"Adam! Adam, damn it, Adam yer gonna hurt yerself! Come on, Adam, settle down - I don't wanna havta - I don't wanna havta do what I done earlier - "

Adam pushed with everything he had in him, which, he admitted ruefully to himself, wasn't a whole lot. He shoved hard against the wall of flesh and blood in front of him with his free arm, felt a branding iron skewer his right shoulder blade. Gagging on the pain, he collapsed, weak and helpless and enraged at his helplessness. He wouldn't give up like this, he wouldn't - he pushed again, feebly, this time choked on a cry as the fire razored its way down his back and up his neck and into his chest. He tried to make a fist against it, but his mutinous arm just dropped, dangling uselessly. He tried to push away with his forehead instead, but his breath had been snatched from him somehow and he couldn't seem to get it back. Gulping for it, he found himself pressed against something solid and soft, that smelled like…sucking in long breaths, he couldn't help but notice that it smelled like…Hop Sing's laundry soap. Now he really was crazy.

Hot moisture stung at his eyelids, and he shredded his lip with his teeth. No. No. He would not give in. As long as he could fight, he would…there was a steady, resonant thumping under his ear and what frightened him even more was that he found it comforting. His mind seemed to be dangling by a thread, slewing from sanity back to insanity without warning, and he had to hold on, to keep a grip on the sanity side for as long as he could. He struggled.

"Sh, sh - now, c'mon, Adam. Settle down. It's only me. You know ol' Hoss, don't ya? It's jest me."

Oh, God. It did sound like Hoss - and the thought of his brain skewing David Fairchild until he appeared to be his brother Hoss made his stomach roil. He tried to push away again, but whatever strength he'd thought he had seemed to have abandoned him. Furious, gritting his teeth until they ached, he forced himself to slow down, calm down, take a breath and get himself in hand. Gather a little strength. Then you can fight.

The smell of laundry soap was persistent, pervasive, achingly familiar, and he became aware of other homey smells…a faint whiff of smoke from a pine log fire, the lingering scent of fresh piney air, and, underneath it, a reminiscent remnant of what seemed to be one of Hop Sing's pork dinners. He almost smiled, then frowned.

That's what was wrong. The smells.

In all his other wanderings, he had never quite lost touch with the damp earth smells of the root cellar, overlaid with the scents of onion and apple and smoked meat. In even the best of his visions they had lingered there, mocking him faintly. So what did this mean?

"That's better, now. Jest take it easy, Adam. You want some water er somethin'?"

Adam. Fairchild never called him Adam - never called him anything - maybe Cartwright, now and then. Amelia called him Adam, of course…was he finally, truly mad? Could mad people wonder about being mad? Otherwise, what…? He felt his breaths slow to panting gasps. If he actually looked, what would he see? You can't count on that, Adam, he scolded himself sternly. You know you can't. It doesn't mean anything.

He made his right arm work for him, just a little bit, managed to lift it and snatch at something - a handful of fabric - tried to push again. He didn't manage to move himself much, but he felt a large, flat hand splay across his back, rubbing there lightly. He jumped automatically, his muscles knotting, but that touch was different, so different from Amelia's crawling hands or David's brutal blows, that he was still for a minute, frozen, trying to read it better, to make himself understand. The voice was different too, but so familiar – how many times had he heard that same voice, that same tone, gentling a frightened animal? He was trembling so hard now that it made his head ache, the one hand still clinging mindlessly to that clutch of fabric. Dampness coated his skin.

"C'mon. I'm gonna git you back in bed – yer about freezin'. Jest hope you didn't hurt nothin' worse in that tumble. Let me jest get you all settled down again. You feelin' better now? You know where you are?"

No. Everything seemed wrong and he couldn't get his mind around what it meant. Different smells. Different sounds. Different light. He opened his eyes again tentatively. His room was still there. The figure that sounded like Hoss – that felt like Hoss – was still there. Before he could stop himself, he vomited. And vomited.

That blotted out everything, wringing his insides and pounding at his temples. Something held his head and the voice continued throughout, soothing and rhythmic. It reminded him of another voice, one that had soothed him when he was sick once, and he kept his eyes closed and tried to reach for it. Finally he sagged, exhausted and depleted. Something was pushed against his mouth and he took a mouthful before he could think about it.

"Rinse," the voice advised.

Obediently, he did. Something else was dabbing at his face and he wanted to push it away, but that would have meant letting go of his handful of fabric, and somehow he just couldn't, so he turned his head weakly away instead.

"Yeah, that's it. All right. You ready to get back in bed?"

The question struck him as so odd that, without really meaning to, he opened his eyes. The light danced and wavered. A round globe dandled before him, slid into focus, then out again. So. That was new too. Usually his imaginings were nice and crisp and clear…he narrowed his eyes. The globe stayed, sharpening to show blunt features, a tightened mouth, watchful, worried eyes. He let his head fall back, studying it curiously. He cleared his throat past the sour burning that lingered there.

"Hoss," he rasped.

"Yeah, well, ain't nobody else I know of got this ugly mug. C'mon, let's get you back in bed afore you freeze."

He shook his head, his eyes fixed on the floating face, working out a puzzle.

