Frozen hearts don't feel pain. Ben turned the thought over in his mind again as he made his way from one side of the room to the other, half listening to the dull, slow thud of his heels on the floorboards. Well, if that was the case then Paul was right, of course - his heart wasn't frozen precisely, but it was numb - numb with a terrible, deep ache - like frost-bitten fingers exposed too quickly to the warmth. He turned around to make his way back to the opposite wall.
He had never thought of Adam's room as small. Oh, it wasn't large, precisely, but it was a good size - enough room for his bed and desk and dresser and shaving stand and bookcases without being crowded - but now it seemed cramped. Claustrophobic. The walk from one wall to the other opposite he had performed a dozen or more times already and the room seemed to draw in upon itself with every pass he made, getting smaller and smaller. He paused his pacing as he reached the foot of the bed.
Usually he sat. It was what he had intended to do - sit up all night with Adam. That was his wont when one of the boys was ill and he liked to think that it gave comfort - he knew it comforted him. He draped his elbows over the ornate footboard. Of course, things hadn't turned out quite as he had planned.
When he had announced his intention, Hoss had suggested that they all take turns instead. His veto had been immediate and firm - until he had seen their faces, that is. He bowed his head and rested his forehead in his hands. Joe's pinched and tense, Hoss's blank and empty… he had to remember that this was not just his pain - that they were as lost as he felt, needed comfort too. Swallowing his disappointment, he had admitted that perhaps taking turns would be best after all. They would divide up the night. He would go first. Their expressions had almost made the gesture worth it, but now he was wondering how, when someone came to relieve him, he would ever tear himself away.
He raised his head again and obliquely studied the figure in the bed. He had the lantern turned up fairly high - when Adam awoke he wanted him to notice it right away, to understand that he wasn't trapped in that cellar any longer - so he could see quite clearly, images blunted by only the softest of shadows. Adam's breathing still had that odd hitch to it, though Paul insisted that there was no internal damage that he could discover. Not that it was impossible, but by Adam's pulse, Paul figured it more likely that the breathing was a result of the drug or - other things. Ben's mouth twisted into a grim parody of a smile as he recalled Paul's delicate little pauses whenever he tried to avoid stating the brutal truth. Other things. Well, until Adam came somewhat to himself, it was hard to know how much damage had resulted from "other things". If he ever came to the himself they remembered again. And now he was sloughing away at his sanity for nothing, before he really knew anything.
He moved away from the footboard, edged in closer and sat down on the bed instead. His weight shifted the mattress slightly and Adam's breath stopped for a heartbeat, his head turning the slightest bit. Ben remained very still, unconsciously holding his own breath as well. Then Adam's breathing picked up again and Ben relaxed.
It was odd, really. Adam was definitely unconscious, slightly delirious - and yet Ben couldn't shake the feeling that he was still hyper-alert, poised to protect himself. Even sitting near him, he felt the thin thread of unrelieved tension - of strain. He wished desperately that he could do something to ease that - could see him really relax, really rest. He reached out automatically to run a hand over the tumbled dark hair, stopped himself just in time. No, none of that. Only made things worse. He folded his arms over his chest to arrest the impulse.
Despite his shock, he had secretly found some solace in the fact that Adam had struck out at Paul as well. Somehow he hadn't been able to help wondering if it was him personally Adam was trying to push away - if he was angry at him for not coming sooner, for not finding him. He knew the feeling was unreasonable - well, part of him knew it anyway. The other part felt he should be blamed - that he should have known. Should have found him sooner. He was his father. That was his job.
He leaned in closer without touching, studying his face. Hop Sing would try shaving him tomorrow, but for tonight it was agreed that it was best just to let him rest. What they were avoiding admitting to each other was that the dark stubble hid some of the damage and that for right now, that was just fine. Only one deepening purple-black stain stood out clearly, just to the right side of Adam's chin, and that was only because it was so fresh. Ben peered at it closely. Yes, Hoss certainly had a strong right.
It wasn't until he saw his own hand hovering over the bruise that he realized what he was about to do and snatched it back again. Over thirty years of habit to break in an instant. He wasn't sure he could do it. He rose from the bed, moved to lean next to the headboard instead where he could still see, but would be exposed to less temptation, sighed heavily through his teeth.
