From the time she took her first steps, Cream could hardly wait to graduate from her crib to her "big girl room." As it was first being built, Vanilla often found her and Cheese huddled on the uncarpeted floor, surrounded by a ring of their favorite stuffed animals, in anticipation of the grand canopy bed that would soon be there.

She took such great pride in having a space to call her own, as a matter of fact, that she kept it more spic and span than could reasonably be expected of a six-year-old: books stacked on shelves, toybox sorted, lavender carpet vacuumed, sheets tucked so immaculately one feared sitting on them and making creases.

When she started creeping into her mother's bed at night, nuzzling her head under her arm and shivering despite warm July temperatures, Vanilla knew something had gone wrong. In the dark, she would jolt and pat her side of the bed frantically, as if to confirm her presence. If Vanilla moved, even just a bit, she'd dig her fingers into the sleeves of her nightgown, anchoring her.

Most worrying were the times Cream would crack her eyes open and peer up at her. She never had the sense her daughter looked at her, only through her.

Stroking her head did nothing. "I'm right here, darling." Soothing whispers went unheard to the crooning of grasshoppers.

After several nights had passed without reprieve, Vanilla scheduled an immediate doctor's appointment. Cream let the pediatrician examine her without protest, her movements languid. She didn't seem to care where or how she was moved, to her mother's growing anxiety. She sat quietly on the small bench with her hands clasped in her lap, and said nothing to the beam he flashed in her eyes.

Eventually the pediatrician straightened, clipping his light to his breast pocket. "Is she sleeping, ma'am?"

"Not well, I fear."

"And you say these aren't normal nightmares?" He slid on a thin pair of rimless glasses. "Unfortunately, medication won't do her much good."

He went on to explain, in a dry voice that unnerved Vanilla, that night terrors were a problem of mechanics, not necessarily of mental disturbances. While completely normal for a girl her age, they often began an hour or two after the child fell asleep. Think of the slumbering brain as a series of switches, ma'am: during a terror, the switch for physical movement was left on, while the switch for actual consciousness had long since shut off.

She thought back to Cream's large brown eyes, bereft of their usual light, and the walls of her throat pinched. Is that why she appears as though she doesn't recognize me? Perhaps. Since her brain isn't fully conscious then, waking her during an episode won't do much good.

"What can I do?"

Two additions joined Cream's room: an old rocking chair and a knitting basket. Until such time the episodes stopped of their own accord, Vanilla would have to abide by a new sleep schedule of her own. Stay up hours after her daughter fell asleep, and interrupt the episodes before they began. With luck, and the supreme patience only a worried mother could wield, the terrors would quiet down.

The man that had kidnapped her earlier that summer had quieted down himself; they'd both resolved not to think of him any longer. They'd instead be grateful they were still together, their family unbroken.

But his specter lingered. The remnant of the awful man in her daughter's head could only be combated now by the slow creaking of chair hinges, by the anticipatory clicking of needles. By waiting, by watching.

Vanilla knitted until her fingers ached.

She tried every preventative method she could think of. Warm milk. Nightlights. Regular, scheduled naps to cut down on excessive tiredness, as the pediatrician suggested. Every lullaby she could remember from her own childhood, no matter how halting and incomplete the hums left her lips.

They didn't seem to matter. Come dusk, they were about as effective as slinging pebbles at a castle wall. Cream shook, cried aloud for her. Some nights all she could do was watch her brave, precious daughter shiver from a threat she couldn't ease.

"Don't go, Mama."

The book he was trying to read wasn't particularly riveting—just some pulpy sci-fi he'd pulled off one of Tails' shelves, about dead people's brains being kept alive by a cartoonishly villainous institution. The brains had revolted against their masters and started building synthetic alien frogs to infiltrate the brain-extracting factory. (Did he mention they were disembodied brains? Because this book sure did.) Frogs with one eye and sharp teeth. Or something like that. He rubbed his eyes, focused them once more on the blurring text.

Sonic reclined in his hammock, fan blowing through his quills, book poised in one hand, the other tucked behind his head. He yawned. Coupled with the temperature, this book was making his own brain feel like it might've been floating in a jellied vat somewhere. Only—

The garage phone shrilled, giving him a welcome break. He tossed the book aside and vaulted over the ladder that separated his section of the room from Tails'.