The face sighed a gusty sigh. "Dang it, if you ain't - hold on, hold on…" The face disappeared and he let his eyes slide speculatively along the wall, over the door, lingering thoughtfully on one of the pictures. "Lean forward fer a minute, if you kin - here, let me help…" He wasn't really paying attention to the hands that shifted him forward, or the warm weight that bundled around his shoulders, but when something tried to loosen the grip he maintained on his bit of fabric, he looked down. "Let me jest - I jest wanna tuck this in there - " He hung on tenaciously. The hefty sigh again. "Adam, dadblame it, if you ain't the most stubborn critter I ever done met in all my born days - and that's goin' some." He lifted his head again, let it fall back against the support behind him, watched the face, studying the familiar planes of the forehead and nose and mouth and jaw. "Now, if you won't get back in bed, at least set here and stay warm while I go fetch Pa."

His heart started up that quick-time timpani again, beating a rapid quiver in his throat, so hard that he wondered if it actually showed from the outside. He tightened his fragile hold on his cloth.

Another sigh. If his insides hadn't been so icy and wavering, it might have made him smile. "Look, I'm jest gonna be down the hall, jest fer a second – then I'll be right back, promise. I'll bring Pa."

He swallowed slowly. He thought he nodded, but his real feelings must have shown, because the globe remained, suspended in some odd way before him.

"Adam, I promised Pa I'd fetch him the very second you came round. You know what he's gonna…?" The voice faltered to an uncomfortable, uncertain stop. "Look," it tried again. "At least let me get rid of that basin. That smell can't be…" He watched quietly, measuringly, waiting for the globe to dissolve and disappear. There was low, muttered cursing instead. "Eh, dang. Reckon it could wait. An Pa could use the sleep anyway."

The globe did vanish this time, briefly, but he felt a broad, lumbering weight settle next to him instead, not quite touching, moving carefully so that his precarious grasp of his cloth didn't break. A solid, sturdy band of warmth stretched out behind him – not too close – just close enough. He turned his head slightly without lifting it so that he could look, carefully cataloging the globe's features, then the short, strong neck, and the wide, deep chest. He turned forward again, released his breath for the first time in…how long? He felt his heart catch at a more normal rhythm.

"Guess I shoulda expected it," the voice sounded matter of fact. "You know, even when they said you was dead an' all, I half expected you ta push yer way right outta that coffin, jest ta show 'em, ta show ya hadn't made up yer mind yet ta die and so you wouldn't be goin' no place. An' you call me Missouri mule."

Adam didn't move, but the beat in his throat started up again, harder this time.

"Whole time, at the funeral, when folks was sayin' all those nice things, I kep' thinkin' about the kinda jokes you'd make about it – kep' half listenin' fer 'em. Almost laughed, onct, thinkin' about it. Stopped myself, on accounta I didn't want folks ta get the wrong idee. Didn't wanna hurt Pa any more than he was hurt already. Didn't think anybody'd unnerstand. I mean, you woulda, but…" There was a tense silence. The voice, when it continued, shook, despite its resolute tone.

"Was a mighty bad day, Adam. Mighty bad. Don't think I can rightly ever make you unnerstand how bad it was. Then when Miz Amelia showed up…"

Adam stared ahead, his mind racing, the pulse in his throat almost choking him. He hadn't known this. Couldn't even imagine it, because he hadn't known anything about it. This wasn't a memory, and it wasn't invention. So that must mean…he fixed his gaze on the doorframe, tracing it with his eyes over and over. …That could only mean one thing.

He tested sensations, the feel of the chill wooden floor beneath him, the weight and heft of the quilt around his shoulders. He dropped his eyes to the quilt – it was an elaborate one, the product of Marie's delicate needle, stuffed with carefully collected goose down. Usually it resided in his father's room…he closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, noticed again the sweet smell of burning pine logs, the remaining hints of cooked food, the smell of soap and sweat and hay and animals that emanated from his companion, none of which quite covered the faint odor of his previous bout with illness. Surely not the kind of thing somebody would bother to imagine. He opened his eyes again, cautiously sending them around the room, noting things, afraid to be wrong. His gaze reached the night table and everything stopped.

The book he'd been reading was there. His mother's miniature was there. A glass of water. But something was missing, something that he never, ever would have eliminated from his imaginings. The music box. Nowhere in sight.

He squeezed his eyes shut again against a sudden blur of wetness. When he could push words past the tightness in his throat he barely whispered, "I made it, didn't I?"

There was a puzzled silence. "What's that you say, Adam?"

He hadn't really expected him to understand, but he repeated it anyway, something hard and taut uncoiling slowly inside him, giving him room to breathe. "I made it. I'm home."

"Course you are, Adam. Sure you are."

He blinked damply at the door again, then the night table, then carefully marked the shaving stand and wardrobe. The desk he couldn't see without getting up to turn around, but somehow he knew it was just where it was supposed to be.

He let his eyes slide closed again, breathing in and out, oxygen for the first time in ages seeming to fill his lungs and reach all the way to his extremities. Slowly, slowly, he marshaled the implications. Well, well, well. He laughed softly, felt Hoss's concerned gaze rest on him.

"Adam? You okay?"

Okay? Okay didn't begin to describe it. He was alive. He had lasted. He had made it home.

He breathed in again, carefully, released it on another labored near-laugh.

Home. He was home. The faintest of smiles pulled at the corners of his mouth.

Take that, you worthless son of a bitch.