World of Silence – Part Two

Chapter Six: But Now My Path Leads Home...

October 8

Davy came awake with a start, glancing around the room with a wild-eyed stare as he fought to orient himself. Then memory came flooding back, and he slumped wearily.

Still deaf.

Still waiting for the day when he could undergo the corrective surgery.

He crawled out of bed, pulled on his robe and headed downstairs, cursing as his balance failed him again and he had to hang onto the railing. Hopefully after his operation day after tomorrow, the balance problem would resolve itself.

Peter was already there, dressed and bustling about in the kitchen as usual, and he seemed to be mixing up waffles again. Davy shot a glance at the lounge, where he could see the top of Isabel's head visible among the folds of her bundled-up quilt, and he grinned. She sleeps like Micky, he thought. Flopped on her stomach and burrowed as deep as she can. He turned to the couch—

And the mischievous grin faltered. The couch was empty. No sheets, no pillow—no Mike.

Surprised, Davy made a beeline for the kitchen. Hoping he was approximating a whisper, he asked, "Hey—where is he?"

Peter smiled and tilted his head toward the bedroom. Davy's eyes went round with surprise. "He—didn't—"

Peter nodded, his grin widening until the dimples winked in his cheeks, clearly enjoying this as much as Davy.

"Then how come he's..." Davy frowned, puzzled.

Peter wiped his hands on a dishtowel and pulled out a pencil from his pocket, scribbling on the notebook around his neck. He turned it and Davy read, Long story. No time right now. I'll tell you later, all right?

"All right. Want me to go wake 'im up?"

Peter nodded, then returned to his waffle batter, and Davy strolled into his former bedroom, amused at the sight of Mike in his bed. The irony struck him—the tallest of them sleeping in the shortest's bed. There were a dozen ways Davy could wake him up gently, peacefully...

"MIKE!"

He bellowed the word at top volume—and even though he couldn't hear Mike's enraged howl as Davy's screech pierced his sensitive ears, Davy collapsed against the doorframe, laughing as that lanky form erupted from beneath the covers, his hands flying to cover his ears.

With a glare that could have stripped paint off a wall, Mike dropped his hands, waiting until Davy had recovered enough to look at him. "Don't. Do. That." He enunciated each word clearly and distinctly so that Davy could easily get his message.

"Sorry," Davy giggled, lowering the volume of his voice to what he had learned by now felt like normal level.

"No you're not," Mike grumbled as he wiggled a finger in his ear, still facing Davy.

"You're right," Davy laughed outright, treasuring the memory of his little escapade. "I'm not!" He wiped tears from his eyes, then added, "Peter wants you up. Breakfast may be ready soon."

Mike said something so fast that all Davy caught were the words "Peter... bossy..." Then Mike pointed out the door. "You get outta here."

"Why?"

"So I can get my clothes and go up to shower."

"All right." Davy turned and was about to walk out again when he suddenly realised what had just taken place, and he wheeled around again. "Hey—"

Mike turned to face him. "Hey what?"

"You realise we just had a conversation without the notebooks?" Davy smiled broadly, pleased with his new-found skill. "I'm learning how to read your lips!"

Mike returned the smile briefly and gave him a thumbs-up before swinging his long legs out of bed. Davy left the room, and Mike glanced around, suddenly realizing where he was.

"Wait a second!" he blurted to the four walls. "What'm I doin' in here? I fell asleep out there!"

~~~~~~

Isabel felt a gentle hand on her shoulder and heard a familiar voice whisper, "Isabel? C'mon, wake on up."

She burrowed deeper into the quilt with a moan of protest. "Go 'way..."

Mike's soft laughter reached her ears then, and when he spoke again, his voice held a cajoling note. "I've got coffee."

He waved the steaming mug near the tiny breathing hole she'd left for herself, and the tempting scent prompted her to poke her nose out slightly.

"Coffee—?"

She threw the covers back and sat up, rubbing her eyes, then glanced at him blearily. "Gimme." She held out one hand, curling her fingers around the warm mug when he gave it to her. With a contented sigh, she raised it to her lips and took a sip, testing the heat level and finding it was perfect—not hot enough to scald, but not luke-warm either.

"Better?" he asked after she'd wordlessly drained half the mug, and she could tell without even looking that he was amused.

"Much." She lowered the mug, cradling it between her palms in her lap as she looked at him where he sat perched on the edge of the chaise—wearing The Outfit. Black shirt, jeans, black boots—he knew the effect he had on her anytime he wore black, and she had to wonder what the occasion was.

Then it struck her—today was her last full day with them. The mere thought depressed her so much that she forced it out of her head for the moment—she did still have the day, after all—and managed a sleepy smile.

"Have you been up long?" she asked.

"Nope. Only about twenty minutes."

She took a closer look and noticed his inky black hair was still damp from the shower. And that was imagery she just didn't need, she thought, burying her nose in the coffee again.

"Isabel... we need to talk," he said, sounding unusually hesitant.

"About what?" She gave him a curious look.

"Last night."

She froze, flicking a wary glance at the kitchen, where Peter was busily cooking—and singing "I Don't Think You Know Me At All," a welcome switch from "Your Auntie Grizelda." Davy was seated at the table, engrossed in the paper. Micky was nowhere to be seen, and she assumed he was upstairs still asleep.

"Pete knows," Mike said. "I got a feelin' he hauled me off to Davy's bed in case Micky walked in. See, I—I fell asleep holdin' you."

She looked at him, waiting for him to continue. "Uh-huh," she said when it became obvious he wasn't going to. "And?"

"And—I shouldn't have taken advantage of the situation like that," he replied, irritation lacing his voice as if this was all perfectly obvious and she was being obtuse not to see it. "You were havin' a nightmare—"

"I remember," she interrupted, waving one hand dismissively. "The one about my parents. I have it all the time."

"What happens in it?" he asked softly. "It sounded real bad."

She shuddered involuntarily, looking away from him, her voice hushed as she replied, "It starts out with me and my parents walking in this field. We're going to a picnic. It's a beautiful day—warm, sunny, everything green and growing—" Her tone was flat and lifeless, and Mike clasped her hand, squeezing it tight in silent reassurance. "And then clouds fill the sky, so dark they block out the sun. They block out all the light, and suddenly my parents are gone, and I'm alone in the darkness that keeps getting blacker and blacker until I can't see anything, and it's suffocating—"

She cut herself off abruptly, feeling tears sting her eyes. "I'm always alone at the end," she whispered. "Alone in the dark."

"No, you're not," he told her firmly. "You got your grandmother, and you got me, and you got Peter, Micky and Davy, too—whether you want 'em or not," he added, teasing her a little.

Giving his hand a return squeeze, she smiled slightly, trying to remember the last time she'd had that dream. She used to have it every three or four months like clockwork, but it had been considerably longer this time. In fact, the more she thought about it, the more she realized that the intervals between bouts with this nightmare were growing longer since she and Mike had gotten together. Maybe her subconscious was aware of something her conscious mind hadn't grasped yet: she really wasn't alone. Not anymore.

"So what about after the dream?" he asked, a little bit too casually.

"You mean the part where I asked you to hold me, and you did, and we both fell asleep?" she replied, not bothering to hide the mischief in her voice. Poor guy. His rigid sense of honor was berating him for stepping over the line, and she found it endearing—but highly amusing as well.

"Yeah, that part," he confirmed dryly.

"If you're worried that I'm going to swoon like some incensed Victorian maiden at the mere thought, don't. You should know me better than that," she admonished him lightly.

"You're our guest," he reminded her sternly. "And if Micky had gotten up first instead of Peter—"

"Oh, man—!" she groaned, a too-vivid image of the endless teasing they would have been subjected to springing full-blown in her mind.

"Yeah," he nodded. "I shouldn't have put you in a position to get embarrassed like that."

"Well, no harm done," she said with a shrug. "It was Peter, so our little secret is safe."

"And I'm gonna have a little talk with him to make sure it stays that way," he replied grimly, then suddenly, he chuckled, dropping his head and shaking it as he called up the stairs, "Mornin', Micky!"

An unintelligible grunt was the response from upstairs bedroom, so loud even Isabel's normal hearing heard it.

"What did he do?" she asked.

"Aw, he always wakes up yellin' some kind'a gibberish. He's just as energetic in his sleep as he is when he's up." Mike smiled at her and, with one last squeeze, released her hand. "I'll split and letcha get in the shower." He started to stand up, but she caught his arm again... the same way as last night...

"Thanks for the coffee," she said, smiling at him. "You just saved Peter's life."

He returned the smile. "Good. I'd hate to train a new bass player." He disengaged his arm and walked into the kitchen.

Isabel gathered up an outfit from her suitcase and hurried into the bathroom, locking the door behind her.

