In the days proceeding, things went about as expected. The Duke family was finally granted visitation of their youngest, and the detective remained prying and questioning, searching for answers that no one was willing to provide. Nevertheless, once the Dukes had been let inside, they refused to leave.

Luke stayed the longest. He and General, who slept on the stiff sofa against the wall, while Luke sat in a chair, close to the hospital bed, with Bo's hand in his. It was scabbed, and pale, and two of his fingernails had been torn off. He may have regretted sending Clayton away, but he wouldn't admit that. So, here he sat, holding his cousin's hand in his own, fighting the burning lump in his throat.

Before he'd entered the room, a doctor had taken him and his family aside and explained to them. Bo was dehydrated and emaciated. They had yet to run a number of tests. And had yet to complete a thorough examination, which couldn't be done without Bo's consent, of course, no matter who had power of attorney over him.

It was yet gated everything that the man had done to him. But Luke had a good idea. Nevertheless, he stayed by his side, watching the rise and fall of the boy's chest and waiting for him to wake up.

To say he was in a bad condition would be an understatement. His skin was a mural of colored bruises, like a third-grader's finger painting. And that didn't save for the blood. He'd been cleaned up pretty well upon arriving at the hospital, but he'd still bled. He'd needed stitches, lots of them at that, for the twelve stab wounds that'd been punctured into him, and Good God how the hell was he still alive? Perhaps there had been an angel watching over him.

When Clayton found him, he'd been so high on adrenaline that Luke supposed that the twelve bleeding stab wounds in his body didn't bother him all that much. So, he supposed, that was the explanation for that. He knew how that stuff worked. He'd watched men get limbs blown clean off their bodies and just walk away as if nothing happened, only to keel over and die a few minutes later when the adrenaline and shock wore off.

Yet here his cousin still lay, motionless. He studied the bruises that traced the boy's face. Absently, he brushed a strand of hair away from his eyes, staring at the bruise that curved up his cheekbone, up his eye socket to connect with his brow.

He looked dead. Luke remembered previous times that Bo had fallen unconscious or been hurt badly. He'd looked as if he were sleeping. Not this time. This time, he just looked dead. Or like a statue, as if he'd never been alive in the first place. His skin was pale and his lips were chapped and his face was colored with dark bruises, his eyes were sunken.

It was terrifying but, overall, a relief. Because he wasn't dead. He was still hanging on to the few strands of life he had left. He was still fighting.

And there was a knock at the door.

Luke turned, steeling his gaze against it. Slowly, he got up, releasing Bo's hand and letting it fall to the mattress. He stalked to the door, opening it tentatively, just a crack so his body filled the space, so he could be seen, but Bo couldn't.

Standing there, was the detective. His head raised to acknowledge the Duke boy. Luke, however, spared no kind glance toward him.

"What d'you want?" he asked.

The detective's voice rumbled. "Information to sort out this whole mess, what else?"

Luke shook his head. "Well, I don't got any for you, so why don't you just back off."

"You seem to forget that this's a federal investigation, boy. One that you shouldn't be interfering with either."

"If you wanna talk to somebody you can talk to the doctor, but you ain't gettin' in this door."

"Says who?"

"Me."

Luke supposed that his glare added a touch to his point. Nevertheless, the detective let out a breath and nodded, turning away.

"I'll be back," he announced.

Luke watched him go, more to make sure he was gone than anything. He stole a glance back at Bo, who still had yet to move. But it was then that he caught something, a small glimmer.

He was quick to step away from the door, crossing the room to look down at his cousin once again. However, found a weak gaze looking back up at him.

His eyes were only half-open albeit they were open. Luke's heart gave a hopeful flutter as he watched Bo's right hand slowly turn, palm up, as if reaching for him. Luke noticed that his hand shook, but took hold of it anyway. He quickly knelt beside him, still holding his hand, looking at him expectantly.

His left eye was bruised and a bit swollen, unable to open all the way. His right remained half-closed as well, though not injured.

Luke traced the faded scar on the boy's palm with his thumb, a reminder that yes, this was Bo, and he was alive.

"Bo?" Luke ventured.

