SUMMARY: Missing scene from Nevermore, Niko's POV. Cal mentioned that he couldn't remember eating while he was drugged, yet he woke up feeling full. My take on how that might've played out.

WARNINGS: Spoilers ahead. Language is inevitable. Angst is mandatory.

A/N: Flew through this title in a day and a half. Would've been five hours but work happened. I'm so in love with these characters, y'all. They just keep getting better. I will never be over Cal hitting on Robin and I so desperately wanted chapter upon chapters of drugged, overly friendly Caliban and Niko freaking out, (yes I have a problem). Obviously that's not realistic so I wrote my own filler scene. Cal confirmed that he definitely didn't feed himself. This is the result...

Goodfellow's arsenal of drugs had done excessively thorough work.

Caliban was as pliant and amiable as I'd never wished to see him. A startling contrast to the man I'd grown acquainted with over the past few days. Downright disturbing was a more accurate assessment.

This hardened, whip-smart, terminator future-brother of mine was currently sprawled akimbo on a velvet couch, higher than Bob Marley at the Woodstock after-party, and spouting things like "I love you" with an utterly ridiculous smile plastered on his face.

To say I was thrown off guard would be an understatement.

After the initial shock and, well, concern for his life, I found myself grappling with something else. Guilt.

How could I have been so careless as to have overlooked the details Goodfellow had so effortlessly ascertained about Caliban's condition? Was I really so absorbed by everything that I had been blind to how acutely my brother was suffering? Because that is who he was, age difference and warped time-traveling logistics aside. This was the man Cal would become in eight years. This was my little brother.

And I had failed him.

I should have paid more attention to the manic exhaustion and self-inflicted starvation. I should have been the one pulling him back from the brink of suicidal insanity. I should have been the one kicking his ass for letting it get this bad. I should have been there for him.

After my misguided freak-out and Goodfellow's warranted reprimand I could hardly bring myself to look at Caliban. I did though, when he murmured something about not being alone. The puck was as gentle with him as I could ever hope to be. Running calming fingers through his tangled mess of wet hair and reassuring Caliban he would never be alone.

When he begged for us not to make him dream I had to swallow down a sudden surge of bile. I reaffirmed what Goodfellow had told him and did the only thing I could. I promised to be there for him, praying this time it was the truth.

Someone was calling for me. I shook off the black cascade of self-loathing and attempted to focus on the present situation.

"Hey. Hey, Nik?"

It was Caliban. He was looking up at me with confused worry and furrowed brows. Still so very like his younger self; emotion on his sleeve when uninhibited.

"You look...funny. What's wrong with you?" His slurred words teetered out as he assessed me. Eyes widening rather comically, he jabbed a finger at the bottle of hallucinogenic death pills I was still clasping in my hand. "You really should have some. They'll squeeze that stick out of your ass."

"You do have a gift for pleasant visuals," I responded flatly.

Behind me Cal gave a derisive snort, "He's definitely more fun drugged to his eyeballs. Tamer than a fucking kitten. Shit, I'm embarrassed for myself right now."

With considerable effort, Caliban lifted his head from where it had been lolling lazily on the couch. "Drugged up or not, you're still a brat, Junior. I don't remember much right now but I sure as hell remember that."

Cal started to growl something from behind me. Without turning around I reached out to flick his forehead.

"That's enough from the both of you. Cal, perhaps you should see if Goodfellow needs any help."

"Uh, pretty sure we shouldn't be trusting a guy who can't manage a bowl of oatmeal by himself."

"Cal."

"All right!" He snapped as he rose and ambled in the direction of the kitchen. "I'm going. Jesus."

Caliban had been watching us, bemused by what had to be a familiar exchange.

"Fuck, Cyrano," he laughed, head rolling woozily this way and that over the armrest. That was the second time he had used the nickname. "You really are a goddamn saint, you know that? I can't believe you didn't put my punk ass up for adoption the second I yapped my first word."

"Tempting," I replied, suppressing a smile, "but then who would I use for target practice during sparring sessions?"

"Got me there," he murmured. His bloodshot eyes rolled in their sockets before he shook himself awake again.

