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𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘪𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬

sam drake x f!reader

☆ Sum: You're everything Sam Drake has, you're everything he lacks.

tags/warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, angst with no happy ending, injury fic, mentions of blood/death/gore/injuries/hospitals, medical care (cleaning wounds/stitches), medical inaccuracies!, reader is in the medical field (not specified), mentions of infection, cnc (if you squint), cheating, breeding w/ no mention of pregnancy, penetration, raw sex, scumbag selfish sam, toxic relationship dynamics, guilt-tripping, grinding, teasing, slight reader dominance, codependency, the word whore/slut, praise, manipulation, coercion, breakup sex, panic attacks (sex induced), no aftercare, no y/n wc: 16.8k

a/n: *comes back after 5 months to put sam drake thru the meat grinder..* hey... i'm not sure who will read this (considering how small the sam drake circle is and how long this fic is ((girl what r we doing @ myself))) but if you do, u own my heart. this is the longest (and probably best) thing i've written. i turned 25 last month and had this horrible toxic gut-wrenching idea that i had to put my mind to writing. if u can't stand sam drake after this fic, then i've done my job.. i did the same thing to myself. hope u love it, and if u don't then don't tell me about it cause idgaf. mwah xo

Sam's elbow drips blood onto the WELCOME mat at his feet.

He should be anywhere else right now, yet he raps at the door.

Part of him hopes it doesn't open… and part of him hopes it does. His stomach drops when he hears movement inside the house. It takes another minute for the door to open, relieved to see the person on the other side.

You.

Sam tries to speak, and groans in pain instead, keeling over with one hand on his stomach. When he steadies himself again, he's surprised at the fact that you didn't slam the door in his face upon seeing him.

"What the fuck…" are the first words out of your mouth.

"Hey…"

"You look like shit."

"I feel it… ugh…"

"What are you doing here and not a hospital."

"Aren't you sweet?"

An eye roll from you.

Another groan of pain cuts him off, out of breath when he speaks again.

"I can explain."

"No, you know what, I don't want to know. You can't be here right now. Not after everything."

"I-" he drops his head, "I don't have anyone else."

Nathan told him not to go, but he didn't listen. Again. He'd told him not to take this job without talking to you about it, said it would bite him in the ass, and it did.

"Don't come crying to me when she doesn't let you back in the house. She's a smart woman, don't underestimate her, and don't be a dumbass like I was. Trust me, talking this thing out beforehand will be worth it."

Although Sam had shrugged his brother off and assumed the worst wouldn't happen, that he'd get lucky. Get another chance.

He's a Drake. They're lucky, right?

Just like when he'd managed to find himself free of those prison walls after fifteen years of being left behind. When he'd found his brother after so long and was able to do the thing they loved together, once more.

Sam never begged for anything- never. But he desperately needed this. Needed you.

Burning one bridge the moment he walked out that door all those weeks ago. Maybe he should've kept burning them if he didn't want this enormous weight on his chest.

He wishes he could choose isolation. He's too selfish for that.

Too selfish to give up seeing you again.

Your mouth opens to retort with something, anything that would've made him get off your doorstep and go away… and yet you have nothing. A part of you wants to tell him off for making you feel bad for him while he's in this state. You almost do, but he falls to his knees again before you can get a word out.

"Fuck," you mutter before leaning down to help him stand.

Draping his arm over your shoulder, you speak again.

"Don't say I never did anything for you."

☆。*。☆。

He'd been avoiding it. Constantly.

The trip started in a week, and he hadn't said a word.

Well, he tried to. Keyword tried… the timing just didn't work in his favor that day.

Sam Drake was never good with confrontation. Especially not when it came to you. He'd always been like this though, avoidant in various ways when there was something on his mind he didn't feel like talking about. Sometimes lying got him through it. Sometimes. Not every time.

The thought of being truthful about this had his stomach churning, the image of inevitable disappointment washing over your face. He despised hurting you like this, and yet this would be the fourth time since you two got together.

Four times over three years, he'd left for a number of weeks to take on another adventure for long lost treasure. When it was over, he'd come crawling back like a kicked puppy.

Was it you doing the kicking, or him?

Sam was fully aware he could only get away with this for so long before push came to shove. He wished it was in the cards for him to choose one over the other.

