'aven't used that thing since the 80's but how hard can it be, eh?"

"Christ," Pete snorted. "You're offering to cook for me? I really must look like shit,"

"Worse than that, son," his uncle gestured to the bruise around his eye which was turning bluer by the second. "Shit tends to only be one colour; you've got a fuckin' technicolour jawbone,"

There was no humour in the old man's voice, his eyes hardening as he took in the split lip, the pronounced bump on his temple, the graze on his collar bone.

"What the fuck happened, Pete?"

There it was. The question he had successfully avoided for the last half hour since they had stumbled into the house and rambled off as many pleasantries as they could to distract themselves from the situation at hand. Selfishly, as they sat on the sofa flicking through the abomination that was daytime TV, Pete had been tempted to nudge Allie awake as she began to fall asleep on his shoulder. He knew that once she was unconscious it would only leave him and Pat and a barrage of questions that he didn't want to answer and Pat probably didn't want to ask.

Knowing there was little point in lying to his Uncle, the man he had secretly pretended was his father when he was younger, wishing more than anything that he was the one who would come to his football matches and dish out the odd piece of advice on girls. Rather he than the fucking mess that was Michael Dunham.

"He hit mum," Pete spoke quietly, hating the way his hands shook as he did so. "I came home and she was just stood in the kitchen…her face was…" his breath became laboured and harsh. "I went to find him,"

Pat watched as the young man looked up at him, his eyes focused and clear despite the tremors wracking his body.

"I was going to kill 'im, Pat," he gritted his teeth. "I really was,"

"I know, son," Pet nodded, his eyes sombre as he placed a hand on his arm silently urging him to continue.

"I get to the stairs and there he is, waiting for me," Pete smirked humourlessly. "He went with a wrench this time; it's been a while since we've had that one. Usually it's just hit fists, sometimes the belt. But he went for it. He had me down on the bathroom floor, he didn't say a word just kept on and on," Pete bit his lip, hating himself as tears stung his eyes. "I thought he was gonna kill me at one point. He had his foot on my chest and he was just smashing this wrench into my ribs over and over. And then he just stopped." He shrugged, his eyes shining as they focused maniacally on the salt and pepper shakers in front of him. "Stands over me, washes his hands in the sink and walks out."

Pat tipped his head back and tried to keep his breathing slow, determined not to let his nephew see the madness and fury in his eyes; Lord knows he'd seen enough for one day. Michael had always been short tempered, he had always known that, even when they were children. Though he wasn't proud of it, the news of him hitting his wife and sons didn't come as a surprise. He had seen more than enough bruises on Moira to know something was going on but he knew that challenging his brother would only make it worse for her.

When Pete and Steve came along, he vowed he would keep an eye on them, make sure they were safe and looked after as young lads should be. But looking at Pete now, his face cut and bruised, his head hung low in defeat, Pat Dunham knew he had failed them.

"I told mum to get out," Pete continued. "Packed her a bag and drove her to Auntie Anne's. I was back at the house getting my shit together when Allie showed up," he shook his head. "'er timing is fucking terrible,"

"Or bang on," Pat countered with a smirk. "Depending on how you look at it,"

Pete returned his grin for a short moment before a darkness clouded over his eyes and his knuckles whitened as his tightened his grip on his coffee cup.

"The way he looked at her," Pete swallowed hard, tasting bile as he recalled the sickening look in his father's eyes as he leered at her. "The things he said….Steve came in at the right time. Because if he hadn't, I would 'ave put him in the ground there and then, Pat. If he had taken even one fucking step towards Allie, I would 'ave cut his throat,"

Pat straightened in his chair, his unease stemming from the sincerity in Pete's voice. Unlike Steve who had always been a loose cannon, Pete could reign the madness in. Right at this moment however it was flowing out of him in waves; it was like having a nuclear bomb sat at your kitchen table and realising you'd lost the switch for it.

"Leave 'im to me," Pat spoke quietly, his voice hard.

"This ain't something you sit down and 'ave it out with him over a pint about, Pat," he shook his head. "I can't let…"

"I know, Pete." Pat looked at him, clasping him by the shoulder and squeezing it reassuringly. "I know. Trust me, I'll sort this. He won't be stupid enough to do this again, you mark my words."