~~~~~~

It was Sunday, so Mike and Isabel walked two doors down to her house to check on the progress.

Mike used his key to unlock the door, the pungent stench making him involuntarily gag as he crossed the threshold. Isabel frowned, then the smell hit her as well, and she clamped one hand over her mouth and nose as she followed Mike into the house.

His face screwed up into a grimace of pure distaste, he speeded up his usual gait and hurried into the living room to open the windows, sticking his head out and breathing in a deep lungful of fresh, untainted air. Isabel hastened to the kitchen and did the same thing, then dashed into the bedroom to raise the windows in there.

Mike opened the door to her half-bath, and Isabel opened the door to the bathroom in her bedroom.

"That oughta do it," he said, moving to the door of her bedroom—but pointedly not crossing the threshold. "Wet paint mixed with bug spray ain't a good scent."

The master of understatement strikes again, she thought, giving him a fond look.

"But it's finished," she said softly, the full implications of his words hitting her like a blow to the stomach. "Just let it air out a few hours, and I can—" She looked up, capturing his gaze, and the last words were said very softly. "Move back home."

"A day early," he replied, just as softly, and she could see her own sadness mirrored in his eyes.

"It's going to be lonely around here," she said, fighting to keep her voice light and careless. "I've kind of gotten used to having room-mates."

"Even Peter singin' first thing in the mornin'?" He arched a skeptical eyebrow at her.

"Well, maybe not that," she demurred with a smile.

"And you can sleep in as late as you want," he reminded her.

"Yeah..." She lowered her gaze to the floor momentarily, clasping her hands behind her back as she fought to quell the depression threatening to sweep over her. "But..."

Suddenly he was standing in front of her, tilting her chin up with his finger, making her look at him. "But we're gonna have walls between us again."

"I know it's silly—" she began, mortified that he read her so easily, worried that she was revealing too much about her feelings for him—and that he didn't share them at all.

But before she could say another word, he cupped her face in his hands and leaned down to kiss her, a tender embrace that did much to allay her fears.

"It's not silly," he told her as he straightened up again, caressing her cheeks with his thumbs. "And you're only fifty-nine steps away."

Her eyes widened as she stared up at him, amazed at his tenderness. "I'm only what?"

"Fifty-nine steps away," he repeated patiently, smiling slightly. "It's exactly fifty-nine steps from my front door to yours. I should know—I tapped them out enough times the last few days I couldn't see."

"It doesn't sound so bad like that," she conceded, secretly delighted.

With typical reticence, he couldn't—or wouldn't—flat out tell her that he would miss her, but he had found a way to let her know nonetheless.

Without warning, a wave of nausea engulfed her, and she put a hand to her head, feeling light-headed all of a sudden. "Mike... I'm getting a little dizzy," she said faintly.

"It's the fumes. Let's get outta here." He slipped his arm around her shoulders and led her back out of the house. Once they were outside, they both stood in the yard, breathing in the clean air until the acrid odor finally left their noses.

"I think it oughta air out overnight," he suggested. "We'll move you back in the morning. Like we planned."

"Sounds like a good idea to me," she replied quickly, jumping at the chance to spend a few more precious hours under his roof. "Let's go back home."

Mike glanced down at her, his usually impassive face registering sheer surprise at her choice of words, but Isabel walked ahead of him to the Pad, appearing oblivious to her mistake.

"Yeah," he answered softly. "Let's do that."

Chapter Seven: Come Into The Real World

Davy lay sprawled on the couch, trapped in fitful sleep. He had been reading, but he had dozed off, the magazine slipping from his grasp and landing on the floor unheard and temporarily forgotten.