He was selfish. He wanted both.

How long could this coexist?

The guilt had been building up in his chest for too long about it. He would have to tell you sooner or later. But Sam drew the short straw. he couldn't put it off any more.

He approached you that day with a horrible poker face.

"Hey," you greeted. A moment later, "What is it?"

The thing was, you didn't have to guess with him. It was like this every single time he was hiding something, and most times he'd stop beating around the bush to say he signed on to do another excursion… without even considering how you'd feel.

"I've got this trip comin' up... and it's looking really promising."

Oh, sure. Like Avery's treasure, when he and Nathan barely escaped with their lives… losing every cent of that treasure to the explosion and cave-in.

Surely this time would satisfy him. He wouldn't walk away with nothing just like his brother did, right?

"Sam..."

"This one's different."

"You say that every time."

You'd wished it was something else. For god's sake, something else other than another treasure excursion where he'd make it home to you by the skin of his teeth. Where he'd sit on the bathroom toilet with blood and dirt on his skin and expect you to take care of it all because you did. Because you loved him. Maybe more than he loved you.

"I don't want to hear about this."

But he does. Because he loves this shit. He loves history and this is what makes him happy. You know it does, yet you can't help feel betrayed when his eyes light up talking about the history behind the treasure he's planned to find.

"It's just a couple weeks."

"... When are you supposed to leave."

"Saturday."

Saturday. That's four days away.

"Jesus, Sam. You can't even give me the proper amount of time to adjust to something like this."

"You know how this goes, baby. I barely know any details until it gets closer."

"Barely know any details? Why do you like risking your life like this? Did you ever once consider how I might feel?"

"I..."

"Right. You think on that."

Dinner was quiet that night. You'd cooked, he did the dishes.

You tried to relax with a hot bath, hoping Sam would still be downstairs before you were done so you could be asleep (or fake being asleep) when he came up. But he's already in there, reading one of the books he'd checked out from the library on the treasure he was going after. Taking notes on a pad he kept with it.

The last thing you say to him was goodnight, turning your lamp off before rolling over and passing out.

The week dragged along.

When it was finally Saturday, the day Sam had to leave, you exploded.

The sight of him dropping his duffel enraged you while caught up in chores around the house. This halted any chance of continuing, the shutdown already imminent.

"Are you seriously still doing this?"

Sam turns to you, same guilt-ridden look on his face.

"I told you-"

"Yeah I know what you told me. I still don't want you to go."

"What?"

"Did you hear me? Have you been hearing anything I've been saying?"

"I can't back out now. Everything's paid for."

"God..." you mutter, "I've told you how I feel about you going on these trips and not once have you ever considered my opinion."

"You could have told me this when I first brought it up."

"I guess I could have. But then that would be considering your feelings over mine, which if flipped around, you continue to apparently not care about. So I guess it doesn't matter that I'm bringing it up now."

"What do you want from me? This is who I am."

"You're about to walk out the door AGAIN for a seedless adventure after keeping it from me, again. You can't even tell me details about it?"

"I would if I could, honey."

"Don't call me honey right now."

Sam huffs a breath.

"And why can't you tell me anything? Because it's not legal?"

He scoffs.

"Right."

"I'll be fine. I always am."

"It's not about that and you know it."

"Well, I'm sorry that this is what I love to do."

"That's not a fucking apology. Is this really what you want to be doing for the rest of your life?"

"I didn't ever see anything different for myself. This is all I am."

"Oh really?"

Your words suggest that the life you'd built together wasn't anything to him. It's far from the truth, but that's what he feels you're referencing.

"You know that's not what I meant."

"You told me you and Nathan both barely escaped from Libertalia with your lives. Your brother quit for good after he almost lost you again."

"Don't bring my brother up. This conversation is about us."

"Oh, is it? Because I recall you only thinking about yourself in this conversation."

"You don't know anything about what we've been through."

You squint your eyes, very vividly recalling the night where Sam detailed the many things he and Nathan have gone through together and the shit they've stirred up. You refuse to get into it, so you let it go like you've pushed out far more from your mind.

"Sure…"

"If I quit this, I don't know who I am without it."

"You are plenty of things besides a treasure hunter, Sam."

He's silent for a moment, sighing.

