A/N: Well, here we are. The finale at last... I truly hope you all have enjoyed this story, and I can't thank you enough for all the support your reviews have given me. I want to thank especially everyone who's stuck with this from the beginning! I hope the wait was worth it!

I don't have any more Hardy stories in the works at this moment... There's another Dukes of Hazzard fic that I have to finish before I start another one, but I'm sure I'll have more in the future! And I'll definitely be around to read all the other great stories here. Thank you again, you all are fantastic! Peace!

Once and for all, I do not own the Hardys.

Blood dripped from the stone cold walls, showering down on him in evil sheets. Angry voices echoed all around him, whispering accusing words. A door appeared on the wall. The way out! He grasped it and threw it open. This time, there was no relief – instead, a hundred bloody skeletons fell out, smothering him on the floor as they all cackled and called his name. Fraaaaaaaaank!

"Fraaaaaaaank! Hey, Frank!"

Frank woke with a start, covered in sweat. Joey was kneeling on the bed next to him, leaning over him and shaking his shoulder. Frank took several deep breaths, trying to calm his racing heart. For a few horrible moments, he had truly believed he was back in that horrible place. For a few terrifying minutes, he wished there was a way to self-destruct and save himself.

"Just dreaming," he muttered to himself. "Joey, what are you doing?"

Joey glanced around conspiratorially before answering. "Mom and Dad just stepped out. They're going to ship that bad guy out in a little bit and they wanted to talk to the FBI guys. But then you started getting upset so I thought I'd wake you up."

Frank sat up, looking around. For the second time that week, he was in a hospital bed.

"What happened?"

"You passed out, and Dad brought you here. You feeling ok yet? I kinda wanna go home."

Frank rolled his eyes, only vaguely listening. The hospital… Frank shoved the blankets back, spattering bright red on the clean white sheets and rolled out of the bed. Ignoring Joey's confused questions, he padded quietly out of the door and down the hall.

Finding the nurse's station was easy enough, and Frank soon found out where Dr. Richardson's room was. With Joey following behind him like a bewildered shadow, Frank knocked quietly on the door and poked his head inside the psychiatrist's room.

"Frank?" Dr. Richardson asked in surprise, sitting up in the bed as he saw his young patient. His tired face broke into a smile. "Frank, I was so worried about you! Please, come on in!"

"Joe, go back in case Mom and Dad wonder where I am, ok? I have to talk to the doctor alone," Frank said, slipping in and shutting the door behind him, leaving Joe outside. Sniffing like his Aunt Gertrude did when she felt affronted, Joe turned and went back to Frank's hospital room, grumbling the entire way about ungrateful brothers.

"So, you turned up alright!" Richardson said. "How are you holding up?"

Frank shrugged, coming to sit next to the doctor. Richardson was struck by how much change he could see in the young boy since their first meeting a few days ago.

"I thought you were dead," Frank said quietly. "I thought they'd killed you… I'd killed you…"

"It wouldn't have been your fault, Frank," Richardson said firmly, patting Frank's arm. "I'm just relieved you made it as far as you did. It seems like things are looking up for you."

"But I can still see the blood," Frank said in a low voice. "And I'm still the only one who can. I just… I want to be fixed. I was mad at first, that they were making me come see you, but… I'm tired of the blood. I… can't you fix me?"

Dr. Richardson inhaled deeply and slowly, wincing as his chest flared up in pain. He smiled compassionately down at the young boy before him.

"Frank, you don't need to be fixed," he said gently. "You said before that it was your soul that was bleeding. Remember that?"

Frank nodded. He still believed it. He had committed murder, surely he would have to be punished.

"If your finger was bleeding, what would you do?"

"Put a band-aid on, I guess," Frank shrugged, confused by the question.

"You would put a band-aid on. The band-aid doesn't fix everything, Frank. Even with a band-aid you still get a scar, and in time it fades away. So, put a band-aid on. It was an accident, Frank. You didn't stab yourself in the soul, did you? You never intended for him to die. It was just an accident… patch yourself up and have faith that time will heal you."