The unattended phone continued to ring as Tails lay on a creeper beneath the Tornado's engine. With one eye winced shut and his tongue sticking out the side of his mouth, he concentrated on fiddling with some errant wires.

As soon as Sonic yanked the door open, he reeled, assaulted by a cacophony of noise: radio, fan, phone, Tornado and TV chattered at once.

"Tails?" he called. "Tails!" He stuck a finger in his ear, leaning over the railing. "Man, you're gonna go deaf at this rate!"

"What?" came the muffled, absent-minded reply.

He cupped his hands around his mouth. "Phone for you!"

"Home?"

"Phone!"

No response. He considered yanking Tails' leg, loudly protesting that he was too busy to accept his Nobel prize right now and they should just send it back to the committee, aw gee, buddy, maybe next year. But all things considered, with the way he was engrossed in those wires, he'd probably leave that one to voicemail too.

The answering machine clicked, heralding a grainy voice he recognized with a bit of his ear pressed to the speaker (kinda hard to hear over the clatter of cartoon robots punching each other, though): "Yes, is this the Prower residence? This is Cream's mother; you may not remember me—"

Sonic dashed into the kitchen, picking up the landline. Hopping up on the counter, he plucked an apple from a nearby bowl and crunched into it. "Hey there, ma'am. What's up?"

"Hello, dear. I'm sorry I haven't exactly been keeping in touch."

He picked the stem from his teeth. "Eh, nothin' going. Me and Tails've mostly just been bumming around here, anyway." Reading books to tatters, playing the TV at volumes loud enough to get the cops called on them had they had any neighbors. "How's Cream?"

"Actually, that's why I'm calling."

"Yeah?" His voice tightened. "Everything okay?"

"Well, she… Hasn't been sleeping very well recently."

That stopped him like a hand to his chest. A shiver ran up his spine, and he had a gnawing feeling this wasn't going to be a conversation he'd particularly want to have.

He lifted the receiver to his ear. "She sick?"

"As far as her pediatrician can tell, physically speaking, there's nothing wrong with her. He's scheduled more tests, of course, but he believes the issue may have some other root cause."

He chewed slowly. Bit by bit, his puzzled frown eased as the notion wandered into his mind: they were falling, he and Cream's mom, hurtling through the stratosphere, cold air and water vapor rushing around them, enveloping them—

"You think—"

"I don't know." Her worries rushed out. "Why wouldn't she tell me if that were the case? She knows she can come to me for anything… "

He let the silence linger.

Vanilla began again, though stilted by her fragmented thoughts. "It's presumptuous to even ask, I know, but— I've been thinking— If she had someone to talk to, someone who was there… Who isn't me… "

Sonic punted the apple core into the trash can, leaving the lid to flap on its hinges. He wasn't one to bandy hypotheticals. "Is she home now?"

Skidding over a pile of technical manuals, he scribbled her address on one of the many blank post-its nailed to Tails' corkboard and ripped out the page. Emerald Town was a long run from Mytic Ruins, so he'd have to catch the train if he didn't want to hug the winding coastline.

Wading across a sea of books and mechanical parts lying astray, he got halfway out the door before remembering Tails having mentioned something about Shadow coming over today. One glance around the messy quarters told him they must've forgotten. Oh, well. Faker'd probably seen worse.

"Yo, Tails, I'm heading out to Mrs. Rabbit's, maybe off to the beach for a little while. You gonna be okay with Small, Dark and Broodsome by yourself?"

"Yep!"

Sonic waffled in the doorway as he continued tinkering under the Tornado, oblivious. Over the past three months, he'd seen the two of them exchange a little less than fifteen words, no thanks to Shadmeister's spectacular conversational prowess and Tails' social awkwardness. He was a little doubtful he'd take kindly to all this background noise.

"Hey, bud?"

"Uh?"

"Just remember to turn the radio down before he comes over?"

"M'mkay."

He shook his head. Sorry, Shad. I tried.

"More lemonade?" Vanilla asked, prompting him to decline with a raised palm. Lowering the pitcher, she gazed at the checkered tablecloth, lost in thought.

At this point, though he'd never voice the sentiment aloud, he'd almost prefer Tails' racket to the sheer quiet that dominated the Rabbit house. It had gone so quiet they could hear birds chirping in the willow tree out in the front yard. A woodpecker's rapid, hollow thudding punctuated their short conversation. The ventilator hummed, blowing cool air over his ankles.