He was having no peace even in his dreams. He was running...running harder and faster...trying to get away from the terrible noise he could hear behind him...the noise that was gaining on him, threatening him...

The noise that suddenly exploded all around him. A loud CRACK—louder than anything Davy had ever heard before. So loud he felt it in his right ear—

The sound echoed inside his head, louder and louder—then it faded away, the roar of white noise engulfing him.

And there were his friends, standing before him. He stretched out one arm them, desperately trying to reach them, and they held out their arms to him. He caught their hands and was pulled up onto the cliff they suddenly stood on. Davy smiled at them—

And they all started talking at once, in a gruesome and ghoulish parody of speech. Their lips moved madly, they gestured wildly, but there was no sound. No sound at all.

Davy shook his head, bewildered. He tried to speak, but all that would come out was a dull rumble. His voice had been stolen as well. Then there was that CRACK again—and they were gone. Once more Davy reached out—

And lost his balance. Struck by vertigo so great it made him nauseous, he fell, tumbling into a darkness that was thick and cloying, made all the worse by the fact it was full of absolute silence...

Davy jerked to a sitting position, clawing at the air as if he were still reaching for help. He was only dimly aware that he was awake and in the living room, only aware of the rawness developing in his throat. Then he realised his mouth was wide open and the rawness was coming from the scream issuing from his tortured throat.

The scream transformed into a sob as he realised he could not hear it. Then suddenly he felt someone's arms around his shoulders, and without thinking—without even looking to see who it was—Davy collapsed against his comforter's chest, curling up in a tight ball of misery as he wept.

He felt himself being rocked back and forth, a gentle hand smoothing his hair. He felt the low rumble of a voice saying what he assumed were soothing words which he could not hear.

"Why did this happen to us?" he sobbed. "F-First Mike...now me...Why?"

The person who held him did not answer in words. He felt the arms lift slightly as a shrug answered that question. He felt two fingers dig into his upper arm.

"Y-Yeah..." he sniffed, "two more days... If it works...."

The person stiffened. Davy opened his eyes and looked at the arms that held him—arms encased in blue paisley sleeves. He raised his eyes to Peter's face. Peter's golden eyebrows were drawn together in a fierce look that seemed out of place on his usually tranquil countenance.

"If?" Davy read on Peter's lips. "No if, Davy. When. When it works."

Davy sniffed, confused by Peter's show of anger. "Why...are you so angry?" Then he remembered the fight Mike and Peter had had on the bandstand, and he realized where it had sprung from. "You hate quitters. You think I'm giving up...I'm quitting." He shook his head. "Pete...I'm not quitting. It just gets hard..."

Peter's expression softened. He pulled Davy into a tight hug that spoke wordless volumes about his love for his friend. Davy blinked in surprise, then smiled as he returned the hug, grateful for the support. He'd never had such good friends before, and he counted himself lucky indeed.

Peter let him go and turned to face him. "You all right?"

"I will be. In two days."

Peter tilted his head, his expression suddenly—unusually— unreadable. "I mean now."

"I'm all right."

Peter smiled and got up, heading for the bandstand. He snagged his bass and walked out onto the verandah, closing the door behind him.

Davy picked up his magazine and thumbed through it for a second, then sighed and tossed it aside.

"Yeah," he said to the walls, "I'm all right. Sure I am. Can't hear anything at all, but I'm fine."

Abruptly Davy jumped up, feeling as if the walls were closing in on him. He was suffocating here, and he needed to get out for a while, just to be on his own so he could sort things through his own way. He snagged his jacket and hurried out the front door.

~~~~~

Mike and Isabel walked up to the Pad and Mike reached for the front door—and stopped dead in his tracks. His brows snapped together in a confused frown, and he turned to Isabel.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Micky—he's chewing Peter out!" Mike flung open the door and strode in, Isabel right behind him.

Peter was standing in the middle of the living room, head bowed, struggling not to cry. Micky was circling him, unleashing a verbal firestorm the likes of which none of them had ever heard from him before. "Of all the stupid, careless—!" Micky ranted, waving his fists in the air.

"Hang on there!" Mike snapped, immediately stepping between the two of them. "What in the world is goin on here?"

Micky glared at Peter, but he addressed Mike. "Davy's missing! He snuck out while this thing was serenading the ocean!"

Peter looked up at Mike, tawny eyes swimming with unshed tears. "He had a nightmare. He kept asking me why this happened. I didn't—I didn't have any answers...Mike, it's my fault—"

"It's nobody's fault," Mike said firmly. "Micky, cool it. You're furious at Davy, and you're takin' it out on Peter. That ain't fair."

"Yeah, well, neither is letting him sneak away without telling anybody where he's going!" Micky was still furiously circling Peter, looking for all the world like a cat ready to pounce.

Isabel stepped forward and placed one hand on Micky's arm, bringing his fitful pacing to a halt. "The main thing we've got to do now is find Davy."

"She's right," Mike said. "We need to split up. I'll take the car and Isabel and I will check downtown and the parks. Peter, you take the beach—all along it. Micky—you take the clubs. He's gotta be at one of those places. Ready? Let's go!"

~~~~~~

Davy sauntered along the busy downtown streets, just looking around at everything going on. He'd been in the Pad the entire time since he'd been released from the hospital, and he was tired of being cooped up. He might not be able to hear the hustle and bustle of the city streets, but he could see them—witness all the activity and excitement. He lingered on the corner, watching the traffic zoom by and the people cross the street when the lights changed. He'd been standing there for a while when a hand suddenly landed on his shoulder. He couldn't repress the shout of surprise as he was whirled around to face an irate older woman who was waving an umbrella at him and yelling at him.

Davy frowned as he watched her lips. She was going way too fast, and he shook his head to show her he didn't understand. That only made her go even faster.

Davy held up his hands. "Ma'am," he said, careful to modulate his voice, "Ma'am, please! I can't understand you, you're going too fast!"

She blinked, stepping back a step. "Too fast?" he read—finally she had slowed down! "Young man, you are blocking the sidewalk, staring at the cars when the light is green! Are you going to cross or not?"

He shrugged negligently. "I haven't made up my mind."

That set off another flow of rapid words. Davy had to hold up his hands again. "Please, ma'am! Slow down! I'm new to this and I can't understand you when you go so fast!"