Wanting more answers but knowing his body was slowly giving out on him, Pete simply clasped his hand and nodded, trusting him as much as he trusted Allie or Steve or his mother. Pat had always had his back and he knew there was no way he would let this slide, that's why despite Allie's questioning look, he had asked her to drive him here this morning.

Pat glanced about the kitchen, wondering how the hell his plans for a cheeky nap after an all nighter on the building site had not only gone to shit but been blown to smithereens by his little brother without him even being present. How had the kid who used to badger him relentlessly about joining in playground football games and sneaking chips off of his plate when he wasn't looking turned into such a monster?

His eyes landed on the envelope he had stuck to the fridge and he grinned, a real grin this time as he clapped Pete on the back and yanked himself upright, reaching for it and turning to his nephew who was staring at him as though he had lost his marbles.

"With regards to you, my son, I 'ave just the medicine," his eyes danced as he pulled three West Ham tickets from the envelope and slapped them against his hand. "Dirty Spurs, at home, next Sunday and you're coming with me."

Pete laughed, already hearing his mother's voice protesting in his head; for whatever reason, he and Steve were rarely allowed to go to football matches with their father or uncle. Moira had little to say about it other than 'they're a bunch of bloody animals pissing their lives away'. What the poor woman didn't realise was that when you were 18, the offer of that was the equivalent of Wonka's Golden Ticket.

"Fuckin' hell! At home?" Pete stood up, reaching for the tickets and whistling when he saw they were in the lower stands, right near the pitch. "Christ, how'd you get these?"

"Friend of a friend," Pat answered him with a wink. "All the lads from the site are coming down, all the old boys from the Abbey. Even your brother,"

"Steve never mentioned this," Pete frowned, ignoring the sting from the tear in his eyebrow as he did so.

"He wouldn't," Pat explained, purposefully ignoring the questioning look the blonde shot his way. "Let's just say, son that I think its about time you came to a real match,"

"I've been to the footie before," Pete laughed. "You gettin' old enough that the memory is already on its way out?" he tapped his Uncle's forehead playfully, laughing when it was slapped away.

"Not like this, you 'aven't," Pat looped an arm around his shoulders and smiled. "Trust me son, by the time you walk out of those gates, your old man will be the last thing on your mind."

Allie Harding was far from spoiled; with the exception of her car, her parents made a point of not buying her or her brother's very much. Certainly nothing luxurious or 'just because'. The one thing she had insisted on, her inner brat coming to light, was silk sheets on her bed. Silk sheets with Egyptian cotton and feather pillows. That was all she wanted and it was her haven, her world of peace. Granted it was currently stale and speckled with flecks of Dunham blood but it was hers.

It was a far cry from the rough, dusty material scratching away at her cheek as she woke up slowly and groggily, the gentle hum of the TV in the background along with the brown Staffordshire terrier staring at her reminding her she was indeed still on Pat Dunham's sofa.

"Hi, Sandy," she mumbled sleepily, blindly reaching out her hand and smiling when the pup instantly made her way over and nuzzled it. Sandy and Danny had been Nancy and Pat's dogs for the past nine years with Sandy now rolling solo after Danny had to be put down last year. A good chunk of her and Pete's time during their school holidays as children had been spent walking the two around various parks, with Allie usually ending up on her arse because one of them had spotted a pigeon and gone for it…taking her with them.

"Oh Jesus," she giggled, turning away when the dog began to lick her face, snorting excitedly as though finally realising who she was.

"That figures, don't it?"

Pete's voice caused her to jump slightly, lifting her head off of the sofa and squinting down at him where he sat, her feet pulled into his lap.

"The first time I actually see some real life girl-on-girl action and it's you getting Frenched by a staffie,"

Allie giggled, still fighting off the dog one handed as she pulled herself into a sitting position, the faux fur throw Pete had covered her with pooling around her waist. Whatever had happened when she had been asleep, he looked better than before. Granted, he was still battered and bruised but the weight on his shoulders didn't seem quite so heavy. She knew chances were that Pat was to thank for that; he had always been so good to them when they were kids and she knew Pete had a soft spot for him, hence why they had ended up here this morning.