Such forced calm made him restless. Sonic fought to keep his leg from bouncing in time with the woodpecker's drilling, and cleared his throat. "How long's she been having…" Drummed his fingers on the gingham instead. "Uh… the nightmares for?"

Rising, she drew the curtains behind him, letting sunlight flood the little dining room. "A while now. At first I thought they may have been normal nightmares, and that they'd fade in time. After the fact, she seemed relieved that you rescued me." She ran a hand through the delicate lace. "But now I think… It may have to do with when he kidnapped me. She's finally had time to process it. What it means."

He studied his empty lemonade glass, the thin, glittering rays filtering through crystal. "Oh."

"I'm sorry to impose on you like this. I just… don't know what else to do."

He smiled. "No worries. Whatever it takes, we'll help her out of it. She'll be back to her regular self in no time."

"If you're not ready… "

"No sweat. Down that hall, right?"

Vanilla nodded.

It was easy enough to figure out which room belonged to the kid, judging from its flower stickers and paper creche decorations. He rapped once on the door with the back of his knuckles, then eased it open it a crack as Vanilla gestured for him to enter.

The same quiet that pervaded the dining room haunted her bedroom. Clinking sounded as Cream knelt over a small kiddie table, arranging cutlery for her toy guests.

He padded across the room, letting his shoes slide over the soft carpet. As he approached, she froze and looked up at him. He gave her a modest wave.

"Heya, Cream. Whatcha got going on over here? Tea party?" Letting his gaze wander, he spotted a basket of yarns sitting next to a rocking chair. Plucking a glitter-pink scarf from the bunch, he draped it over his shoulders like a feather boa. Never hurt to look good. "Can I join? Sorry I left my RSVP at home… Queens are always fashionably late, doncha know."

He hoped she would see him strike a primadonna pose, hand fluttered against his brow, and laugh; no such luck, though the corners of her mouth curled briefly up. Slowly she climbed to her feet and pulled out one of the tiny princess chairs for him.

Sonic took it, examining his company. To his left sat a purple giraffe in a ballerina tutu. To his right, a row of Chao plushies awaited the invisible tea Cream poured for them.

Time to ham it up.

"Gooood afternoon, my loyal subjects," he said in his haughtiest socialite voice, "I'm Queen Sonique, but you may call me Her Royal Speediness. You may have heard of me in all the gossip rags" —this he said with a flippant toss of the boa over his shoulder— "though I must say, those cheeky rapscallions have got it all wrong. I would never, ever jaywalk. Lies and deceit!" Thrusting out his pinkie, he chugged down his imaginary tea.

She accepted him in her pretend game, but didn't particularly encourage his antics one way or another, making him double down in his efforts in Operation Get Cream to Crack a Giggle. The more he tried to make her laugh, the more ridiculous his gimmick grew. Queen Sonique's innocent adventures running from paparazzi and evading jaywalking scandals soon morphed into full-blown farces. Some of which may or may not have included banjo-playing aliens and inter-dimensional time-travel.

Truth be told, he wasn't sure what else to do. Talking kids down from nightmares and regular childhood phobias? He was a pro. Champ at reassuring Tails through thunderstorms. But… The problem was inside her own head, locked away. How could he tackle something she may not even want him to acknowledge, let alone fight?

It wasn't as though he'd forgotten. His fingers sank into the plunging capsule as he wrapped his body around its bulk, praying his Super form would hold out just long enough to shield it from the friction of atmospheric re-entry. Wind abraded his skin like sandpaper, freezing and burning at once. Dread bloomed in his chest as the casing groaned and crumbled, exploded, sent him spiraling away from Vanilla's freefall. His grasping hand only clutching air.

He'd underestimated how deeply her mother's abduction impacted her. Tearing through Eggman's bases, getting her back just to see her vanish again, seemingly forever…

Don't cry, Cream…

A familiar sound pricked his ear into standing upright. The distant jingle of the ice cream truck.

Growing louder now. He'd never had problems catching the truck—actually, he'd proved a frustration for the hapless driver, because he'd oh-so-conveniently block the truck's path, interrupting its route so the slower kids would get a chance to catch up. Oops, sorry, forgot to tie my shoes. Whaddya mean, I've got no laces? Can't a guy tie his own shoes in the middle of the street without some looney-bin hollering at him? Yeesh!

A vague smile passed his lips as he wondered if Tails would have mowed Shadow down on his way to buy a rocket pop.