Looking baffled, she slowed down again. "New to what?" he read. "What do you mean, you can't understand me? Are you deaf or something?"

A shaky smile crossed Davy's face—something like that, he thought, appreciating the morbid irony. "Yes, ma'am," he said as politely as he could. "I'm deaf."

The shocked look on her face turned his shaky smile into a real one, his sense of mischief amused by this odd exchange . Her eyes widened with horror as she grasped his arm to emphasize her words. "I am—so— sorry—" he read.

Davy shook his head. "It's all right. You didn't know."

The light turned green again and he ran to the other side of the road, escaping her at last. It had been an amusing scene, sure, but it had also unnerved him. He hadn't faced the real world since the accident, and now his limitations had just been driven home. He had to be constantly alert to his surroundings, otherwise he might unintentionally get in someone's way as he'd just done—or he could even get himself hurt or killed if he wasn't careful in the streets. The Pad had been a cocoon—a safe haven—but it was time to face reality, he thought with new-found determination.

Davy moved on, walking all the way to the park. He sank down at the lake's edge, bracing his back against a tree and watching the ducks cavort and the boats drift by. One duck came up out of the water and nudged his leg, opening its mouth in a silent quack. Davy smiled at it.

"Sorry, mate—no bread today." The duck seemed to understand. With one last opening and closing of its bill, it headed back to the water.

He let his gaze drift slowly around, his eyes telling him what his ears could not. He saw a man and woman laughing as they walked. He saw a little girl cry as she fell and scraped her knee. He saw a young man walk by dancing to the transistor radio he held up to his ear.

And he felt another sharp pang of loss. Two days, he reminded himself. Two more bloody days and you'll be hearing again. Just hang on for two more days...

Davy suddenly felt the ground vibrate under him. Something was approaching him—fast!

Startled, he jumped to his feet and whirled around. Isabel and Mike were pelting toward him—Mike gaining a considerable lead—concern etched on both their faces. They reached him, and Mike blurted, "Davy, where have you been?"

"Walking," he said, confused by their strange behavior. "Looking. Why?"

"Micky's been—" The rest of what Mike said was swallowed up by his talking too fast. Isabel caught up with them then, and she repeated the message slowly.

"Micky has been yelling at Peter for leaving you alone. They're afraid you've wandered off to kill yourself."

Davy's eyes widened. "No!" he gasped, horrified at the very thought. He hadn't considered that option even when his despair was at its worst right after Ericka had told him the bad news! "No, I just wanted to get out of the Pad awhile! Aw, man—" He pushed between them and headed for the Monkeemobile, which was parked at the top of the hill.

He was almost there when his balance deserted him again. His feet tangled up as the world lurched crazily. Davy pitched unceremoniously to the ground. He sat up, shaking his head, as Mike and Isabel reached him.

"You all right?" he read on Mike's lips.

Davy nodded. "Balance trouble again," he explained. "Let's go home, please?"

"Sure. Come on." They helped him up and got him into the car.

~~~~~~~

Micky stormed into the Pad, slamming the door behind him. Peter was coming in from the verandah. "No luck," Micky reported.

"Here either," Peter said, his entire face registering worry—and guilt. "Surely Mike and Isabel'll find him."

Almost as if on cue, the front door burst open. Mike and Isabel walked in, Davy trailing behind them. Ignoring Micky completely, Davy moved to Peter.

"I'm sorry," he said, sincerity shining in his eyes. "I should have told you where I was going. I didn't mean to get you in trouble."

Then he turned to Micky, his regretful expression hastily turning into a glare. "And you had no right to lay into him like you did! You need to apologize too!"

~~~~~

Mike tossed and turned in Davy's bed, unable to get comfortable—or get to sleep. His mind kept turning to the next room—and how empty it would be the very next night. But no matter how painful it was, he was determined not to sleep on the couch this final night. He was determined not to risk exposing Isabel or himself to Micky's merciless teasing, and as—wonderful—as last night had been, he wasn't certain he would be able to withstand the temptation. Especially since...

Suddenly he heard quick, light footsteps outside the bedroom door, and he sat up, surprised and a little alarmed. Was something wrong? Was Davy—?

"You awake?" Isabel whispered very softly.

"Yeah—" He remained very still, waiting to see what would come next.

"I want to show you something," she said. "Come on out."

He slipped out of bed and shrugged into his robe, opening the door all the way.

She stood just outside the bedroom, also in her robe, staring blankly at the air in front of her.

"Can't see?" he asked, bemused.

"Not too well," she admitted. "Tripped twice getting here."

Memories of the too-recent past rose up in him and he smiled a bit. "What did you want to show me?"

"Outside." She reached for his hand, lacing their fingers. He knew the layout better in the dark, so he led her out onto the verandah.

"Okay, I'm here..." he said, wondering what in the world she'd dragged him outside in the middle of the night for.

For an answer, she tossed him an enigmatic smile—and then pointed straight up.

Mike rolled his eyes—there'd better be aliens up there if she hauled him out of bed in the middle of the night—looked up—and drew in a sharp breath. He had never seen so many stars! With all the lights off, and the sky so clear, the black velvet sky filled to overflowing with glittering lights. It was a mesmerizing sight, and—without thinking—he reached out and slipped his arms around her waist, pulling her close. But unlike the other morning, she relaxed against him unreservedly, nestling in the protective circle of his arms.

He looked down at her, then gently turned her around, leaning down to kiss her lightly—a gesture of affection and gratitude. This may be their last night under the same roof, but thanks to this moment—this glorious sight—he would remember it vividly.

Then he bent even lower, scooping her into his arms and carrying her inside. She let out a surprised squeak, but did not resist as he carried her inside and lay her down on the chaise lounge. He knelt beside her as one kiss flowed into another.

Then—reluctantly—he untangled himself from her arms and stood up. She was breathing hard, gazing up at him with sleepy eyes.

"Good night," he said softly.

"Night," she murmured drowsily.

With that, he eased back into the downstairs bedroom and crawled into bed again.

And slept soundly. Dreaming of her.

