I hadn't intended to start this yet, especially since I was planning on working on my other chapter fics, but the idea refused to stay quiet. My muses say "write" and what can I do but write?
A Little Hope (and a lot of trouble)
by Ami-chan
It had been fairly quiet in Four Corners – there had only been one bank robbery attempt the week before and the death toll for the week had only been two, one of which had been an accident. Josiah and Nathan had taken the lull in activity to work on the church, while JD was holed up somewhere catching up on his reading. Ezra was on a routine patrol and Vin, well, no one was exactly certain where he was at the moment, but he'd be back before nightfall as always.
It was early yet, but Chris and Buck were both lounging in the saloon, working their way through a bottle of whiskey. Just to pass the time. More than a few other patrons were milling about, as well, having had the same idea they had. Inez was dealing with all of her customers with her usual efficient manner and rebuffing any advances made on her person, including, perhaps especially including, Buck's.
Then, over the usual noise of the saloon a deep, clear voice asked, "Where can I find a Mr. Chris Larabee?"
"Chris Larabee?" Inez replied, glancing vaguely in his direction before she gestured expansively with the empty shot glass she had just retrieved from a table.
The man headed toward their table and stopped, looking at both Chris and Buck before his gaze settled on Chris. He was a tall middle-aged black man and he was holding his hat in his hand, making Chris wonder what sort of request he would get this time. Settlers causing trouble? More problems with the railroad workers? Cattle disappearing? The list went on and on. "You Chris Larabee?"
Chris tilted his head up and gave the man a good long look before nodding minutely. "Yup."
"I'm, ah, Tom McLane and I would have come to find you sooner if I had known, but – " Tom twitched, as if nervous, then reached out a hand for the smaller figure that had shadowed him silently, unnoticed. "Here, boy. Take off your hat now."
In the saloon's dim light it wasn't nearly as obvious as it would have been in broad daylight what color the boy's skin was. What was obvious was that he wasn't even close to being as dark as the man he was standing beside, but that didn't mean much. The boy obediently slipped his hat off and slowly lifted his head.
Chris's chair flew backwards as he stood abruptly, his shot glass crashing against the floor and spilling the forgotten whisky at his feet. The silence that surrounded them would have been deafening had they cared to pay attention to it. "Adam?" Older, yes, a harder look in his eyes most certainly, but it was Adam Larabee nonetheless. Boy always had his mama's eyes, that perfect blue. (1) He started toward Adam, but the boy stepped back, closer to the man – what had been his name? Tom? – an uncertain look on his face.
"Go on now, boy," Tom prompted to no avail. The boy stood staring at Chris critically, his eyes narrowed as if in thought.
"Adam?"
It was the repetition of his name that stirred the boy somewhat and he responded softly, carefully, "My pa never wore black. He wasn't a gunslinger either." Adam appeared to be unmoved by the stricken look that appeared on Chris's face, his own deep and disturbing emotions overriding the man's reaction.
"Remember me, kid?" Buck's own shock had finally begun to wear off. Yet, he wasn't entirely certain he believed it was Adam, really Adam standing before him until the boy's face lit up and he smiled. That was the boy he remembered.
"Buck!" He very nearly stepped forward away from Tom's side, but then he stopped and stayed where he was. "Do you still have Beau?"
"Why of course! Your pa still has Pony, too." Buck noted the narrowing of the boy's eyes and the quick, suspicious glance Adam cast in his father's direction. Shit. Well, Chris had changed and as much as Buck had tried to keep him near to "normal" he knew he'd failed miserably at it. So did Adam, it seemed.
The tension surrounding them was only too obvious. It took a nudge from Tom to get the boy seated next to Chris, though it was clear Adam would have preferred to sit beside Buck. "I'm sure you have a lot of question." Tom waited until Chris had picked up his fallen chair and sat back down, his eyes never leaving Adam who was looking anywhere but at him. "Found the boy about five years back. He looked a wreck – near starved and unconscious a few miles or so outside Ridge City." (2)
Chris's eyebrows rose. That was quite a ways from where they had lived – a good ten miles at least, and for a child to travel it alone? Amazing.