Which gave him an idea.

"Y'know what I heard?" He leaned forward in his creaking chair with a conspiratorial whisper, eyebrow raised. She'd stopped folding napkins to stare at him—a good start. "You like ice cream, right? What do ya say we ask your mom if we can head on over to Nino's? Best banana splits in Emerald Town."

Cornered. No way out.

Sonic clutched his greasy bag of curly fries to his stomach. His heels slid backward until they hit the pier's rickety edge and stopped, a mere stone's drop from the shallow tide. No matter; he might as well have backed against a wall, conceding the quickly-vanishing gap between him and them.

Approaching him were a ravenous pack of seagulls that had caught scent of his order at the food truck and now stalked toward him, bobbing their heads as they closed in for the kill.

What was it they chanted in their thin, straining voices? What strange, bloodthirsty creed? Anybody's guess. Fries? Brains? Braaaains.

… He's really gotta lay off those crappy sci-fi novels.

Glowering at them, Sonic dug his fingers protectively into the wax paper. He'd thrown the crunchier pieces aside hoping the distraction would lose them, but that only seemed to grow their hunger. For every burnt fry he tossed at his heels, a beak reached out to swallow it, and more arrived to catch the next. Their warbling numbers multiplied, like some kind of horror movie.

"G'wan, shoo! Already gave you half my chilidog! These are mine, y'hear?" he cried, thrusting the bag over his head in one last courageous bid to intimidate them. The ringleader squawked heinously and ransacked him in a flurry of feathers, knocking the bag from his grip and spilling its contents across the planks.

When his jaw finally closed itself—robbed by a seagull, seriously?—he slumped onto the pier with a pout, arms crossed as they feasted. "Fine, bon apetit. Sheesh."

Boy, was he glad Cream had gotten the milkshakes. She bypassed the rats-with-wings well enough, considering they were fighting over the biggest curlycue (serves ya right, ya little wannabe burglars) and perched herself gingerly beside him. Her short legs dangled off the plank as she gazed into the water's crystalline depths. Idly, she dunked her straw into her shake.

Sonic raised his plastic cup to the clear blue sky, as if to toast the sunshine. "Nothing like kickin' back on a hot day with a triple chocolate brain freeze, huh?" He sucked on the straw until frost crackled in his skull. "Aw, yeah, dunk me in dry ice and call me cool."

His smile wilted a little as she sipped her drink. Clearly, she had no interest in entertaining his cheesy quips.

He looked toward the beach for inspiration. A smooth curve of glistening white sand stretched before them, replete with relaxing vacationers and sunburned tourists collecting seashells. Jacaranda trees rustled overhead, offering fragrant pockets of shade under their blue blossoms. Could they join the group of friends battling kites? Maybe build a sandcastle?

A soft voice drew his attention.

"I thought you didn't like the beach, Mr. Sonic."

"Long as I stay outta the water, it's all good." No one suspected he came here to think. "I run by this place all the time, sometimes grab a bite on the way out. Well," he said, giving the seagulls a dirty look over his shoulder, "when these guys let me."

She kicked her legs over the pier.

"Hey, uh— Something wrong with your shake? Gonna melt. Then you'll have a puddle of mush on your hands."

"Huh?" She blinked, as if just now aware of the sprinkles drowning in her oozing, sweating cup. "Oh."

Now or never. He heaved in a breath. "Cream," he began, "your mom says you're not sleeping great."

Setting his cup on the plank beside him, he felt like somebody's dad prepared to give them some big ol' boring lecture. You know, the usual. Eat your vegetables. Get good grades. Don't talk smack. Back in my day we rode dinosaurs to school, uphill, both ways in the snow.

Hopefully he could keep this one pretty short and sweet, enough to keep her from dozing off.

"Listen—I'm no stranger to partying all night, either, but if you don't get some decent shuteye at least sometimes, it's really gonna kick ya in the butt. And I mean real hard. When I don't catch enough Zs, I run into dumpsters. Worst part of waking up is garbage in your cup." His grin faded on her unresponsive silence.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Sonic."

"Hey, don't worry. We all get a little blue sometimes. 'cept for me, I'm blue 24/7."

He let the point end there as the sun flashed on the water's brilliant face. A rare dolphin launched itself out of the distant tide: Sonic marveled at the delicate rainbows it threw against the air.

"The beach looks pretty," she murmured.