"Well maybe I don't feel that way."

"You don't feel that way?"

"Christ-"

"What even am I to you besides a house to come home to?"

"Jesus, you're my girl! You've always been my girl!"

"Really."

"You take care of me, patch me up and feed me. You're so good at that."

"I think I deserve more than being reduced to what I can do for you."

"Baby…"

"No. You can't throw this shit in my face and expect me to be okay with it every time!"

"Well you did before! I don't know why it's a fuckin' issue now."

"Cause the first couple of times I let it go. But then when I realized you wouldn't stop… that made it harder to keep waiting however long for you to come back. It's like you gave more and more time to that instead of me."

"That's not true."

"No, it is."

"I can't give this up. You have to understand that."

"Well, I don't. I really don't."

"I'm sorry, I don't have the time to explain this to you right now."

"You never do even when you have the time."

Sam sighs, his shoulders dropping. It's true, what you've said; although he never does, he knows it'll upset you when he talks about it to justify the times he's left. He already hates seeing the disdain in your face before he leaves.

"Don't go. Please, Sam."

You're tired. You're so tired of fucking begging him.

"I'm sorry."

"You're not."

"Yes, I am. Okay? I-"

"Just stop trying to defend yourself."

A beat.

"If you go..."

He stops in his tracks.

"Don't give me a fuckin' ultimatum right now. Jesus."

"Then what the hell am I supposed to do?"

The taxi's horn honked from outside.

Sam looks towards the door, then back at you.

"I have to go."

"No, you don't."

"Y'know, you keep sayin' that. But I do."

This is not worth the waiting game. Not worth the anguish you cycle through every time this happens. Sam refuses to hear you and you can't keep betraying your own feelings just because he chooses to.

"If you go, don't expect me to wait up for you. I'm done."

He refuses to acknowledge that you'd do that to him, that you'd turn him away when he comes back.

"We'll talk about this when I get back. I'll make it up to you."

He opens the door, picks up his duffel and gives a quick glance back, then walks out.

"No, I don't think you will," you respond, feeling your voice break a little.

The slam the door makes when he's gone shatters any guard you were on- it's too strong a wave to stand up through.

Sobs leave your body, grieving, emptying your soul out as there's no one there to hold you, entire world collapsing.

☆。*。☆。

Sam's head is pounding by the time he's realized you picked him up off the ground and brought him inside. Everything is a blur as you kick the door closed behind him, carrying his limping body to the bathroom.

When he's finally sat on the toilet seat, the first thing he notices is how your place smells- the exact same as when he stormed out weeks ago, hoping enough of the lavender scent was still on his clothes by the time he'd cooled off.

His vision is blurred, head spinning, and he's not sure how much time has passed from when he stepped off the plane. Immediately being ambushed by a group of the surviving soldiers from the island was not what he was expecting.

It always happened… there was never one party searching for a legendary treasure. Sam's never experienced an exhibition without them.

"Stay here, I'll get my kit."

"Not… going anywhere…" he responds with pain in his voice, but you missed his quip on account of rushing out of the room.

Doing so gives you a couple of moments alone with your very conflicting thoughts.

Sam's words still cut fresh in your mind despite time having passed. Since then it had been radio silence, which wasn't a problem at first. You went from not ever wanting to speak to him again to filling with regret and worry within three days. It made all those weeks drag on much longer.

Emotions ran high and low, debating whether or not you should call or text and let it out or simply sit alone with your deafening loneliness and heartache for the future weeks.

It tore you up more than he knew.

Sweaty palms grabbed for the large first aid kit, clattering loudly as you pulled it from its spot in the hall closet. Seeing him once again in this state pulled a tightness around your lungs.

You should be used to this by now. How he leaves for weeks at a time with no time frame of when he'd come back, knowing he'd come back injured on your doorstep.

You manage to get back to him right before his head knocks the side of the bathtub and renders him unconscious. The kit falls from your grip as you rush forward, clattering to the ground loudly.

"Sam? Sam! Woah, woah."

One of your hands cradles his head, the other checking his pulse and slapping his face lightly to get him to open his eyes.

"Stay with me. Hey, hey."

His eyes finally flutter open, letting you sigh in relief.

"There you are. You okay?"