Chapter Eight: Someplace To Go

October 9

Davy came downstairs to find Mike sneaking up behind Peter in the kitchen, trying—and succeeding—to snag a fingerful of batter from Peter's bowl. Davy read Peter's shouted, "HEY!" and thought he heard a ghost-memory of Mike's high-pitched laughter as Mike sprinted past him, headed for the bedroom.

"What's up with him?" Davy laughed as he moved into the kitchen. "Don't usually see him in such a good mood."

Peter turned to face him. "He slept in the bedroom."

Davy blinked at that. "And that's why he's in a good mood?" he asked, not quite following that train of logic. He turned to look at the lounge—empty. "Where's Isabel?" he asked, looking at Peter again.

"Already gone to work," he replied. "She wasn't in such a good mood," he added, a concerned look flitting across his face.

Mike came back out of the bedroom, dressed now. "Mornin', Davy," Davy read.

"Morning yourself," Davy said. "I hear you broke tradition last night and slept in the bedroom."

He didn't know what to expect, but was a little startled to see Mike smile at that. "Yeah. Figured I'd better get used to it. No reason to sleep on the couch without her around." Mike answered, stepping around Davy and heading back into the kitchen. He put on a pot of coffee and swiped another fingerful of waffle batter.

Peter lunged at him, wielding his wooden spoon like a sword, and Mike danced backward gracefully to avoid it.

Davy collapsed on the couch, laughing till he was wiping tears at their antics—laughing so loud he didn't notice Mike was doubling over in pain, hands to his ears.

Suddenly, however, Davy felt a sharp rap on his knee. He looked up to see Peter standing beside the couch, finger to his lips, golden brows drawn together in a flash of anger. He looked beyond Peter to Mike, who was now sitting at the table, hands still over his ears, and realized what he had done.

"Oh, man," he said, modulating his voice, "Mike, I'm sorry! I'll be glad when I can hear my voice again, so this won't keep happening!"

Mike turned to him, pain still evident in his eyes as he said, "Me too"—typical understatement.

~~~~~~

When Micky finally made it downstairs and the four of them had finished breakfast, Peter stopped washing up long enough to come out of the kitchen.

"Hey," Peter said suddenly, wiping his hands on his apron as he addressed the rest of them. "Mike, you want to surprise Isabel?"

That got Mike's attention. He looked up from the lyrics he was proof-reading. "How?"

"Why don't we go ahead and move her over?" Peter suggested. "That way we won't have to do it while she's tired after a long day's work."

Mike's first impulse was to say no—he didn't want her to go at all. But then he relented, accepting the facts—Peter was right.

And it would be a nice surprise...

"Good idea," he said, tossing his lyrics aside and standing up. "You explain it to Davy and I'll see if I can't get Mick to hustle in the shower."

Peter smiled and nodded, reaching for his notebook and touching the reading Englishman on the shoulder as Mike headed upstairs.

It was implicitly understood that Mike would be one of the two who went over to Isabel's and helped move her in. But there were other tasks at hand—mainly the laundry, which wasn't quite so much fun to do since April ran off with that musician. The others shot for the remaining slot on the moving-Isabel-detail. Davy won, and while he gloated over his good fortune, Micky and Peter gathered up the baskets of dirty laundry and carted it to the Monkeemobile, Micky grumbling the entire time about having to handle other people's socks.

Mike and Davy began a sweep of the Pad. They gathered up Isabel's clothes from the bathroom and the pile that had accumulated under the chaise lounge. Mike began folding them and placing them carefully in Isabel's suitcase. Davy paused on the way back through, cocking an eyebrow at the unexpected sight of Mike painstakingly smoothing the sleeves of a shirt as he folded it.

"What?" Although Davy couldn't hear his tone, Mike fixed him with a menacing look that dared him to make any kind of teasing remark.

"You? Folding clothes? Since when?" he asked. Mike was nowhere near as messy as Micky, but he still evoked the bachelor privilege of just shoving his clothes in a drawer without paying much attention to how tidy it looked.

Mike gave a one-shouldered shrug. "She likes them neat," he said matter-of-factly, then returned to his job.

Davy chuckled as he went back into the bathroom. He gathered up the toothbrush, toothpaste, and brush that he didn't recognize as either his or Peter's—they wouldn't be caught dead using a pink toothbrush—and walked back in, putting them on the lounge for Mike to pack. Mike reached for Isabel's makeup kit and opened it, dropping in the articles Davy had brought. Then he peered in and frowned as he riffled through the contents, double-checking to make sure he was right in his observation.

"Davy?" he called, remembering too late Davy's back was turned—he was going back into the bathroom—and he could not hear Mike.

"Her lipstick's gone," Mike finished to himself, setting the case down and glancing around. He spotted the distinctive container under the lounge where it had rolled, and knelt down to get it, then tossed it into the bag with everything else and zipped the bag shut.

"That's it from the bathroom," Davy announced as he walked back out. "Got everything from in here?"

"Almost," Mike said, facing Davy. "Look for hair ribbons."

Davy frowned. "Look for what? You said that too fast."

"Hair. Ribbons." Mike mimed Isabel tying her hair into a ponytail as she had that morning.

Davy nodded and they fanned out again, gathering up the colorful streamers that had somehow gotten scattered all over the Pad, but when Mike found one tied around the Indian chief's wrist, he rolled his eyes, recognizing Micky's handiwork.

No wonder she'd been complaining about being unable to find this or that color!

Mike tucked them in the side pocket of the suitcase, and finally, he got her shoes from the base of the lounge and lay them on top of everything.

Mike closed and latched the suitcase. Then he took the sheets that were folded up neatly on the lounge and slid them into a bag, handing it to Davy.

"That everything?" Davy asked.

"Of hers," Mike replied. "There's still Gil's stuff. We'll get these over there, then come back."

Mike walked alone over to Isabel's. He let himself in and placed her suitcase, the sheet bag, and her makeup kit beside her bedroom doorway.

Then Gil shot between his legs and jumped onto Isabel's bed, curling up on her pillow, fixing Mike with a smug look as he yawned and kneaded the pillow sham with his front claws.

The was a sudden clatter at the front door, which he'd left standing open, and Mike whirled around to see Davy standing in the doorway, juggling the litter box and food. Mike hurried over and snagged the litter box before Davy could over-balance and dump it—and its contents—all over the floor.

Mike settled the litter box in its place in the half-bath where it was out of the way and, going straight to the cabinet under the sink to retrieve a bag of kitty litter, he refilled it; then he ambled into the kitchen and stocked the food on the proper shelf with the ease of long practice. Next, he fetched the watering can, filled it and made a circuit of the living room, pausing to water the three potted plants she had scattered around; after that, he adjusted a couple of chairs that had been shifted out of place by the painters and—finally—got the day's mail and dropped it on the coffee table where she'd find it easily.

Meanwhile, Davy watched with rapt fascination, finally unable to keep from letting out a long, low whistle. "If I didn't know better, I would swear you were her husband!" he remarked at last. He was only half-teasing; seeing Mike puttering around was funny, sure, but it also told Davy just how serious this relationship really was—and neither one of them had ever given a single clue!

That made Mike jump. He whirled around, his eyes wide and round with shock, and Davy read, What?

"I mean it!" Davy said, spreading his hands. "You know your way around here as if it's your home! And I've seen you acting more 'domestic' the last few minutes than in all the time I've known you! This is the real thing, innit? You're in love—really in love!"

Typical, he thought with a grimace. He's acting like they're already married in private, but all the rest of us know is that they hang out together. I guess that it's lasted this long should have told us something, but still—!

Mike didn't answer, turning his back instead.

"I won't tell the others," Davy promised, his face solemn. "It's none of our business what you two do over here."

And he meant it. Just because he didn't understand their need to downplay their relationship in public—even around himself and the others—didn't mean he didn't respect it.

He glanced around at the apartment and whistled again. "You know, I've not been over here since we moved her in. I don't remember half this furniture being here."

Mike smiled, seeing memories everywhere he looked.

Several months ago, they'd gone to an antique show, mainly because Isabel loved antiques and had talked him into going with her; she'd fallen in love with a mahogany roll-top writing desk, coming back to it again and again, and he finally told her to quit drooling over the thing and buy it. She needed a real desk anyway, he'd reminded her. She'd been setting up her typewriter on her dining table, but she couldn't keep everything she needed together and organized that way. And so she had bought it, and he had been the one to clean it up for her, making it one of his projects while she was at work one day. She'd been surprised when she came home—and very grateful.

The chair now pulled up to that same desk was one they had noticed abandoned in a dumpster of all places! All it had needed was a new back, which they had restored together; the main thing he remembered about that was the wrestling match that ensued after she decided he'd look better with a blot of wood stain on his nose.

There were several pieces in this room—in this house—that had a story behind it—one that usually involved both of them.

"Yeah," he said, careful to keep his face turned toward Davy, "we've—she's added some things."

Davy had caught the Freudian slip, but let it pass without comment, his only reaction being a slight smile.

Then Davy saw Mike's head jerk around. In two quick strides, Mike was at the phone. He picked it up, and Davy read, "Hello?" Then a bemused smile curved Mike's lips. "Yeah, he's here."

He turned to Davy and motioned him over. "It's Ericka," Mike said, covering the receiver with one hand as he talked to Davy. "She wants to know if you feel up to comin' in and spendin' the night in the hospital." Suddenly he dropped his hand, and Davy saw a look of fleeting impatience cross his face as he spoke into the phone again. "Because he can read my lips, that's why," he said, looking aggrieved... "Yes, he learned that fast.... Hold on..." He faced Davy again. "Well, can you?"

Davy shrugged, trying to mask the coil of excitement forming in his stomach. Just a matter of hours now... "Sure. If it'll get me hearing any faster."

"He says he can. Seven-thirty?" He arched an eyebrow at Davy, who nodded. "Fine. We'll have him there. Ok, bye." He hung up the phone, then glanced at Davy. "She couldn't get an answer at home, so she called here. Said she had a feelin' I would be here. Between the two of you, I'm beginnin' to feel married."

Even though Davy couldn't hear Mike's tone, he could tell Mike wasn't angry or bothered by this turn of events; he seemed more amused than anything else. Then Davy saw him jump as if something had startled him, and he picked up the phone again.

"Hello? Yes, Ericka... Me?... Let me think about it... Bye." He hung up, and this time, he was definitely annoyed. That tell-tale crease was forming between his brows, and his mouth was pressed into a thin line.

"Let me guess," Davy said blandly. "She wants to run more tests on your ears.

Mike's nod confirmed it.

