The Professor had gone to break the bad news to the others; that there was no raft, there would be no rescue, and there would be tears. The Skipper usually handled that sort of thing himself—he was the captain, and it was his responsibility—but not this time. The Professor had insisted that this time, it was his fault, that he should have experimented with the cloth more extensively before getting everyone's hopes up, and therefore any blame or recriminations should fall on his head. And the Skipper let him, because he was still numb and dazed from something that needed a better word than mere 'relief.'

Gilligan glanced up at the big man. He looked… well, he looked old, was the only word he could come up with, and even that wasn't really right. He looked drained, and broken, and hopeless. The poor guy must have been going through hell, and by this stage of the game, Gilligan was more than familiar enough with the scenery on that particular journey to understand, and to pity.

"Hey, Skipper?"

"Hmm?"

"Let's head down to the lagoon, okay? It's going to get real hot around here in about two minutes."

The Skipper just shrugged.

"Come on. We've got to retrieve the stuff that was onboard, anyway. I'll dive for it, and you help me haul it in. Even if the food's no good anymore, we could reuse the crates and stuff."

"Oh, all right," he conceded, and they headed down the well-worn trail.

Neither of them ever remembered much about the next hour or so. Gilligan dove for the bottom, over and over, coming back each time with either an object in hand, or a rope tied to something too heavy for him to budge alone, and in between, he chattered. About anything, or nothing, round and round, pausing strategically every little bit and looking expectantly to the Skipper. Even he didn't really know what he was talking about, at least partially because not even he was really listening, but he got an 'Uh-huh,' or something similar, every time he stopped for a breath, and that was a start. He figured that it was all pretty much like this salvage operation, except conversation was the rope they were using. He would dive into that big empty sea behind the Skipper's shadowed eyes, over and over, and he would trail words, wrapping them firmly around his big buddy, until he had enough leverage to haul him back out and safe onto the shore.

He'd tied the rope—the real one—to one last sack. "I think this is it; after this we're done," he said as cheerfully as he could. And the Skipper just nodded, braced himself, and gave it a mighty heave. And the sack came loose—not surprising; the sack only weighed one-twenty, more or less, and the Skipper picked up and tossed around that much on a regular basis—and freed something else.

A shiny gray object, about the size of a large mixing bowl, had been trapped underneath, and it bobbed to the surface. It was their raft, or, at least, what was left of it. Gilligan picked it up, and half-smiled.

"Hey, Skipper, look here! Not much good as a boat anymore, but maybe the girls would like it for a flower pot."

And that was the last tug he'd needed; the Skipper's face went stormy, and there was something alive in his eyes again. "I don't care if they do; I never want to see that thing again! Give it here!"

Gilligan did; the Skipper twisted it between his powerful hands until it tore. "Of all the dumb ideas I've ever—Sewing a raft! What were we thinking?"

Gilligan just shrugged. "Dumb ideas pan out sometimes," he said. "Our next dumb idea will be better, maybe. Let's… let's play checkers." There were any number of smooth beach stones scattered around, and plenty of bits of shell, too. They would do for the pieces, and as for the board, he could use a twig to draw a grid in the damp sand.

The Skipper looked as though he wanted to argue, but only for a moment. He gritted his teeth, then let out an exasperated huff of breath with a chuckle behind it, and sat down. "I guess it beats going back to camp."

"I'll say. Come on; I'll bet you my share of dessert that I'll clean your clock for you. You can even go first."

"Huh. I'll take that bet, little buddy," said the Skipper, and moved a shell. "I think there was a banana cream pie in the oven. Smelled pretty good."

"Well, then, I'll think of you while I'm eating it," Gilligan said cheekily, countering with a stone.

And the Skipper rolled his eyes, because he was trying to be normal, too, but his heart wasn't in the game. Neither game, actually. Not their familiar banter, and certainly not the checkers match, and it took every ounce of skill Gilligan had to lose in a manner that looked even vaguely believable.

