Author's Note: If only wishing could make it so.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of this, except in the sense that love is ownership.
Then:
Pain.
It filled him. Surrounded him.
Consumed him.
Why did he hurt so much? Was he injured?
"No, don't move, son. Lie still."
It was agony to move; easy to obey.
Heath's eyelids were too heavy to open, but it was all right, because he knew, even without seeing, that it was his father who held him.
Tears filled his closed eyes, but they were tears of relief, and of joy. How had Mr. Barkley found him?
It didn't matter.
His father had rescued him.
It didn't matter that he could scarcely breathe, or that his heart was pounding, or that his head ached.
Nothing mattered, but that he was with his father.
He should never have doubted. He tried to tell his father so, but his mouth wasn't working. "M—" was all he could manage. It would have worried him, should have worried him that he wanted to address his own father as 'Mr. Barkley,' but it didn't matter, because the gentle voice his mother had so loved was murmuring soothingly, "I'm here, son. You're safe."
Safe. He was safe.
Safe with Mr. Barkley.
Heath snuggled himself more securely into his father's arms.
"He's dyin'," a lilting voice said. "Game little bastid. He never stood a chance. Not here."
"He won't die." Strange. Mr. Barkley's voice sounded almost like Pat Murphy's.
After a while, Heath remembered that something had happened to Murphy.
Something bad.
"—just like Ev."
"Heath's not like Ev. He chose to live."
Ev.
Ev was dead.
He had seen the flies crawling in Ev's mouth.
His clothes had been so ragged he might as well have been naked.
It was Bentell's fault. And that doctor's. Why couldn't they have—
"Heath!"
Why was Pat yelling? For God's sake, Pat! Don't hit me! I'm—
"Wha—" Heath couldn't make his mouth work right.
"Are you listening to me, boyo?"
"List—"
"Leave him be, Pat, he's gone."
"He's not!"
A final wave of pain washed over him like a tide, then receded, leaving Heath cocooned in warmth, like a caterpillar in its chrysalis.
The gentlest whisper sounded in his ears. "You won't leave me, will you, love?"
Darkness, and the unquiet stillness of night.
The stars were impossibly bright.
Something warm and salty on his lips, in his mouth.
"Drink."
Heath's nostrils flared.
God.
More cow's blood.
Pat would make him drink it, even if he said no.
So Heath held Pat's arm and drank.
He could manage only a few sips, then fell back.
A gray haze filled all but the center of his vision.
Pat's arm was bloody.
He must have spilled the blood.
Pat would be angry.
But he wasn't.
"Good bhoy. Sleep now."
Daylight.
There was dried blood on Pat's wrist.
…and something that felt like salty dirt filled Heath's mouth.
"Pat?" the boy breathed. What had happened?
"I'm right here, son." He was lying in Pat's arms.
"I'm not your—"
He felt the rumble of Murphy's chuckle against his back. "I know, you're not my son."
The impossibly precious golden head nodded, but its dignity didn't last. "Can I have a drink of water, Pat?" He was so weary his voice cracked on the plea. "Please, I'm so thir—" a bowl was pressing against his mouth. He opened his lips and choked. "I'm sor—"
"Easy," a soft, lilting voice, very unlike Murphy's usual hectoring tones, reassured him. "Baby sips, alanna astore."
Gentle fingers stroked his throat, helping him to swallow.
"Did I hurt you, Pat? You were bleeding."
"No. Everything is fine now, little one."
Heath's chest heaved, and his breath came in gasps.
Concern sharpened the big Irishman's tone: "Heath! What's wrong?"
The wheezing noise the boy was making signified not pain, but laughter. The bundled dirty straw of the boy's hair moved against his captor's chest as he turned his amused face towards Murphy's. "Boy howdy, Pat. What could possibly be wrong?"