~~~~~~~

At six, Isabel pulled into her driveway and got out of the car. She turned first toward the Pad, but out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Mike sitting on her steps, and she redirected her path to sit down beside him, not saying a word in greeting.

"Hi," he said softly, leaning over to kiss her.

Isabel sat totally still, refusing to respond in the slightest degree, and when he pulled away to look a question at her, she stared straight ahead, her face as expressionless as if it had been carved in stone.

"You're mad at me." It was a statement, not a question, but she gave a firm nod in response anyway.

"Why?"

"Last night," she replied curtly.

Mike's eyes narrowed as he shifted on the step to face her a little better. "What about last night?"

"You slept in the bedroom," she said, fighting to keep her tone steady when what she really wanted to do was yell. "You didn't stay with me. You completely wasted the last chance we'll have—"

Mike smiled slightly despite the seriousness of the situation. "And you wanna know why." He finished for her, and she nodded again, still not looking at him. Well, she might be angry, but he knew how to defuse her temper easily enough—the same way she usually defused his.

Instead of getting defensive himself, he used another, more subtle form of attack; slipping one arm around her shoulders and giving her a comforting squeeze, he pulled her close, and sure enough, he felt her relax a little as soon as she was nestled against him.

But it wasn't time to celebrate yet.

Calling on all the silver-tongued charm at his disposal, he offered a quiet explanation. "Babbitt got your place done, and we went on and moved you in today so you wouldn't have to do it after work. I know how tired you are then." He paused, knowing he was at the hard part where he had to admit—at least a little bit—about his own feelings on their separation.

"I had to sleep in my own bed last night," he continued. "I knew it was gonna be pretty tough on both of us anyway."

"You could've waited until tonight," she grumbled, but her tone didn't carry much conviction—especially when she said it while resting her head on his shoulder.

"I thought we might as well get used to the idea of bein' apart. Maybe it was the wrong decision, but I thought it'd make things easier."