"We thought we'd lost him a time or two, but this boy here's a fighter. Didn't say anything for months even after he was well enough to move around and when he finally did it was in broken sentences, things about fire, blood, gunshots – we assumed his family'd been killed off." He shrugged at that. "Weren't gonna turn him out and we weren't keen on showing him around – white folks mightn't like it, us raising a white boy. Didn't want to see him thrown in some orphanage or put with people who wouldn't take care of him. It was years 'fore we got the whole story out of him – didn't even tell us his name for at least a year." Here Tom hesitated, then reached into his coat and withdrew a paperback book. It's cover was familiar to both Chris and Buck. "Then I saw this. It was only right to come looking."
Adam frowned, leaning toward the book. "What's that?" The cover read "The Magnificent Seven", written by a Jock Steele. When he started to reach for it, Tom shook his head and the boy's hands dropped into his lap silently.
"When we saw his name and yours in print there wasn't anything to do but come and see if it was true. By your reaction I'm guessing it is."
Adam looked distinctly unhappy. When he finally raised his eyes and briefly looked Chris's way, Chris felt the need to ask, "What happened? How did you escape those men and the fire?" His voice was rough, barely a croak.
A mirthless smile appeared on Adam's face while his hands twisted themselves together tightly either in nervousness, fear, or possibly even anger. His voice remained steady, however in a clinical and detached manner that was almost frightening. "They shot her. They didn't want her to get away so they shot her twice, though the second bullet was meant for me. They didn't check, they were in a hurry it seemed, and I guess they didn't see her move to take the bullet. Maybe didn't care. We were pushed into the house – they used something, kerosene, maybe – and lit it."
Adam's eyes went so dark they were nearly black and he clenched his hands more tightly together as if trying to draw himself out of a dark memory he didn't want to drown in. "She was bleeding to death and the fire was getting closer. There was something that she grabbed, something heavy, a pan maybe, and she tore into the wall at the side of the house where the fire hadn't reached yet. She made a hole. Wasn't very big, but neither was I. She was in terrible pain and I didn't want to leave her, but she pushed me out. She said she'd never forgive me if I didn't go – that I should run and keep going and to not look back. So I did.
"There were a couple of gunshots after that. Not aimed at me, I don't think, because they sounded farther away and I doubt I would have made it if they had known I'd gotten away." Adam shrugged; if he hadn't been shaking ever so slightly it would have been hard to tell that anything was wrong. The boy's face was like granite. Then, easily, almost carelessly, Adam grabbed at a chain around his neck and placed it on the table. "She gave me this." Chris reached for it immediately and stared at it for a long time.
"Sarah's ring."
"Grandma's first," Adam returned.
Tom's hand, which had moved to touch the boy's arm at the beginning of his tremors, tightened comfortingly before he released him. "I'll, uh, stick 'round for a few days then be on my way." When he stood so did Adam. There was a definite look of betrayal and abandonment that flashed in the boy's eyes when he was told shortly, "Stay." It was a testament to Adam's loyalty that he obeyed. It was obvious that staying was the last thing on Adam's mind.
After a moment Chris handed his son back the ring. Adam took it and placed it back around his neck and remained standing, a lost expression on his face, his eyes flitting back to the batwing doors Tom had disappeared through. At Chris's soft, "Adam?" the boy looked at him in a way that stated that he didn't recognize Chris at all. "It's all right now, Adam. It's going to be all right."
For some reason Buck got the distinct impression that Chris was speaking more to assure himself than his son. Adam, for his part, clearly didn't believe him.
-To be continued-
(1) I rewatched the episode "Nemesis" and I do think Sarah's eyes were blue. They never do a closeup (at least I think they didn't) of Adam, so I've decided that's what color they should be. Lol Interesting trivia – the boy who played Adam was Caelan Biehn, Michael Biehn's son, who would have been five or six at the time (he was born in 1992 and the episode appeared in 1998).
(2) Please note that I just randomly named this city. As far as I know it was never mentioned with the series. Also, the five years comes from 3 years of being a prick… er, angry/depressed gunslinger and 2 years in Four Corners (assuming each season was a year). Thus, Adam is ten or eleven here.
Right, another "what if" fic. I have never run across another such fic about Adam not being dead so it seemed a very good idea to work with. Of course, I'd also never seen a "child Buck" fic before either and after writing it was told by several that they liked stories where Buck was a child (where are these stories and why have I never seen them?). As always, updates will depend on how much I can keep up with all my other fics. ;)