He groans a little.

"Dizzy?"

A slight nod.

"Probably don't even remember hitting your head," you mutter, "Shit, this gash is pretty bad."

You spot the deep laceration on his forehead, swollen and dripping blood down his face.

"I've got to examine you for other injuries, but I need you to try and stay awake, okay?"

He nods weakly. There's numerous small cuts on his face, but those are the least of your concerns as he's bleeding pretty badly from the cut on his forehead, which will definitely need stitches by the looks of it. There's dirt and blood all over his clothes and skin, some dried but mostly wet.

All that's running through his head right now is that he doesn't want you to look at him… he knows he's a burden. He always has been, he thinks.

The older brother who got himself into prison on purpose in the first place, who maybe should have stayed there. His fault. This was all his fault.

Right now, the bathroom lights buzz, and he has a splitting headache. Caused by, no doubt, the gash there? God, he can't even look at himself.

Meanwhile, you assess for more injuries.

Do no harm, they'd taught you. But right now all you want to do is let those unsaid things loose. He probably wouldn't even hear them now if you did.

"God, you look like shit."

"Didn't you say that already?" His voice is raw and almost gone.

"Just shut up and let me look you over. Shit, are you still bleeding?"

You reach for Sam's torso where he's still holding his stomach, but he flinches, more blood soaking his shirt when he does so.

"Stop, seriously. You need to let me examine you."

"Yeah, I know the drill," he concedes, dropping his hand.

When you're able to lift his shirt, it reveals a bad flesh wound on his torso. You're quick to press a gauze pad to it in order to stop the bleeding, groaning in pain as you do so.

"Sorry, I'm sorry. Hold that there. Now, are you gonna show me more of those as I keep looking?"

"Maybe j-just one or two more…"

You regret asking him the question, because the pained sounds in his answer are enough to make you shut your mouth.

All Sam is trying to do is stay conscious for the time being, because the pain is loud. A burning like nothing he's ever experienced before. He's so utterly weak, and even when he's come back in worse shape than this, he has never been this hurt in front of you.

You've got your work cut out: two lashes that need stitches, one on his forehead and the other a bullet graze on his arm; four other larger gashes that were to be cleaned and bandaged, including on his knees, elbow and stomach, a twisted ankle, and a potential concussion.

"You need some stitches for that cut on your head and the one on your arm, and I don't have any lidocaine."

Clearly, stealing drugs from the hospital would get you in trouble. Even if you wished you had some for him right now.

"It's alright, I can take it."

"I think you've taken enough."

There's a silence that falls between you two when you share a look.

"I can't promise it won't hurt, but I can promise to try and be gentle."

Sam nods. You take a minute to prep the alcohol swabs and sutures and tell him you're going to start with those first before you clean and bandage everything else.

Gauze to wipe up the excess blood dripping over his eye, alcohol to clean the area, and then the suture kit.

His sounds of discomfort are nails on a chalkboard when you push the needle into his skin. You wish he didn't have to feel every pull of the suture and stick of the needle, but you also knew it would help him in the long run to jump start the healing.

Getting the worst of it over first helps him push through when all he has to deal with afterwards is the throbbing and hope that a nap and some pain medicine is in his future.

It takes you about 40 minutes for you to finish patching him up, including getting all his injuries to stop bleeding. The two gashes seemed to be the worst injuries, but of course you have no idea what could be going on internally. That would require a trip to the nearest hospital, and Sam didn't have insurance.

Some bled right through the gauze pads, needing immediate replacing until it finally ceased and you were able to put off worrying about one so you could move on to another.

"There. All done. Your cuts are too fresh to wash all that dirt off you tonight."

Sam opens his mouth to say something, but you stop him.

"Don't. Not tonight."

So he sighs and shifts his eyes to the floor. A moment later he attempts to stand.

"Well then, I guess I'll get out of your hair and be on my way…"

He doesn't get very far before an immense dizziness renders him immobile again.

"Oh, now you're all lively? Where the hell do you think you're going? You can't drive, and I still don't know how you got here in one piece considering the state you're in, so you're damn sure not getting behind the wheel tonight. Besides, you have nowhere else to go. Your words, not mine."

"Ouch."

Sam's heart clenches at the echo of his words and how stern your voice is now. He also remembers your words right before leaving.