"You can sleep soon," I promised, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Goodfellow is making you something to eat first."

Caliban swallowed rather sickly at the prospect of food. I guessed it was more of an involuntary reflex now than anything else. Still, he gave a small shake of his head, linking his fingers to rest on his stomach.

"Don't want anything," he breathed, speech growing heavier by the second.

"You have to eat," I told him, refusing to budge on the matter. "Not a lot, but something."

As if on cue the puck entered bearing a steaming bowl. Cal followed sullenly behind him and slumped down into a chair. He thrust an indignant forefinger at me.

"If you intentionally leave me alone with this perverted asshole again I'm gonna shoot him in his pride and fucking joy."

"If I had a drachma for every time I've heard those words…"

"You'd still be the richest bastard on the planet," Caliban finished for Goodfellow in a sing-song voice.

"Wise man," the puck praised. "You two fledglings could learn something from this one. Now say 'ah', Caliban."

"Already told you," Caliban slurred, head bobbing precariously against his chest. I rested a hand lightly at the base of his neck to steady him. "Don't want anything." There wasn't much fight left in his refusal.

"Caliban," Robin gritted, sounding rather ominous. "Do not make me deal with two of your petulant fetus selves tonight. The one is quite enough."

I felt Cal glaring at the dig but he didn't say anything.

Caliban blew a raspberry in Goodfellow's direction and flopped back against the couch.

"Fuckin' pushy," he mumbled disinterestedly.

"Caliban," I began, tone neutral, "please eat."

His frown deepened as he glared at the offending porridge.

"Just try it," I urged, sounding a little more desperate than I would have preferred. "If it makes you sick you can stop. I promise. We are not going to force you to do something you cannot."

He cracked open glassy eyes and studied mine. I saw the silent apology in them. Buddha, he was out of it. I hated seeing any version of my brother like this.

Goodfellow, on the other hand, had run out of patience and took a different approach.

"Caliban, I swear on Zeus' wizened testicles, if you don't open your mouth and gratefully accept every morsel, I am going to shove the disk end of this spoon inside the orifice of my choosing."

Caliban quirked an eyebrow and snorted, remarkably unfazed.

"You know, Robin," the slurring was becoming increasingly difficult to interpret, "you're so fucking good-looking right now...haven't been laid in almost a month. I might just let you try your luck. Shit, you already covered second base." Caliban waggled his eyebrows, equal parts mocking and baiting.

In spite of himself, I saw the puck's pupils dilate the slightest fraction. Behind us, Cal gagged.

"But there are conditions," his grin was positively sinister. "One?" He held up a wagging finger, "-use Nik's organic lube. He stashes it in the top drawer with his ninja undies. Two–"

I popped the little shit in the kneecap, hitting a nerve that would cause his entire left leg to go numb for at least five minutes.

"Continue that list or this absurd train of thought and Lazarus will be the least of your concerns."

"Jesus Christ, calm down," Caliban threw up his arms in an exaggerated display before rubbing his abused leg. "All right. Gimme the goddamn bowl."

"I doubt at the moment you could hold your own dick long enough to take a piss," Goodfellow coolly interjected. "Let alone the 'goddamn' bowl."

I was anticipating another yelling match. Astonishingly, Caliban simply stared, weaving a little before breaking into a fit of hysterics. He continued giggling - yes, my brother was giggling - as he leaned forward and opened his mouth, complete with a dramatic eye-roll.

Goodfellow obviously wasn't one for squandering opportunity. He shoved a spoonful of oatmeal in Caliban's mouth and ordered, "Now chew and swallow."

He obeyed, chewing carefully, and only turned green for a moment before swallowing. His throat worked for a moment as he considered, then leaned forward for another bite. I felt as if I was taking my first breath after breaking water's surface.

Robin did not harass as I had expected him to. He dutifully scooped spoonful after spoonful, graciously switching positions without a word when Caliban slumped back against the cushions, half-asleep and still chewing.

"S'good," he muttered around another mouthful, "…cinnamony."

