Defend Me from My Friends
by MAHC (Amanda)
Chapter 20: When, Not If
POV: Various
Matt Dillon fought to break through the fog that filled his head, vainly grasping at slivers of consciousness, chest aching and tight as if a blacksmith's anvil pressed down on it. His last clear memory was of Kitty sitting by his bedside, but past that, jumbled sounds and sights encroached on reality and thickened the fog until he wasn't sure what was real and what was induced by his fevered mind.
He heard Chester's voice say something about money. He saw Glenn's fixed, dead gaze staring up at him as the final breath left his old friend's body. He heard Kitty's worried tone as she asked Doc if he was better – or worse. He saw Doc's scowl hovering close to his face, heard the old physician threaten him. Damn it, Matt Dillon, if you die on me, I'll – I'll – And then the fog thickened, and even the slivers disappeared, and his chest closed tight, and he didn't hear anything at all.
xxx
Chester Goode fretted behind Doc and Miss Kitty, peering around them as best he could in a futile effort to determine for himself just how bad off Mister Dillon was. The letter he had brought to show the marshal had been stuffed hastily into a front pants pocket as soon as the injured man's breathing grew alarmingly labored, sending Kitty immediately back to his bedside and Chester to the door to call for Doc. That had been hours ago, hours during which Chester and Kitty took turns pressing cool compresses against the burning forehead. Hours during which Doc listened almost continuously to the ominous wheezing inside that broad chest. Hours during which all of them wondered if relief over his apparent recovery just that morning was doomed to be shrouded by grief before dawn broke again.
xxx
Kitty Russell tried to ignore Chester's sighs and tongue clucking behind her. She knew he was worried about Matt – they all were, of course – but she didn't know how much longer her nerves could stand the constant, irritating sounds. It was as if each noise stabbed right through her, twisting home over and over just how badly hurt – and now how sick – Matt was, just how close to losing him she was.
"Chester!" she finally snapped, then pressed her lips together when she glimpsed the look of injured surprise on his face.
Doc swung around, frowning at the younger man and clutching Kitty's arm in firm support. "Why don't you go check the jail?" he suggested bluntly.
Eyes wide, Chester protested, "But, Doc, I need ta be here for Mister Dillon. What if – "
"What if he wakes up and hears all that commotion you're making? He'll think somebody di – " His words stopped abruptly, and he flashed a look of apology at Kitty. "Well, why don't you just – just be quiet?"
"You ain't the only one worried about Mister Dillon," he argued, feelings on his sleeve.
Mustering a tight smile, Kitty touched his shoulder and said, "Of course not, Chester. We know you're worried. But right now – right now Doc maybe just needs some time to figure out what else to do. You understand, don't you?"
He tilted his head and nodded. "Well, surely I do, Miss Kitty. Some folks just don't know how ta tell people things polite-like." With a glare at Doc, he limped to the door. "I'll be taking care of things around town. When Mister Dillon wakes up, tell him that so he won't worry."
Smile softening a bit, Kitty agreed, already turning back to look at the prone figure on the bed before the door had completely shut. When Mister Dillon wakes up…when, not if, she fervently prayed.
xxx
Doc Adams pulled the stethoscope away from the flushed, glistening skin of Matt Dillon's chest, shaking his head and drawing in a heavy breath. When Kitty looked up at him sharply, he mirrored her concerned gaze, regretful that his own concern was so apparent. As a physician, he needed to be a vessel whose hull of reality nevertheless moved under the sails of hope. He just hoped this ship wasn't sinking faster than he could bail.
"No change," he assured her. No change in this case was good – at least for now. If Matt could hang on through the fever, if he could fight long enough to break it, if he could find the strength to outlast the new assault of pneumonia on top of his grievous wounds – if he could just…live.
He looked down again at the familiar face, its handsome lines twisted in the struggle to breathe, to dampen the pain, begging his dear friend to fight. But his patient merely lay there, wheezing, shivering, and neither confirming nor denying his intent to stay with them.
TBC