In the middle of their third game, Gilligan, who was stretched out on his stomach, his chin propped in his hands as he considered the board, looked up at the Skipper and said, "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Talk about what?"

"Come on, Skipper. It's me. You think I can't tell when you're upset? I'm being a complete pain in the neck and you haven't even whacked me once."

The Skipper glared at him for a moment, then laughed. It was rueful and a bit pained, but it was real. "You're right, and you are, and maybe I ought to have!" He sighed. "Okay. Fine. You want the truth? Here it is. It's the raft. You would have been on that thing if I'd let you, and you would have died out there. All alone. And I'm scared to death that you wanted it that way, all right?"

Gilligan hauled himself to a sitting position, hugging his knees, and looked down at the checkerboard. "I wasn't trying to get myself killed; I was trying to make sure you guys didn't. That raft wasn't going to fit us all even before it got shrunk," he said. "You know it wasn't. So if we all went, like the plan was in the start, we'll all have gotten drowned or sunstroked or something. Yeah?"

The Skipper nodded.

"Yeah. So I couldn't let that happen. We could have done like we did with that first raft, and just you and me tried to sail her back home, but that leaves everyone else here all by themselves, and I have to be honest… I don't think they'd make it without you to keep order." He made a face. "Mr. Howell would probably elect himself skipper, and can you imagine what a mess that would be?"

The Skipper could imagine it. It wasn't pretty.

"And I don't want to leave… no, it's more that I'm afraid to leave. But if I went anyway, I could kind of make up for everything else I've done. I'd find someone to come save you all… or else I wouldn't, but at least the rest of you would be okay. Either way, you'd be saved. I'd have saved you. I couldn't win, but I could figure out the best way to lose, see?" A shadow flickered through his eyes as the echo struck him.

Look, Kinkaid. I know I can't win here… So what I want to know is, how good is good enough? What do I have to do to make sure get my friends rescued?

No time for that now, though. "I didn't mean to worry you, honest I didn't."

"When we saw the food was gone, we thought you'd taken the raft and snuck away."

"Aw, I wouldn't've done that, Skipper. Going AWOL would have been bad enough, but stealing the boat? That would have been piracy! Anyway, I wanted you guys to agree that I was doing the right thing. Remember the telephone wire? Besides, I wouldn't have left without saying goodbye."

"Saying goodbye? That's just it; you've been saying goodbye since the minute Ramoo left the lagoon! I'm just standing here, helpless, day after day, watching you kill yourself in slow motion. I don't know what to do anymore!" The Skipper looked away. "I can't let you do it, little buddy. I just can't. Maybe that's selfish of me. But that's how it is."

"I'm sorry, Skipper," he said. For once in his life, he seemed to be at a loss for words. "I wasn't trying to ki—I mean… not really; I... I just wanted to stop hurting all the time. I can hardly think straight, it hurts so bad. I didn't ever mean to hurt anyone else. I didn't mean to hurt you. I'm sorry."

"I don't want you to be sorry. You don't have anything to be sorry about," the Skipper repeated. He'd seen a rabbit caught in a trap, long, long years ago. It had chewed off its own leg in a desperate attempt to escape, and hadn't quite made it to freedom. He'd been remembering that rabbit far more often than he liked over the previous few months.

"I didn't know the raft was messed up. It looked fine. No leaks, no tears… I was only trying to do something good and save us all. I thought the worst that could happen would be not finding anyone before I ran out of water, and I thought maybe I could turn around and come back if it started looking like that was gonna happen. I wasn't trying to get drowned," he said. "I didn't know it would shrink. I didn't, honest."

He picked up the torn remains of the raft, and considered them for a moment. Then his hands spasmed, and clenched so tightly around the fabric that his knuckles whitened. "I would have died," he said softly, wonderingly, looking at something only he could see. He'd never said it aloud before; perhaps he'd never let himself think it, either. He'd talked about the danger the others had been in; he'd talked about his wrenching guilt over having killed a helpless man, and over having wanted to kill that man's equally helpless accomplice. He'd never quite allowed himself to admit the most obvious fact of all. "I'd have been dead. For keeps. He… he would have shot me. He really would have shot me." He looked up at the Skipper, and for the first time, there were tears in his eyes. "Why am I so bad, Skipper? What do I do that's so awful?"