"Sorry to disappoint," she raised an eyebrow.

"Don't give it another thought," he shook his head, sending her that damn smirk. "When I tell the boys this story, she'll be human, you'll both be in your underwear and it definitely counts,"

"You're a troubled young man," she told him, scooting closer and gently pushing his hair back so she could examine the cut that stretched from his forehead into his hairline. She had used butterfly stitches to pull the skin back together but part of her was still worried it required the real thing.

Pete closed his eyes at her touch and felt his chest tighten when he opened them a second later to find her eyes on his, her delicate fingers softly slipping down his face. Some insane part of him wanted to kiss the tips of them as they passed gently over his lips but he forced himself to stay perfectly still; he had no idea what was happening to him. It had to be the concussion; there was no other reason he could possibly be thinking about kissing Allie Harding.

The same Allie Harding he had known since he was twelve years old.

The same Allie Harding who was staring down at him now, examining the cuts on his face and completely oblivious to the fact that all Pete could think about was how she would respond if he just pulled her down onto his lap and kissed her.

"I'm sorry I passed out on you," she smiled, her gentle voice bringing him out of a daydream which was getting progressively certificate 18. "Is Pat still here or...?"

Pete knew what she was asking; did he fly into a fit of rage and run off to murder Michael Dunham? Not that she would have blamed him or even found fault, in all honesty. If anything she would have offered to help.

"He's in the kitchen making what I think is his sixth cup of coffee," Pete told her, frowning at how husky his voice sounded. "Poor bastard had been at work all night, this was the last thing he needed,"

"Something tells me he won't mind," Allie flopped down next to him and nudged his shoulder with hers. This was better; she couldn't deal with being that close to him face to face right now. The moment his eyes had found hers, she felt something tighten in her chest and for whatever reason her brain had decided not to focus on the poor guy's war wounds but on the muscles in his arms and how it might feel to bury her hands in his hair and pull his mouth up to hers. Christ, she was spending too much time around Lara; apparently being horny was contagious these days.

"I should get you home," Pete told her, resting his cheek on top of her head. "Your brother is probably out of his tree by now wondering where the hell you've gone,"

"He's probably still in his bed with god knows who…or what," she grinned as Pete laughed loudly, his chest vibrating under her cheek. "Not to mention its not even midday so he's probably still drinking tequila," she snorted, craning her head back to look at her best friend. "You have met Harry, haven't you?"

"Swill's probably dead," he grinned as she giggled. "Your posh mate probably bit his head off when she was done with him,"

"Again, I don't think he'd have an issue with that," Allie countered. "I think we all accepted a long time ago that Swill was always going to die with his pants around his ankles,"

"Christ, there's an image I didn't need," Pete groaned, drawing another giggle from the blonde as they proceeded to speculate what had happened at the party last night, neither of them particularly having missed it despite the circumstances they found themselves in.

Outside in the small hallway, Pat smiled to himself as he watched the two lounging on his sofa, the laughter coming from Pete making his chest lighten just that little bit. As she always, Allie Harding had a way of bringing Pete out of the darkest of moods.

"You sure about this?"

The voice on the end of the phone took on a nervous edge and pulled his attention away from the scene before him, causing him to turn and head back into the kitchen and sanctuary of silence.

"You're not, I take it?" he snorted.

"He's a good kid," the voice continued. "I don't know if this is what's best for him, especially with what's just fuckin' gone down."

"Michael ain't involved in this," Pat shook his head. "He has no say anymore, not after this. He's out,"

Resting against the kitchen counter, he felt the tiredness sweep through his body and made a silent promise that once this phone call was done with, he was going to sleep and not even world war III would wake him.

"Son, this goes two ways and you know that," Pat spoke, his voice low and calm. "Men either embrace the madness or they let it ruin them. Pete ain't the latter,"

"That's what you think?"

"That's what I think." he affirmed.

"Well then, Major." Steve Dunham grinned down the phone. "Let's show our boy what he's been missing."

And with that, the GSE finally comes into it. Not in the way you thought either, I hope! Reviews are my choice of drug so you know what to do :) Thank you guys for reading, as always it means the world. El xx