"You said-"

"I don't want to hear it. You're staying here. I'll make you up a bed on the couch. And let's get one thing straight. You showed up on my doorstep, bleeding, asking for my help, which I did. I could've brought you to the hospital and left, but I didn't. I could've also shut the door on you, and again, I didn't. So for once in your damn life, listen to me."

"Fine. Wouldn't want to leave against medical advice anyway."

"Just try not to pass out while I set up the couch for you."

"Hey wait. Do you have-"

"Your left over pain pills? I almost tossed them, but I had a feeling they might come in handy."

"Smart girl."

"Don't praise me right now, you're not in the state to do so."

Sam laughs, then groans in pain, clutching his stomach with one hand.

"That's what you get."

You walk out of the bathroom, gathering what you need for him that's already here; sheets, a pillow, blanket, fresh clothes, and the pills. First you set up the couch, then grab a glass of water for him before going back to the bathroom where Sam's clutching his head.

"Feeling alright?"

"Uh, everything hurts. So no."

"Come on, let's get you to the couch."

The task of carrying his weight on you seemed easier in retrospect, but now that he's bandaged up and the shock has worn off, he had trouble getting on his feet.

Limping even slower now, he's never felt like more of a fucking burden.

It feels so much longer until you finally reach the couch, lowering him onto the cushions.

"Look, just change and get some sleep. If you need any help with that, I'll be right nearby. I can only assume you haven't slept in god knows how long…"

You mumble the last part under your breath, hoping he didn't hear you.

He nods silently as you walk out of the room to let him do so, though he doesn't get very far with undressing himself before calling for you.

"Can you…"

"It's what I'm here for."

Your movements are soft and gentle as you help him pull each shirt off his body and over his head. Sam undoes his pants before dropping them, and decides to leave his boxers on for some semblance of leftover dignity. He has none right now, and this would at least do him a little bit of justice with everything.

Once you're done and he's settled onto the couch, you quickly run to toss his clothes lazily in the laundry room down the hall.

He's swallowing the pills as you knock on the door frame to let him know of your presence. Sam has an apologetic look on his face again when you take his empty water glass from the table, afraid those expressions are going to keep showing up.

"Don't say it. Just- how 'bout you make it through the night first, yeah? Rest."

"'Make it through the night?' Jesus, you act like I'm gonna die in my sleep or somethin'."

"Sam," you begin, "Those injuries could've been much much worse. You're lucky they weren't."

"Yeah, but-"

"No buts. Shut up, and go to sleep. I'll be right here if you need me."

"Don't you have to sleep at some point, too?"

"I do 24 hour shifts all the time. I'll be fine. You however, will not."

Sam wants to stay awake and keep hearing that gorgeous voice talk to him. He wants to hash out everything he's gone weeks with going over a dozen times in his head. Most of all, he wants to fight the effect of the pain medicine creeping in slowly so he could talk to you some more.

He doesn't even get that far before his eyelids are a thousand pounds.

☆。*。☆。

Morning light peeks through the blinds and wakes Sam in the early morning. The pain rears back for a moment before it charges forward, running right through him. He can't even open his eyes without a blinding headache, not to mention how dehydrated he is, and the fact that he feels every single injury in full now.

His eyes finally open through such anguish and spot you with your chin in your palm, staring blankly at the TV screen. The bags under your eyes are prominent as ever, indicative of a very tired you that chose not to sleep for his sake.

Sam clears his throat before speaking, "Did you get any rest?"

His voice makes you jump a bit, clearly not expecting him to be awake yet.

"Jesus, you scared me."

"Sorry," he replies, groaning before attempting to reach for the glass of water.

"How are you feeling?"

You stand and hand him the glass, not hesitating for a second to check his bandages.

"Well, I'm gonna need more pain meds, that's for sure. It all just hit me like a charged bull."

"All that shock is gone now, or whatever your brain was doing to prevent your body from feeling it."

"Right."

A beat.

"You want something to eat? I'm sure you're feeling hungry now, too."

"Um," he hesitates. You don't have to do that for him. But then he picks up on the empty burning in his stomach. "Actually, yeah. That would be great. Thank you."

Burden.