He hated the way his voice sounded right then but he didn't think that Bo minded, though. He watched his mouth twitch, like he wanted to say something but couldn't. Meanwhile, Luke's throat was getting tighter and he could feel tears welling up in his eyes.

He hated to cry. Especially now. He didn't feel he deserved to. But he didn't think he had much say in the matter. He was quick to wipe away the tears that escaped him. But ultimately, he couldn't stop all of them. He put his head down, perhaps to hide the fact that he was crying. His grip loosened on that shaking hand until it slipped away, only to be displaced to his head of dark curls. He covered his face with a hand, trying to keep his sobs at bay. And it was then that he heard it.

Bo's voice, just barely above a whisper. "I forgive you."

And he lost it.

The room was quiet and dark when he woke again. It was a slow awakening, not like the one before. He was drowsy, but at the same time more awake than he had been before. He wasn't as out of it now, at least.

He remembered Luke being there, though, couldn't seem to find him now. He remembered the way his cousin had cried, and could only imagine the worry he'd felt for him. Their argument no doubt had left bitter feelings but for him to just disappear like that right after. He was actually surprised that Luke had fought his emotion as hard as he did.

And so what? Maybe it was his fault. But it was over now. And he forgave him.

He looked around the dark room, looking up to find a plastic cup of water on the shelf above him. And he was suddenly reminded of how dry his throat was.

He reached for it, feeling the stitches in his side stretching. He winced, hooking the little plastic cup with his index finger and bringing it down from the shelf. He drank from it thirstily, all of it at once. Discarding the empty cup on the table at his side, he leaned back with a sigh, staring up at the dim ceiling. He felt like drifting off again, but the sound of the door caught his attention.

The room had been quiet when he left that morning, shutting the door softly behind him. He lingered there for just a moment, letting out a sigh of relief before starting down the hall. However, he stopped upon seeing a familiar figure, grabbing its arm as it tried to pass.

Clayton glared up at him, pulling his arm out of the Duke boy's grasp. He held his hat in his hands. Luke didn't know why he refused to wear it while inside the hospital.

Clayton raised an eyebrow. "Is there somethin' I can help you with, cher? And need I remind you, you kindly told me to fuck off yesterday."

"Look, forget all that. I got a favor I need to ask ya."

Clayton sighed. "I should damn you to Hell for the hypocrite you are. What is it?"

"Y'know that detective that's been followin' us around?"

"A nuisance, but not really my concern."

"Think you could do somethin' about him?"

"Mais, what'd you have in mind?"

"Just somethin' small and harmless to get him to back off."

"I'll see what I can do. Now, if you'll excuse me."

"You're goin' to see Bo?"

"No, I'm gonna seduce the chief surgeon," Clayton snapped. "Of course I'm goin' to see the boy."

Luke shrugged. "I didn't think you cared."

"I don't, but I thought I'd give my condolences. He was just kidnapped by a dangerous serial killer, after all. That's one hell of a traumatic experience if you ask me."

"Go easy on him, alright. And let him rest."

"Didn't I give you the same advice?"

With that, Clayton turned away, walking the way Luke had come. Luke shook his head, turning to leave. Clayton made his way to the room which the other Duke boy occupied. He was in a mood today, admittedly, not up to bantering with Luke. This whole situation with Bo was enough to have him seething, on top of that. And that old flame of anger was just about making him boil over.

Bo, on the other hand, had just about dozed off again when he was roused by the door opening and someone walking in. He lay there, a little annoyed, thinking it was a doctor. It wasn't.

He was silent. Bo could feel the anger radiating off him. Like heat. It was a scary thing-to see Clayton angry. It was something he didn't enjoy in the least.

Clayton sat down on the side of the bed; Bo knew because he felt the man's weight sink into the mattress. He looked up, finding that he wasn't looking at him, his hat lying by his side. He pushed himself up, as well as he could anyway and not disturb his stitches. There was a brief moment of silence before the man finally spoke.

"D'you know what you are, boy?" he asked, still not looking at him.

Bo gave some thought to this. Surely there was a right or wrong answer. He guessed. "Uhh… a victim?" Which was true, and he wholeheartedly believed that. He was Allen Ridgefield's victim. Albeit, the only one still alive.

