A/N: Now THIS is lame.

Upon arriving home the other fellows had insisted that Davy take a shower and go straight to bed. He was really too shocked to protest and almost grateful for the command. It was a relief to get the blood off his face, which, when he looked in the mirror, he realized was still completely colorless.

They had also insisted that Peter move into Mike and Micky's room so that Davy could just rest without distraction.

Now, here it was, two o'clock in the morning, and Davy still hadn't been able to fall asleep. After the others had gone to bed, he'd snuck out and found some things that looked interesting to read, but soon he just cast them aside. He couldn't concentrate on reading. He was too weighed down by all the thoughts running through his head. Everything he'd been through, all the realizations he'd made, they were almost, well, painful.

Pain wasn't something Davy had experienced much of. The first fifteen years of his life had been very happy. Then his parents had died, and he'd be thrown into a blizzard of grief, a blizzard he'd never wanted to see again, even after he'd managed to find his way out of it. In any case, he was a strong person who had always managed to make friends very easily, and they were there to support him.

No, he didn't see pain often, but when he did, it hit him hard. Very hard.

Remorse and grief already plagued him. He knew that, especially after this last incident, and even if they wouldn't admit it, the others wouldn't want him. And them pretty much stopping him from doing what he knew was best for him didn't help. He knew they were trying to be kind, to do what they thought was best for him, but he knew that they'd still be better off without him.

True, he wanted to stay with the group. They'd had so many good times together, and he loved playing the tambourine and maracas. Most of all, they were his friends. At the very least their actions that afternoon had proved that to him. No one but friends would go into a garage that was about to be flooded with carbon monoxide, tackle the guy, then risk getting shot and tackle the guy again.

He'd been trying to save them from him troubling them that afternoon, but instead he'd ended up troubling them even more.

And Davy knew that was never good.

He drifted off to sleep, playing "(I'm Not Your) Steppin' Stone" in his head without the maracas and deciding it sounded just fine.

Little did he know what the next day would hold.