Things did look better, though, now that Paul was done - more humanized. Civilized. Adam's right hand was thrown across the opposite pillow, showing the bright white bandage encasing the wrist and wrapped around the hand for anchoring, but disguising the mutilation there. The other hand was hidden by the blanket, but Ben remembered how it had looked after Paul had finished - the palm and wrist buried in bandages, the whole arm carefully affixed to Adam's chest until the shoulder could heal. There was a lump under the bedclothes to indicate the bound up knee and elevated leg, but other than that, there was only Adam's face visible. And really, you could almost fool yourself into believing that the cuts and bruises there were just the result of a fist fight. Almost. So why couldn't he?
The varying ages of the wounds, maybe…some bruises starting to fade, over them newer ones - more recent cuts next to crusting scabs. But he didn't really think that was it. It was something - subtler. Something in Adam's face - his expression, even in insensibility - something that made Ben want to scream and rage and grab a pitchfork and drive it as far away from his son as the distance between heaven and earth would allow. If he only knew what "it" was. If only he could be sure that he really wanted to know.
Adam stirred restlessly and Ben hesitated. He was so flushed - as if the fever was climbing. He didn't quite dare touch his forehead to test and see, but he did reach for a nearby bowl and cloth and dab tentatively at his face. Adam froze, statue-still. Ben could see the muscles coil and tighten in his neck, felt his own hands bunch into fists. Oh, son. What on earth could they have done to you to make such simple, innocuous contact seem threatening? He dropped into a crouch by the bed, trying to make himself appear small and harmless, rewet the cloth and patted it over Adam's neck.
"Adam," he whispered, "it's just Pa. You're home and everything's all right. I swear, everything will be fine. It's just me." Adam's brows pushed together and Ben caught his breath, watching. "Adam?" he repeated softly. Something looked different…something…did he recognize his voice? "Son, it's me. Can you hear me?" Adam didn't move, but Ben somehow got the sense that he was listening. Did he know him? He certainly hadn't seemed to back at the Fairchild ranch. He put out a hand to brush his cheek, pulled it back just in time. No. He couldn't touch him, but maybe there were other ways to reach him.
He wet his cloth again and wrung it out, draped it carefully across Adam's forehead. Sound. If he couldn't reach him through touch, maybe he could get through to him with sound - let him know where he was, let him know that he was safe.
He unbent his knees, rising slowly. He could talk to him, he supposed…his eye swept over the night table and he paused. Or read to him. He had been reading to Adam since almost before he was old enough to listen. His eye stopped on something else, and he half-smiled. Of course, what had he been thinking? He'd been dragging that back and forth between Adam's room and his own, since…well. Since he'd heard. He picked up the china music box, turned the key in the bottom lifted the lid. The little waltz started up, tinny and sweet. He put it down on the night table and set a chair near it. Now, what to read? Lord Byron's poetry was still sitting out. He could read that. Or…oh, why not.
He strode over to Adam's desk and chose a worn volume from the small group lined up on top. Surely he'd recognize that, he'd read it to him so many times. He smiled a little more as he remembered how young Adam had been the first time they'd made their way through it together. He couldn't have been much more than three - surely no more than four. Much too young for a single syllable of it to make sense to him, but he had sat very still just the same and seemed to enjoy it. Or maybe it was the sound of his father's voice he'd been enjoying - or having his undivided attention. A little further into the adventures of fatherhood he probably would have chosen more wisely, something more age-suitable, but at the time it had seemed to make sense, and besides, it was one of the only books he had owned. And Adam had developed such a love of poetry - who knew whether or not that early exposure had contributed?
He settled himself in the chair near the bed and looked closely at Adam, used the cloth to pat at his face once more, then rewet it and placed it again on his forehead. Maybe it was his imagination, but he seemed a little quieter to him - to hold himself less rigidly. He opened the book, watching him over the top. "Book One," he recited, almost without glancing at the page, "Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste brought death into the world, and all our woe, with the loss of Eden, til one greater Man restore us…"
Adam's head shifted the slightest bit, sinking a little into the pillow. His lips moved silently.
Ben paused, watching him. He pulled his chair closer to the head of the bed, resting his elbow on it, allowing himself at least that much contact; lifted the book again. Been a while since he'd read this. He cleared his throat. "Restore us, and regain the blissful Seat, Sing Heav'nly Muse, that on the secret top of OREB, or of SINAI, didst inspire that Shepherd, who first taught the chosen Seed, in the Beginning how the Heav'ns and Earth Rose out of CHAOS…"
Was he dreaming it, or did that hitch in his breathing seem less pronounced? He closed his eyes for just a second, sent up a silent prayer. Then he began to read again.
