by  Charlene


Rating: PG

Disclaimer: Fox owns them but they shouldn't b/c they aren't using them like I would lol

Based on a statement Belinda made back in the summer. This fic is for Kit. Unbetaed so all mistakes are mine. I hope you all enjoy. Char :-)


"Now look, Murdoch! Just calm down. It's just a matter of putting in a few stitches and me behaving for a change."

"Calm down! I wouldn't need to calm down if you hadn't been walking that fence railing. How many times have I told you not to do that? How many, Johnny?" Murdoch Lancer paced the bedroom, his hands flailing in the air as he yelled.

Sighing, Johnny wrapped his arms around himself, his right hand rubbing his left forearm like he was trying to bring warmth on a cold winter night. "A few. Look, Murdoch --"

Stopping at the side of the bed, Murdoch looked down upon Johnny. "Look at you! Your ankle's swollen, your knee's swollen, you have a gash in your side that does need stitches. I don't know if your bones are broken or not."

"Everything's gonna be okay." Johnny sighed and leaned back against the dark chocolate headboard of his bed. His head rested against the rolling pin shaped cross beam of his headboard. He closed his eyes against the dull throb that seemed to be just behind his eyes.

Murdoch looked down into the face of his younger son, his worried ire dissipating. "Johnny, it is not okay. You're hurt." He sat on the side of the bed, careful not to jostle his injured boy. Cupping Johnny's chin, he turned his son to face him. "I am not angry with you. I am worried about you, and I yell when I'm worried. It is not okay for you to be hurt." He started wrapping Johnny's swollen knee with white strips of cloth.

"I've had worse," Johnny replied.

Murdoch sighed, sadness in the sound. "I'm sure you have. I wish it wasn't so, but I can't change the past. What I can do, what I want to do, is keep you from being hurt in the future." He continued bandaging the knee, knowing he had to move to the ankle next until Teresa returned with the instruments necessary for him to sew his son up. That was a bloody necessity he hated doing; knowing each stitch brought his child another measure of pain.

Johnny looked down, suddenly fascinated by the patterns in the stitching of the beige quilt he sat upon. This was so foreign to him, having someone to care about him, his health, his needs. Someone who wanted to protect him. He felt warm at a level far deeper than the slight fever he had could reach. This was a healing warmth that reached into the depths of his soul. There was so much he wanted to say to his father, but the words wouldn't come past the lump in his throat. All he could manage to creak out was "Thanks."

Murdoch ruffled one hand through Johnny's thick black hair while the other took over pressing the wound on his side. "You scared me, boy. When you missed your footing and went flying through the air," he shook his head and let out a breath he didn't remember holding, "I thought you had broken your neck. You were so still at first."

Johnny looked into his father's blue-gray eyes and grinned sheepishly. "Hurt too much to move. So I just laid there, caught my breath, stared in the dirt."

Unbidden, the image flashed across Murdoch's mind. His son lying prone, so broken looking. His heart almost stopping, gripped in the clenching fist of fear. If Johnny's head had hit the rock that caused the gash in his side ... Murdoch shook his head. Looking to the side, he met his son's intense gaze and the bad memories fled. 

"I didn't mean to worry you, Murdoch."

"I know you didn't, Johnny." Murdoch watched his boy, the way he dipped his head, his chin to his chest, when he was sad or contemplative. Putting his hand under that chin, he lifted Johnny's head again so blue eyes met blue. "Son, it's a parent's job to worry about their children. I worry about you when you're asleep. I worry more about you when you're awake. Nothing you can do or not do will keep me from worrying about you. Do you understand?"

Johnny smiled shyly. "Yeah."

Murdoch shook his head and sighed. "No, you don't. Not really. But you will one day."

Johnny leaned back against the bed and looked up at his father. He knitted his brows together in thought. "Yeah? When?"

Murdoch smiled down at his boy. "When you give me those grandchildren to fill up this house, Johnny."









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