"You don't do anything, little buddy. This wasn't your fault!"

"No. It is. It must be. I must have done something to deserve it. It's the only thing that makes any sense. Because why else would this keep happening?" The tears were running down his face in earnest now; he didn't seem to notice. "We were all in on trying to trap Rodriguez in that net, remember? But I'm the one he put up against the wall. Just me. He would have shot me if he hadn't been out of bullets… and Farrell! If his gun hadn't gotten wet, he'd've shot me too! I don't understand, Skipper. I just don't understand. What's wrong with me? What do I do that makes everyone hate me so much? If someone would tell me what it is I'm doing, maybe I could stop. Cause I'm sorry! Honest, I'm sorry… and I don't mean it, whatever it is! I'll be good from now on, I promise… but you've gotta tell me how. Please?"

"You don't—Look. None of those things were your fault. None of them. Some people are just animals, Gilligan, and that's all there is to it."

"No, they're not. Animals are nice." He shuddered. "Animals don't take one look at me and decide that I ought to be the one to die, over and over and over..."

And the Skipper had nothing helpful left in him, no magic solutions to pull out of his back pocket, because at least part of what he was saying was nothing more than the simple truth. If there were prizes for bad luck, Gilligan would have walked away with first, second, and third place, and probably ended up pocketing the honorable mentions as well.

Half the time it wasn't even his fault. They had met a lot of screwy characters since the wreck, and somehow, when it all hit the fan, as it inevitably did, a disproportionate amount of the fallout always seemed to land on his narrow shoulders. And it wasn't fair, and it wasn't right, and it said some pretty ugly things about God or Fate or whoever else was controlling them all. And the very fact that there usually wasn't much any of the others could do to prevent or soften any of it wasn't fair either.

So he gave up on words, gave up on talking, and just pulled the smaller man close. And held him while finally, finally, he was able to let out the accumulated strain of the previous months. He cried for the blinding terror of the hunt itself, for twelve hours of running in pitch darkness, for the knowledge that it wasn't just his own life at stake, and for the excruciating realization that the only way to slay a monster was to become one. He grieved for the five endless minutes he'd spent bound to a tree facing an enraged dictator's pistol, and for half-crazed Japanese soldiers, gangsters, and native warriors. For hopes raised, only to be dashed, time and time again.

For a storm-wracked night, and three days adrift and helpless as their water ran low, ran out, and for the guilt he'd felt, looking at the five strangers forlornly huddled on the deck of the crippled Minnow. The ones he'd failed— no, worse; the ones he'd betrayed. For a woman with salt-and-pepper hair and a smile like the first crocus of spring, back in faraway Pennsylvania, whom he was beginning to more than suspect he was never going to see again. For three long years of being optimistic and silly and cheerful, because that was what other people seemed to need him to be, while the world fell apart around them. For all of the pain, and the shame, and the fear. The shoulder of Skipper's shirt got a little soggy, but it had been through worse. And there was no disgrace in it, because the top of Gilligan's hat got a bit damp, as well. But that was okay, too.

OoOoOoO

"Skipper?"

"Yeah, little buddy? What is it?"

"… I don't want to die, Skipper."

He kept his voice calm, even. "That's good. I don't want you to, either."

A long pause. "Skipper?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry for all the trouble I caused. You know. Making everyone worry."

"Belay that. You didn't do anything wrong," he said, once more. He'd repeat it until Gilligan believed him, or until doomsday; whichever came first.

"I still can't figure it out. How to get back to being just me again. The me I was before all this happened." He was sitting cross-legged on the ground, his hands loosely on his knees, his posture a far cry from the defensive crouch they'd all gotten used to seeing.