Cal made an airplane noise and it was my turn to glare. Silently communicating that this small triumph couldn't be interrupted by another snark-laden debate. That was all it took. He crossed his arms and went back to sulking.

Most of the bowl had been scraped clean when Caliban shook his head, refusing the last few bites. Goodfellow wiped my brother's slack mouth with a damp paper towel and handed me a bottle of water.

"Make sure he drinks before he passes out," the puck ordered before rising to return the dishes to the kitchen. "And as for first watch –"

"I will stay with him," I calmly silenced Goodfellow. "You and Cal should get some rest while you can."

The puck didn't question my decision. He nodded in acknowledgement before pointing at Cal. "You. Shower. Now." Cal opened his mouth to protest but Goodfellow cut him off, "I will not have your prepubescent pheromones soiling my friend's silkworm-spun sheets. The bathroom is the second door down the hall. There are fresh towels in the cabinet under the sink. Use them."

"You're bossy for a goat humper, you know that?" Cal's seething rage at being ordered around by a stranger was palpable, venom dripping with every word.

"Cal," I sighed, rubbing the bridge of my nose. "Please."

He paused to flip Goodfellow off before slinking away to the bathroom. There were a few requests my little brother could never refuse no matter how pissed off he might be. An exhausted plea for peace and quiet from me was one of them.

Caliban blinked one eye open. I had no idea how the hell he was still functioning.

"Seriously," he drawled. "You could've pawned me off to a neighboring gypsy clan for bargain price," he reached out, fingers closing around the end of my braid to give it a light tug. "And I always thought you were the smart one, Nik."

"Here," I offered him the bottle, resting the rim against his lips, hoping to coax him into drinking. He wrapped his hand around mine as I tipped the bottle for him while he downed three gulps in rapid succession. As soon as he was finished his body immediately went boneless and I eased him into a horizontal position.

"Don't hold it against me," he whispered, solemn as stone. "I was a fucked up mess of a kid. Only reason I'm not drooling in a straight jacket is –" he faltered, breath hitching minutely. "...was because of you."

I swallowed, reaching over to run a hand through his ridiculous hair. This Cal was six years my senior, had lived through horrors and transgressions I had yet to experience. And somehow he still seemed so very young. Anything could be broken if you found the right pressure point.

"M'tired," he slurred, clumsily giving the velvet cushion one last affectionate rub. "I'm so tired."

I was sitting beside him on the couch, meticulously combing through his knotted strands. Eventually, his head ended up in my lap. Weary gray eyes blinked ever slower. He couldn't keep this up for long. Then again he'd proven to thrive on a stubbornness I hadn't known anyone was capable of. Not yet anyway. He would doze for a few seconds before jerking them open again. Each time took a little more effort.

"Go to sleep, Cal." My hands had their work cut out with the maze of tangled knots. "I'm right here."

He looked at me again, eyes glazed with bone-deep exhaustion.

"Don't let me dream," his voice was strained hoarse. "Nik, I can't dream.

That desperation was something I had no desire to comprehend. And yet on some level I knew I understood. He was the same as I had been nearly four years ago when my brother was dragged in to Hell. Hope drowned in fire and no conceivable chance I could get him back.

And yet, against all odds, on the whim of a myth, Caliban...Cal, was still trying. He hadn't given up.

"I won't let you, little brother," I breathed into his hair, pressing my lips to his forehead. "I won't let you dream."

A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips as his bruised eyes closed and didn't open again. Two tears escaped from the dark lashes and traveled down his neck. He didn't notice.

"Miss you, Nik," the words evaporated almost as quickly as they had escaped his lips. "You lucky son of a bitch."

Throat tight and soul aching, I wrapped my free arm around his chest and pulled him closer against me. As close as I could manage without strangling him.

"I won't leave you alone, Cal." He had finally given up the fight, dead to the world, burying his face in my right pant leg. There was already a spot of drool pooling in the fabric. "Whatever may come, I will not leave you alone."

Four hours later I broke my promise.

Four hours later I woke up and heard him screaming.

END

...Continued in Rob Thurman's Nevermore ;) Seriously, if you haven't already, go read it.