The devilish man's blue-eyed gaze quickly shot toward him. "No!" he exclaimed, Bo flinching at the sudden outburst. "You are a survivor."

There was meaning to his words, Bo realized.

"And with it will come hate," Clayton added.

"You know this because…" Bo trailed off, seeking elaboration.

"Because I was you once. And I'll tell you now that you will want to cut and mutilate every part of yourself. Because I did too. I remember. But I can tell you right now that you shouldn't because you've already received somethin' I didn't and never will."

"Yeah? And what's that?" He didn't need the man's pity. He didn't even think he liked him that much.

"Love."

The room fell silent. Deathly silent.

Until Clayton spoke again that is. "You mustn't do what I did. Don't push your loved ones away from you. Because, believe me, you'll want to."

How did he know this? Why was he telling him this? This's my first time realizing he's a stranger. He ain't family, he's barely even a friend. I don't even know that much about him, to be honest, Bo thought. "Who are you, really?"

There was great hesitation from the man, and he looked away again. It seemed as though he was thinking hard about this, as if he were looking into the memories of past lives. "I don't…" he stuttered. "I don't know anymore." He shook his head, standing up. "Look, just… if you need anythin', talk to me. I'd rather deal with that than see you jump off a bridge."

Bo was left to dwell on this. Unfortunately, it was a lot to take in in so little time, additionally, right when he'd just woken up from being stabbed a dozen times. Looking at it from this perspective, he was confused as to why he could be bothered during this stage of recovery. It had been just shy of 24 hours.

The man turned to leave, walking towards the door.

"Clayton."

He turned, looking at him.

"Thank you."

Clayton nodded, then left, being sure to close the door behind him. He was, of course, on his way out of the building when he heard a low hiss. Immediately, he perked, looking around, guard going up. And it was then that he spotted a familiar figure, or rather, the man that had come storming into the hospital the day prior, peeking out from behind a truck. He looked around for a moment to ponder if he'd be seen, then walked aptly over.

"Remind me who you are again," the little man said in a low voice.

The larger man looked around as well, beckoning him farther into the shadows. Clayton rolled his eyes and followed. He wasn't in the mood for whatever game this man was playing.

"My name is John. John Cathoway. We haven't met," the man explained in a hushed voice.

"Is there somethin' I can help you with then, John Cathoway?" Clayton asked, unamused.

"You're Clayton Jennings, you helped kidnap my son a few months back."

Clayton raised an eyebrow. "Your son?" Then, it dawned on him. "Oh, you're Bo's father? You coulda led with that, y'know."

"Besides all that, I got a favor I needa ask ya."

"There're other things I'd like to do with my time but under the circumstances, I suppose I can indulge. What is it? And does it include me gettin' paid?"

"I'll pay ya whatever you want. But I need you to help me find that bastard."

"You'll have to be more specific."

"The son of a bitch that mutilated my son."

"More specific than that, cher."

"Look, I don't know his name, all I know is that my son's in the hospital right now and someone is responsible."

Clayton hummed, tapping his cheek. "Hmm, seems a bit discriminatory of you to assume that a woman ain't capable of the same thing. But, I'll humor you. The bastard you're lookin' for is named Allen Ridgefield. He stands at six-eight, dresses like a colorblind pimp, walks with a cane, and, arguably, is one ugly motherfucker."

John scowled. "Never heard of him."

"He's an amateur, but he's smart. You won't find him easily."

The man growled. "You wanna bet?"

And with that, he disappeared.

Clayton rolled his eyes and decided to make himself scarce as well, trying to come up with a way to deal with the detective Luke had told him about.

It was this day also, that Hazzard saw more visitors, though they weren't as strange as the others. And as Autumn and Gravedigger passed through town on their way to the Duke farm, they were welcomed by quite the sight at the town hotel. Or rather, they found a tall, faded-blonde gangster loading a curious duffel bag into the back of a coupe. Gravedigger, who was all for pretending that he hadn't seen it and suggested they keep going, was naturally overpowered by Autumn's opinion. The opinion that stated that she was about to make this event her business.

And Gravedigger sure as hell wasn't going to be the one to stop her because, like any faithful husband, knew better than to stand in his woman's way.