"Lonelier, you mean," she replied softly.

He didn't answer except to lean his cheek against the top of her head as they sat in silence, watching the neighborhood wind down for the night as twilight fell over Beechwood.

If you only knew, little girl, he thought as he felt her sigh and slip her arm around his waist. If you knew what I was thinkin' about us. Would you run scared? Or are you thinkin' the same things too? I wish I knew...

At long last, he remembered the main reason why he was camped out on her doorstep in the first place, and he gave her a little nudge to get her attention; she sat up straight and looked up at him.

"Isabel—we're taking Davy in at seven-thirty. Ericka called and she wants him to spend the night in the hospital so they can prep him for surgery easier."

She nodded, studying him with one of her searching looks. "There's more."

Mike looked at her askance—there was that "I know you too well" factor again. That really got on his nerves sometimes—how was he supposed to hide anything when all she had to do was look at him, and it was like she was shining a huge spotlight on his soul? Fortunately, it seemed to work both ways...

"She wants me to come in, too," he admitted. "She wants to run more tests on my hearing, to see if they can isolate why it's so sensitive and—and cure it."

The hesitation with which he spoke the last words made Isabel give him a startled glance as she realized what his tone implied. "You..." she said very softly, "you don't want her to find out! You like being able to hear things we can't, don't you?"

He met her eyes a long moment, then—slightly—nodded with a wry smile. "It has its advantages," he conceded, and she let out a bemused snort. "But I don't like Davy's voice blarin' like a foghorn all the time. That gets painful!"

Isabel regarded him somberly, her eyes wide and filled with sympathetic understanding. "So what are you going to do?"

Chapter Nine: I Would Run To Your Side

Isabel returned from the hospital cafeteria carrying two Styrofoam coffee cups only to see Mike seated in one of the waiting room chairs still filling out the stack of paperwork needed to check Davy in. As she walked past him, pausing long enough to hand him one of the cups, her eyes suddenly widened. "Hey..." she said in a slow and even voice, trying hard to mask her surprise, "I thought you were right-handed."

He lifted one shoulder in a negligent shrug as he signed his name with his left hand and put the pen in the clipboard clip. "Most'a the time." He glanced up at her. "See, I was switched in school. Only it didn't take too well, and sometimes I revert. Usually out of nerves." He shrugged again matter-of-factly as he rose to his feet and strode over to the nurse's desk.

Ericka came around the corner, wearing her best comforting smile. "Well, he's settled. Micky and Peter are with him for awhile. What about you?" she asked Mike pointedly.

Mike met her eyes. "I'm not havin' any more tests, Ericka. If my hearin' stays or goes, so be it. But I am not havin' any more tests."

Ericka studied his face for a few minutes, then nodded. "I understand. If down the road it does not fade and you change your mind..."

Mike nodded, but he already knew he wouldn't change his mind; he was sick of being poked and prodded over something that wasn't any big deal when you got right down to it. Yes, loud noises were bothersome, but he could live with that. And it certainly wasn't life-threatening, so he was content to leave well enough alone.

Isabel moved to his side. "Ericka—when isDavy's surgery?"

"Seven o'clock in the morning."

"We'll be here," Mike said firmly.

"Mike, I know you guys, remember? I'll call you the minute I—"

"We'll be here."

End of discussion.

~~~~~~

Mike did a full-body stretch as he lay in bed that night, enjoying the familiar feeling of being back in his room, hisbed...You never realized how much little things meant until you couldn't have them anymore, and even though Peter was much quieter than Micky, he still had missed the comfort of his own familiar surroundings. After all, Davy and Peter had fixed their room the way they wanted; it had their decorative fingerprints—such as they were—all over it, while the upstairs room was pure Micky and Mike. Each room had its own personality like the people who occupied it, and being forced to live someone else's room had been mildly stressful for him.

He tossed and turned a few more minutes, then sighed deeply, peering into the darkness, feeling as awake as if he'd just injected caffeine directly into his bloodstream. Idly curious, he brushed his fingers over his watch dial—

Two-thirty AM.

And still he hadn't been to sleep.

He missed Isabel.

~~~~~~

Isabel lay stretched out on her side, running her hand along Gil's silky fur in a mindlessly repetitive motion while the drowsy cat curled up against her stomach, purring loudly. She stared into the darkness and gave a weary sigh. It may as well have been noon as far as she was concerned; she wasn't the least bit sleepy.

Mike wasn't three steps away anymore.

He was fifty-nine steps away.

Unexpected and unwelcome tears sprang to her eyes and she scrubbed them away furiously. There wasn't any point in getting all worked up about it, she chided herself impatiently. She had known it was only temporary from the very beginning.

But what she hadn't known was how accustomed she would become to living under the same roof with him—or how right it would feel.

All in all, she thought dejectedly, she would have been better off visiting her grandmother until the house was ready. At least then, she wouldn't have experienced the sense of loss she was feeling now...

She missed Mike.

Suddenly there came three sharp raps on her bedroom door. Isabel bolted into a sitting position, listening, her heart pounding in her throat.

Burglars? she thought, moving swiftly to reach under her bed for the baseball bat she kept there.

No—why would a prowler knock?

A pause. Three more sharp raps.

"Isabel? You awake?"

She let out an exasperated breath, rolling her eyes as she realized Mike had let himself in with the key.

In the middle of the night.

Without warning.

"Don't do that!" she exclaimed testily. "I almost went for the baseball bat!"

She heard soft laughter on the other side of the door. "Sorry. Couldn't sleep, so I took a chance you were havin' the same problem."

"Too right I was," she grumbled, tossing Gil out of the way as she climbed out of bed. The cat let out a subdued mew of protest—then promptly leaped on her pillow, curled up in a little cozy-kitty ball and went back to sleep.

"Want to go for a walk?" he asked quietly.

"Yes," she replied, forcing herself to stay cool and not give in to the giddy delight she felt knowing he missed her enough to lose sleep, to come over here in the wee hours of the morning just to be with her a few minutes. "Let me get dressed and I'll be right out."

"Okay."

