A/N: Well, here it is . . . the last chapter. Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who has read/reviewed this fic (despite many long waits between chapters). It really means a lot to me that you've stuck with this story!

Disclaimer: I do not own National Treasure. Glad we've cleared that up :)

CHAPTER NINE

Ben

"How are you feeling?" I asked casually, sitting down on the couch and propping my foot up on the table. Though my walking cast was still bulky, it was a lot easier to manage than the old one.

Riley looked up from his laptop, actually making eye contact. "If you ask me one more time, I'm telling Abby that you had your feet on the Boston tea table. Her favorite one." His voice was dead serious.

I grinned. "If you don't answer me one more time, I'll tell her about our little trip last month to the restorer to fix the water ring you left on her favorite tea table."

Riley, with an exasperated huff, closed his laptop a little harder than necessary. Then, looking contrite, ran his hand over the Apple logo.

I raised an eyebrow. "Did you just pet your computer?"

"No," he said defensively.

"Are you sure? Because I thought I just saw—"

"I'm doing okay, Ben," Riley said hurriedly, going back to my original question. Since that was what I wanted all along, I didn't comment on the abrupt change in subject.

"And when you say 'okay,' you mean . . . ?"

Riley rolled his eyes. "I mean I have a headache, and it's still hard to focus on anything for too long, but I'm okay."

Hearing him say it, and actually mean it, was a relief. The past month and a half had been so hard for him. Alternating between frustration, boredom, and simply discomfort, Riley had been completely miserable for the first few weeks, and Abigail and I along with him. The first time he had called for Abigail, in too much pain to do anything but tremble, she managed to calmly give him his medication and sit with him until he fell asleep. Then, when I got home from the grocery store, she cried for nearly a half hour.

And then there were the nightmares.

Though Riley had insisted that he was fine in the beginning, I knew that nights were rough for him. One evening, I came downstairs to get a glass of water and heard him talking in his sleep. At first, it just sounded normal, an indistinguishable muttering that faded in and out. And then, his voice charged with panic, Riley shouted my name. I ran to his room to find him fumbling with the locks on the window, his bandaged hands shaking too much to unlatch them. Quickly, I did it for him. He braced himself against the sill and leaned outside, breathing in big gulps of air. I said nothing, waiting with my hand on his shoulder until he calmed down, and then helped him back to bed when he nodded.

Every night after that, he left the lights on and the windows open, even though it was a hot, sticky summer, and every night I sat with him until he fell asleep. Neither of us ever said a word about it. We didn't have to.

Of course, Riley's recovery hadn't all been bad: Mom had been sending us frequent updates on the dig in Ajo and packages filled with cookies and brownies, and Dad had come up for a couple of weeks. He and Riley got on surprisingly well, swapping stories and telling jokes (mostly about me, from what I managed to overhear). When Dad went home, he surreptitiously left a package on the kitchen counter with the words "FOR RILEY" scribbled on the front in black Sharpie. Inside were a bunch of comic books from the 40s—mostly science fiction cartoons that I recognized from the attic at my grandfather's house. Pieces of Dad's childhood.

Riley really did bring out the best in people.

"Hey, Ben!"

Riley's voice startled me, interrupting my thoughts. "What?" I asked.

"Don't make me ask you if you're okay," he said.

"Not a chance," I answered, as sudden inspiration struck. "Hey, I just remembered that I've got something for you. Give me a minute."

I got up from the sofa and went into the kitchen, my booted foot making a loud thump with every other step. "I hope it's a grilled cheese sandwich!" Riley called after me. I just shook my head, grabbing the package that had come in the mail this morning. I then made a stop in the office to grab the manila envelope from my desk.

Sitting back down on the couch, I handed Riley the package first. "Bet I know what this is," he said, but still tore into it enthusiastically. After crumpling the brown paper into a little ball and throwing it at my head (his aim had certainly improved in the last week), he opened the box to reveal a new iPod Nano. "Sweet!" he said. I gave him a few minutes to unwrap all the various cords and instruction booklets ("What does anyone need instructions for? Seriously.") and untwist every little tie keeping things contained. Looking thoroughly pleased, Riley said, "Thanks, Ben."

"Yeah," I said, but I had a better present with me. At least, I hoped I did. "Riley, there's something else . . ." I let my voice trail off as I handed him the envelope.

Sensing the change in my mood, Riley looked at me very seriously for a moment before taking it from my hand. "What is it?" he asked.

"Just open it," I said.

Very carefully, Riley opened the envelope and pulled out the stack of paper. "My manuscript," he said, the words almost a question.

I didn't say anything, waiting for him to look more closely.

When he did, he sat perfectly still for a moment. Then he looked at me. "Ben, I . . ." His voice trailed off. He stared down at the pages, thoroughly marked with red ink. And then he hurriedly wiped at his eyes. "Thank you," he said simply.

"I'm sorry. For before," I said. "I hope . . . I hope you can forgive me. I know this doesn't make up for it, but . . ."

Riley smiled. "Apology accepted. And thanks for reading this one."

"My pleasure, Riley. Really. It's a good book," I told him, meaning it.

Still sounding a little choked up, Riley laughed. "Then why are there so many edits?" he joked.

The solemnity of the moment successfully broken, I laughed, too. "I'm not going to let my best friend butcher the English language."

"Butcher? What do you mean, 'butcher'?" Riley complained, sounding suddenly affronted.

"You can't end sentences with prepositions!" I defended myself.

"Why not? That's a stupid thing to worry about," he shot back, a mischievous gleam in his eyes.

"You said that on purpose," I complained.

"You can't prove that," Riley said, flicking a twist tie from his iPod packaging at me.

"Riley!" I protested, but not before he'd gotten off a second shot.

Just then, Abigail walked in. Riley's tie sailed through the air and hit her in the forehead. She stood stock still for a moment, looking surprised. Then, her eyes narrowing, she said, "What's going on? Where did that come from?"

Riley looked at her innocently. "I dunno. Must be Ben's fault. But thanks for proving me right, Abby. On and from are perfectly useful prepositions to end sentences with."

"You just did it again!" I complained, as Riley dissolved into laughter.

Abigail caught my eye, and an unspoken message passed between us. Yes, Riley was going to be all right. And yes, our friendship was fine again.

In fact, it was even closer than before.

A/N: Good? Bad? Worth the wait? Please let me know. I adore reviews!