"But how?"

"Have faith, Frank." Richardson's composed voice cracked slightly, causing Frank to glance up at him. The doctor shook his head. "It was never your fault," he whispered, his voice filled with emotion. "It should never have belonged to you at all. It was that Paulson who is to blame. Give the blood to him, Frank. It was always his."

Frank sat quietly, digesting all that Richardson was saying. Finally, he stood and started for the door.

"Thank you for the talk," he said solemnly. "I should probably go back before they miss me."

"And Frank?" the psychiatrist said, regaining his composure as the young Hardy turned with his hand on the doorknob. "Steinway may have been a stranger to you, but you were still closely affected by his death. You need to grieve, Frank. Don't be afraid to mourn him. Every life deserves to be mourned."

Frank nodded, filing the idea away in his mind for a later time, when he wasn't feeling so confused.

"Thank you," he whispered before turning away and walking out the door.

Fenton smiled grimly as he watched the FBI agents bundling Paulson towards the door. It hadn't taken much to convince Collig that all the criminal needed was a few stitches and enough antibiotics to make sure he didn't develop an infection and die on his way to a federal prison. Collig wanted him out of Bayport as soon as possible and had readily agreed.

Chief Stalans had been rather irate when he learned the federal agents were truly going to take all credit on the arrest, and had already stormed out of the building. Fenton honestly didn't care who took him away, as long as he was gone. It was rather satisfying to see him limping along, handcuffed between the two agents.

"Frank, what are you doing up?" he heard Laura ask from beside him. Fenton turned in surprise to see his eldest son standing behind them, watching Paulson being taken away with a thoughtful face.

Frank didn't answer, but only watched, his mind struggling to make sense of everything Richardson had told him. He glanced down at his bloody hands as the doctor's voice echoed through his head... Give the blood to him, Frank. It was always his. And then he knew what he had to do. Shrugging away from his parents, Frank hurried towards the criminal.

"Frank!" Fenton called, following his son, but Frank refused to be deterred. As he approached, the two officers stopped, puzzled.

"Paulson," Frank said in a clear voice, halting Fenton in his tracks as he watched to see what Frank would do. Paulson, for his part, was neither impressed nor confused by Frank's behavior. He stood impassively, waiting for Frank to get to his purpose.

"Paulson," Frank continued, stopping in front of the criminal. "This is for you. I don't want it."

The officers in the room all stared at him in confusion, not understanding what he meant, but Frank didn't care. Paulson didn't say anything but merely glared at the young Hardy. Possibly it was only Frank's imagination, but for a second – just for the swiftest part of a second – the criminal's eyes flickered down at the blood that coated Frank's hands.

"That's right," Frank whispered. "It's on your soul, not mine." With that, he took hold of the front of Paulson's shirt and used it to wipe all the blood from his hands.

The odd move finally elicited a reaction from Paulson. Jerking back out of Frank's reach, he glared at the young boy, trying to shake off the officers' hands which held him in place.

"Let's go, buddy," Agent Bishop said, shoving their prisoner towards the door and disappearing forever.

"Joe, there you are.." Frank heard his dad say as his brother showed up next to him. "Frank, do you need to sit down?"

Frank shook his head, not realizing how pale he looked. The motion caused him to feel dizzy as he fought to control himself. He could not loose the tears… he had to stay strong… he had to…. Frank sank down to the floor right where he was, quickly followed by his brother and parents.

"Frank, honey?" Laura asked softly, brushing his dark hair out of his face. "Are you alright?"

Frank glanced around at the loving faces around him and it was all too much. He didn't have to be strong... they were there to be strong for him when he could not be. You need to grieve…For the first time since the warehouse in Atlanta, the tears which had been dammed behind Frank's stubborn eyes were set free, and he let them come. Every life deserves to be mourned… Allowing the strong arms that surrounded him from three sides to enfold him in a warm blanket of comfort, Frank broke down and sobbed.