"Yeah? You wanna go down?"

"Not yet." She said, this time much more quietly, "May I ask you something?"

"All ears. Shoot."

"When you first met Dr. Eggman, were you scared?"

The straw faltered on its way toward his lips. Talk about a loaded question. Granted, that was something most people wanted to know whether or not they'd admit as much, but he didn't have a satisfactory answer either way. They wanted to hear heroics, braggadocio, that he'd been born without an ounce of fear in his body. Or else they wanted to hear a more heart-rending story, that he'd been deathly afraid but overcame that terror.

He wondered, what did she want to hear? Was it the same as what she needed to hear? How to reconcile the difference?

He squinted at a sailboat chopping through the waves. "Nah," he said. Then scratched the back of his head. "Well… Actually, I thought he was a weird-lookin' seal at first. Didn't make a good first impression for the folks on my island, anyway."

Cream looked at him as he took a rasping sip from his milkshake.

"You know what they used to say? 'I'll bet you never been scared a day in your life, Sonic.' And I told 'em, can't shake in your shoes if you're having too much fun."

She contemplated his words for a while before speaking again. "Was it scary when—" She turned her cup in slow, pensive circles. "My mama fell?"

He inhaled. "Well, Cream, I mean—I've fallen a lot. She hasn't." It was the truth, though not all of it. The truth could be kind, too. "I can tell you one thing, though— When she grabbed my hand, she knew it was gonna be okay. And it was."

She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders quivering.

Sonic felt less than useless.

"Cream… "

"I don't mean to make her worry," she said, "but what if he takes her away again?" Raising her head, her eyes shimmered with moisture. "What if I'm not there and she… she's—"

Sonic laid a hand on her shoulder. "Hey," he said. "Listen to me. That won't happen."

She sniffled, pressing the heel of her palm to her cornea. "…It won't?"

He softly shook his head. "Not as long as I'm around."

"You promise?"

"I swear. Hedgehog's honor."

He did something then he hadn't done since he was twelve and made his pact with Tails to always stay together no matter what—cross my heart and hope to die.

He reached out, pinkie finger poised.

Through swimming eyes threatening tears, Cream hiccuped, wiping them on the back of her glove cuff. She stared at his offer a moment before giving a tiny nod, clasping her small finger around his. He squeezed resolutely.

"For now, let's focus on the present, okay? Like that big ol' Frisbee that's about to clock me in the head—got it!"

No sooner had he said this, his free hand shot up and caught the neon-green Frisbee, stopping it mere inches short of hurtling into his forehead, perhaps indeed with enough force to knock him out. Cream watched as the man who threw it jogged over to them. Putting his hands on his sand-dusted knees, he gushed profuse apologies.

"Dude, it just got away from me, I am so sorry—"

"No harm done, saw it coming a mile away. Nice backspin, though, could shave the fur off a cat with that thing." Winking, Sonic spun the Frisbee like a record on his index finger. "How 'bout we join ya? And no chucking sawblades this time, eh?"

The knock on her door arrived later that evening, just as the sun began to sink and the first of the streetlights ticked on. Vanilla opened it to find Cream slumbering on Sonic's back, one hand clutching a half-eaten cone of cotton candy. In the other hung a battered, slightly luminescent green Frisbee.

"You're looking at a champ in the making, Mrs. Rabbit." Sonic grinned, shifting his hold on her piggyback. "She puts a mean twist on that bad boy."

Relief eased Vanilla's stiff shoulders, melted her anxious expression. "I'm glad you two had fun today." Gathering her daughter in her arms, she carried her off to bed. After a few minutes of indistinct murmurs, the door closed and the lights in the hallway dimmed.

She returned to offer him the Frisbee.

"Keep it," he said. Glancing down the dim hallway, he added, "It'll get better. Maybe not all at once, but you'll see. Just show her you'll be there, and she'll come around before ya know it."

"Thank you, dear. Truly." She tilted her head, regarded him a tick longer than usual. "I take it this is something you know from experience."

"Me? Nah. I only dream about chilidogs. 's why I always wake up with so much drool on my pillow."

"If you say so." Giving him a smile, she patted him on the head. "Sweet dreams to you as well."

"Aww." Sonic blushed, rubbing his upper arm. "I ain't a little kid, y'know."

"Nonsense. You're never too old for a proper good night."

"Heh." He gave a mild shrug. "Just as long as you don't tuck me in."