I'll Protect You (Original Version)

Once upon a time: Archer Sparrow's mysterious and danger-filled life version 2.0

I'm in a coma. I'm close to death. And my last dying wish is to see my older brother again, so here he is, smiling at me like he never left, leaving me to deal with the nightmares on my own. That was the only reason he could be in Paradise, Montana right now.

"I'm dead, aren't I? Or I'm dying. Either way, it's the only possible explanation that would back up why you're by my bedside."

Archer rolled his eyes. He reached out and pinched my cheek, just like he used to when we were kids and he found my comments quite irksome. Or annoyingly cute.

Wait.

If this was a dream or a figment of my imagination, pinching should've woken me up immediately. I know, I know, it isn't always the same case for every child. But for me, if you pinch me hard, I would immediately wake up. Granted, I would punch you or bite you instantly, but I would wake up.

And I didn't. I didn't jump away, my eyes snapping open to realize I was only in the room, or with my father sitting beside me, praying to the stars for my safety.

Archer was still sitting there, a challenging glint in his eyes. "You can't die from a scratch on the head. It did take about ten stitches to heal you up but you weren't anywhere close to dying. A lot of blood, though. Look at your uniform. If Mother saw you, she'd faint immediately."

"I can to die from a scratch on the head. You should go talk to Freddy Krueger!' I protested instantly. Instantly, I reached out and slapped him on the face, just to make sure he was here. The bright red mark staining his normally pale face supported his existing atoms.

And so did his iincredibly raging glare.

"Did you just slap me?" he asked, enunciating every syllable.

"You're actually here?!" I gasped loudly at the same time.

"Why the hell did you just slap me?" he asked. "I'm your older brother!"

"Who's been MIA for the past, I don't know, seven years? Who left us and refused to call us back, sending us a letter with no fingerprints on them once a year, apologizing about not being there. It's called a phone, Archer! Skype! Facetime! I know you have an iPhone, don't deny it! I almost died a couple of times this summer. You still show up. Our parents got officially wedded. Father was missing his best man. Your little brother, only thirteen years old, got kidnapped. Where were you then? YOU DESERVE THAT SLAP, YOU SON OF A BANSHEE!"

And with that, I lunged at him, my hands outstretched. Rather violently, they wrapped around his neck. The impact and crush of my weight threw him backward, where I tumbled off the bed, ripping the IV and the tubes out of me as we fell to the floor, struggling to win this battle.

Unfortunately, Archer didn't put away his training. The moment his back slammed into the floor, he sat up immediately and set his hands on my arms. Almost like he was plucking petals off a daisy, he removed my arms off his neck and twisted them around my back.

And like I was a teddy bear, he spun me around and pulled me down so that I was sitting on the floor as well, and held my back against his chest. My arms really hurt from being twisted irregularly. I don't think a victim of head trauma should be fighting like this. But oh well. You only live once, right?

That's what Drake says.

Just then I realized I was crying pretty pathetically, refusing to turn around and yell at him some more. How was this possible? Seven years of not hearing his voice, and here he was in the flesh, hugging me like he used to after that accident.

"I didn't take you for a crybaby," he muttered. "I leave for seven years and you're sobbing harder than you did when you learned that there were only going to be seven Harry Potter books."