She snapped on the small lamp on her night-stand, then dashed to her closet, grabbing the first pair of jeans she laid her hands on, then yanked open her sweater drawer and pulled one out, not even bothering to look to see which one it was; she changed as quickly as she could, fumbling in her haste, and she paused one last time to run a brush through her hair before hurrying to meet him.

When she came out, her eyes needed time to adjust to the darkness, and she couldn't see him for a moment. Then suddenly, there he was. Silhouetted against the glass doors to her verandah, hands in his back pockets—a tall, slender figure all in black, a night-shade against the pre-dawn sky. He turned to face her and though she couldn't see his face, she distinctly heard the chagrin in his voice.

"I thought we'd go along the beach for a few minutes—you know, kinda tire us both out so we'll sleep better—"

"And be together a few more minutes so we can stop missing each other so badly," she interrupted.

There was a moment of silence, then came his quiet chuckle. "Yeah. That, too..."

Chapter Ten: Promise Me, No Matter What, Forever You'll Be There

October 10

Micky, Peter and Mike congregated in the hospital waiting room along with Isabel who had managed to take a vacation day so she could be beside Mike at the ending as she was at the beginning.

Six hours passed. Slowly.

Peter and Micky huddled in a corner playing tic-tac-toe on blank music sheets Peter had shoved in his pocket before they left that morning. Mike and Isabel—the two self-proclaimed non-morning people—sprawled in two waiting room chairs, and she had leaned over enough to be able to use his shoulder as a pillow; Mike's arms were folded across his stomach, his chin drooped on his chest. Both were asleep.

Suddenly hearing a familiar tread coming down the hallway, Mike cracked one eye open. Confirming it was indeed Ericka when she turned the corner, he nudged Isabel awake; she grumbled at first, but when she realized why she was being woken up, she snapped to attention immediately. The four stood and faced her in silence...waiting.

"He's out. He's in a recovery room. You can go see him —but don't be alarmed. He is in a coma." Four pairs of eyes widened and she held up one hand to ward off their anxious questions. "We induced a coma so he wouldn't be overwhelmed by the sudden influx of sound. Over the next few hours we are going to slowly bring him out of it—give his nervous system a chance to adjust to sound again."

"And try to not duplicate what happened to me," Mike said grimly.

She met his eyes, then nodded. "It's our hope that if we can acclimate him to sound gradually, he won't go from no hearing to the— other extreme."

They all heard the unspoken Like you.

~~~~~~

Davy felt as if he was swimming in and out of consciousness. There were periods of dark oblivion, followed by times when he hovered just on the edge of consciousness.

He knew he was awake, but he couldn't remember what happened—

Till he opened his eyes to see the guys in his room—all four of them.

Isabel had gotten off work, he thought, pleased that she would make the effort for him. Peter had pulled a chair right next to Davy's bed and was now cradling his head in his arms which were propped on the edge of the bed, and he appeared to be dozing. Micky was staring out the window, two fingers tapping out a riff on his leg. Mike and Isabel were in the two chairs against the wall, leaning towards each other slightly, not speaking or touching, but obviously drawing on the other's strength for support.

Davy lifted his right hand—another IV, he thought with disgust—and lay it gently on Peter's head, smoothing down a lock of blonde hair that insisted on standing straight up. Like Alfalfa, he snickered quietly.

Peter jerked under the gentle touch, and he raised his head, peering at his friend through bleary eyes. Then that marvelous smile curved his lips and he said softly, "Hi, Davy."

"Hi, Davy?" the others echoed, glancing up with identical startled expressions and hastily crowding by the bed.

Davy smiled at them. "Hiya, mates..." he mumbled drowsily. The smile widened. "Call Ericka, wouldja?"

"Why?" Mike asked, frowning a little. "You feel okay—?"

"Tell her I can hear..." Davy drifted back to sleep mid-sentence.

Four faces lit up like the sunshine. Micky bounced up and down twice, his face suffused with undiluted joy, and opened his mouth—Mike clapped his hand over it and began dragging him out the door.

In absolute silence the four hurried into the hallway outside Davy's room.

There they all began to celebrate--loudly.

"He can hear!" they shouted, bringing Ericka running down the hall when she heard the news, beaming with delight. "Davy said he can hear!"

~~~~~~

Ericka kept Davy in the hospital for a week, running tests on him. His hearing had returned at a normal level, to her immense relief—he would not have to go through what Mike was still having to go through.

There was a change in Davy, however, that struck Ericka first and the guys and Isabel when they came to see Davy for the third time.

Davy was a lot more observant. His eyes were sharp and he noticed things that slipped by others. For example, the second Isabel and Mike walked in, Davy noticed Mike had lost a button from his hat and the shade of Isabel's shoes and purse matched exactly.

After the tests were complete, Ericka declared that his observance stemmed from the same root cause as Mike's sensitive hearing—a compensation for the loss of a sense.

"Will it fade?" Davy asked. "Mike's hasn't."

"I don't know, hon," Ericka said. "We'll just have to wait."

He rolled his expressive eyes and grimaced. "Oh, that's lovely, that is. How long has Mike been waiting, then?"

~~~~~~~

Once Davy got home, he asked the guys if he could just listen to them play for about half an hour. So he sat on the couch while they played. Music had never sounded so sweet—even without the tambourine, the songs sounded like they were straight from Heaven. At least to him, he thought with silent amusement.

Even the horribly sour note Mike hit when his pick flew from his hand after getting caught on the string when Micky quipped that Davy was imitating Isabel curled up on the couch. The triple-voiced burst of laughter that erupted at Mike's scowl was even sweeter than the music.

He wanted to sit and just listen for hours—he wanted to go on the beach and hear the waves crashing on the sand again, he wanted to hear Micky giggling—even Babbitt's "All right, you guys!" would have been celestial sound at the moment.

When the half-hour was over, Peter hurried to go buy some hamburgers for supper—he'd forgotten it was his turn to cook again. The other three sat in the living room, discussing the events of the last few days.

"Man, I don't know about you guys," Mike said, shaking his head slowly. "But I hope things are gonna change. We've had enough bad luck around here."

"Yeah," Micky and Davy agreed with somber nods.

Suddenly Micky's head snapped up. He glanced around at Davy and Mike, his almond eyes growing wide with alarm.

"Hey guys," he said slowly, "why do I get the feeling this isn't over yet?"


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