"Huh. Well, you're not, and you're never going to be," the Skipper said slowly. "None of us ever are. You know I was in the Pacific theater during the big one. It changed me; I wasn't quite the same afterwards. And that was war; two sets of faceless men in uniforms. Not nearly as personal as a guy telling you to your face that he's going to kill you for no reason."

"He told me that he wouldn't really have done it. After he sprang the trap and he was hurt. He asked me for help, and he said he wouldn't have killed me for real."

The Skipper grimaced. "And you actually believed him?"

"Well, no. That was when I shot him. But what if I was wrong?"

The Skipper sighed, and flicked a finger at the mended rent in his friend's shirt. The one betokening the bullet that would have shattered his sternum. "You weren't," he said simply. "Look, the Professor told me all about that 'six is more than one' business. And you know what? You're right. Six lives saved is more important than one lost. It's just that you're looking at it backwards. You're not the 'one' here. He was."

"Huh?"

"Let's forget about the whole 'self-defense' thing for a second, okay? I've been trying to hammer that one into your head since the start, and you still won't listen, so I'm going to backburner it for a minute. The plain fact of the matter is that you were under battle conditions, and the rest of your team was in danger. You saved six lives by taking one. If six is more valuable than one, you're on the plus side of the ledger."

Gilligan nodded slowly.

"You say that you're trying to get back to being yourself again. Seems to me that first, you've got to figure out who that is. And you can do that, but you've got to stop letting him have any say in the matter. It's your choice, not his. The only one who gets to tell you who you are is you. It's your move."

Kinkaid, you told me that in this world there's just predators and prey. And I told you that I was what you'd made me be. And I was, then… but I can choose to be something else.

I do choose to be something else.

"My move," he repeated aloud. He looked down at the forgotten checker board, and with a faint smile, picked up a stone. Jump… jump… jump… jump… and jump. Dropping the stone onto the cleared board, he squared his shoulders. "You're right. Let's go, Skipper. I got a lot to figure out, but it's time we went home, don't you think?"

"Sounds good to me," the Skipper agreed. He stood up and scuffed the makeshift checkerboard clean with his foot, scowling affectionately. At double or nothing stakes, he'd just lost about a week's worth of dessert privileges, and it was cheap at ten thousand times the price. It did, however, make him wonder a bit about their two previous games, both of which he'd won comparatively easily. "Wise guy. Come on, get the lead out!"

And it wasn't over, because nothing is ever that easy, and they both knew just how long a way he had to go. And no matter what anyone might have wanted, the scar was not going to fade from his arm, and the hole in his shirt was not going to vanish, and the memories were real, and lasting, and they had changed him in ways he was never going to be able to entirely undo. It had all happened, and a sojourn in hell leaves no one unscathed. But the rack that had been twisting his soul had loosened, just enough that he'd be able to work himself free of it. And, finally, he believed that he could work himself free of it. It wasn't over. It wasn't even close to over. But there was, at least—at last—the chance that someday it might be.

OoOoOoO

Sometime around two in the morning, the Skipper woke from a sound sleep. It was about the time the dreams usually struck, and he'd become grimly inured to the sound of moaning and thrashing coming from two feet above his head. But that wasn't what woke him, not this time.

What woke him was silence, or the next best thing to it; Gilligan was deeply, peacefully asleep in his hammock. Lying still, comfortable and relaxed, his breath steady and even.

The Skipper smiled, and let himself drift back to sleep to the music of that rhythmic breathing. No cries. No dreams. For the first time in months, no pain.

It was a start.

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

Author's note: A lot of this story isn't fiction. Obviously, very few of us will ever have to worry about being chased around a desert island by a crazed hunter. And equally obviously, I took these characters to places that I suspect Sherwood Schwartz never intended them to go. But PTSD is real. Depression is real. Suicidal urges are real. And an appallingly large number of people wake up every day and have to deal with all of those things. If you've been there, you know, and if you haven't, you can't. So this is for everyone who wakes up every morning and makes the conscious decision to hang on for one more day. This is for the people who love them enough to stand by their side, which isn't as easy as it sounds. This is also for the people who hung in there as long as they could.