"Frank, Chet and Biff are gonna be here soon. Mom says to come eat something before they get here."

Frank looked up as his brother delivered his message. The older boy nodded, sighing as he looked out the window. While he felt much better and happier than he had all week, he was still inclined to be a little on the moodier side. Joe had decided that the best cure for that was a gory, scary movie at the cinema and had planned accordingly. Frank was shocked his parents had agreed to it.

"Joe…"

Joe waited expectantly, a hopeful look on his face. Frank shook his head.

"Nothing."

But he knew there was still something he had to say. Although Frank hadn't seen any blood since his last encounter with Paulson, he still curled his hands in on themselves out of habit so that he didn't actually touch Joe as he gave him an awkward hug.

"Frank?" Joe asked, slightly startled but eagerly returning the hug. "What is it?"

"Thank you," Frank whispered, from the bottom of his heart. He had heard Joe's account of what had happened, and he knew now that it was truly Joe's voice calling him that had kept him from the brink of utter annihilation. It was his younger brother who was the hero that day, and Frank wanted to make sure Joey knew it.

"You saved me," he said quietly, pulling out of the hug and staring sincerely at Joe.

"You saved me," Joe pointed out with a shrug. "I didn't do anything."

"Yes, you did," Frank said firmly. Joe smiled.

"Let's settle for we saved each other," he offered. Frank smiled back and nodded.

"Frank," Joe started hesitantly. His brother still hadn't spoken about what had happened to him, but for Joe, curiosity was and always would be insatiable. "Frank… where were you? I mean, when I came in to the train station… you weren't… there. I mean, you were there but you… weren't. Does that make sense?"

"Yeah," Frank said quietly. It made far too much sense.

"What… what happened?"

Frank inhaled deeply and shivered, a distant look coming back into his eyes. How could he explain that terrible place to his still innocent brother?

He remembered with dread the cold, dark corridor, filled with walls that seeped and oozed blood. He remembered the macabre, dancing body of Bill Steinway. He remembered the voices that taunted him, calling his name until he nearly went crazy. He remembered how much he had just wanted to die right there, just to escape the most horrible nightmare of any nightmare he had ever had or ever would have again.

And then, for the first time in his life, Frank told Joey a lie.

"I'm sorry, Joe… I can't remember."

Fenton listened to his sons from the other room, a proud smile on his face. The events of the past week had changed them, it was true. He could see a new level of maturity in both his sons, a look that came from having seen the darker side of the world and passing through it undamaged, if not untouched.

Frank had been affected the most. His eyes never did regain the youthful impishness that Joe's still held. Those dark eyes, so much like his father's, regained their warmth but would forever be veiled and careful. There were still moments when Fenton's older son would stop talking and just sit back, listening quietly and thoughtfully. He was no longer an impetuous teenager, but a responsible and intelligent young man with a new wisdom and respect for life.

Joe had also toned down a minor degree, but not nearly as much as Frank. He was still – and would always be – the impulsive one who wore his heart on his sleeve. To Fenton's amusement, his sons' personalities, although being completely different, did not cause them to clash. Rather, they now complemented each other perfectly, playing off of each other's strengths to work even better together than they had before. They were going to be alright.

"Boys!" he heard Laura call from the kitchen. "Chet and Biff are here!"

"We'll be right there!" Frank yelled back as Joe happily ran outside. Frank hung back, reflecting.

The nightmares were still there, as well as the guilt. He knew he was never going to be the same, but he was desperately hoping that all of them could move on regardless. There was only one way that was going to happen.

He had to be sure the blood was gone for good. It had come off easily enough, but Frank had tried to keep himself from placing too much faith in the cleansing power of a criminal's shirt front. He was still terrified it might come back at any moment. So, where before he had constantly been looking down at his hands to see the blood, he now refused to even glanced down for a second.

It was time. He had to know, he had to see. There would be no moving on until he had done this smallest of tasks… he would not live in fear.

Steeling himself, Frank looked down at his hands. He smiled. No more blood. His hands were clean.

The End