Guilt washes up in his throat like backwash and bile. Something else that burns when one vomits. He's certainly not rid of all this yet.

You walk away, but return a minute after with fresh water and two small cups.

"What's this?" Sam asks, gesturing to the other smaller cup.

"Mouthwash. You're too hurt to brush your own teeth, and I'm not dealing with your morning breath."

A quip about all the times you didn't mind it approaches on his tongue, but it's not the time.

He takes the cups from you and looks down at the one with the pills- the pill in it. Half of one.

"Wha- hey, there's only half a painkiller in here."

"Yeah. I don't need you high this early in the morning. You can have the other when you're done eating. Then you'll probably pass out again for most of the day."

"Fine."

He takes the pill, then knocks the mouthwash back and waits patiently for you to return with breakfast.

Sam turns his attention to the TV still on and silent, just able to reach the remote on the coffee channel. He's distracted by some morning talk show for a while when you come back into the room holding a plate. There's a decent amount of food you'd prepared for him, and it's infinitely too much.

"You… didn't have to do all this." he says. But then… you've always been generous and kind and always put yourself last when doing something for someone you care about. Someone you love.

A little spark of hope alights in his chest. Maybe things would be okay. Maybe.

He's broken from thought when you reply to him.

"Better finish most of it. That's the last of our eggs."

Our eggs. Shit.

It slipped out. The fact that Sam technically lived here too. He may not soon, but last he checked, his clothes were still in the drawers upstairs, his beer bottles in the fridge, and his tools in the garage.

The look on your face says enough, pulling your eyes away. You didn't mean to let that fact slip. As if the idea of him being in your life anymore was something you were trying to move on from.

Sam swallows what he wants to say, which is I'll get more. But he doesn't know if he'll have a place in your life after this. After the injuries and having the talk you both know is coming sooner or later.

It's as if time freezes when Sam admires the plate of food, but is snapped back to the present by a familiar scent.

"Coffee, too?"

You nod, noting the smile beginning to grow on his lips.

Don't get sucked into him. Jesus Christ, at least try.

"Start eating, it'll be done in a minute. Then I'll change your bandages and you can rest some more."

"Thank you. For all of it."

His sincerity makes it harder to look at him after everything. All you do is give him a tight-lipped smile and go back into the kitchen.

Sam is so focused on scarfing down his food that he doesn't even register you walking back into the room until you place a mug with the warm drink down in front of him. He can't even thank you again when you're rushing to get new bandages for him.

Though you return with a swiftness right as Sam's taken another bite of food and can't talk. Instead, you do, handing him the rest of his medicine.

"You should probably take the other half of the pill now."

Waiting patiently for him to finish eating is no hard task, but you can see the guilt in his eyes as he slides you the last pieces of toast on his plate. You accept with a small smile, better to have anything in your stomach than just coffee.

You discard the dishes in the sink and retrieve fresh bandages and your bottle of isopropyl alcohol before sitting back down in front of Sam.

"When I clean your wounds this time, they'll probably hurt a lot more. Any shock you were in last night has definitely worn off by now, and bruises have probably started to form. I'll be as soft as I can."

Silently nodding at you, you know Sam trusts you completely. He wouldn't be here if he didn't.

Quickly you get to work, discarding each gauze pad and bandage to replace it with a fresh one after cleaning the area again. Sam winces at each slight sting. It's another hoop to jump through to ignore the way he smells. He reeks. But that'll be remedied soon.

"Depending on how you're healing tomorrow, I should be able to clean you up properly."

You're done changing his bandages as the medicine starts to have an effect. He sits back on the couch, eyelids already heavy, and you don't have to look back at him to know he's already asleep again. This leaves you free to pick up the slack of your chores you had to abandon right as Sam showed up last night.

Your body and mind are exhausted, but once the weekend ends, you won't have the time after your shifts at the hospital. So, you get right to work.

It's dishes, your second load of laundry, and the organization of your closet that has your brain on one percent by the time you've made it to the last box of de-cluttering.

Just one more, and then you can eat a simple bowl of cereal for dinner and check on Sam. He'd probably wake soon if he hadn't already.

You find yourself with the urge to peek down the hall at the sleeping man, feeling his presence as foreign rather than a comfort to have back. Perhaps because even after all this time you haven't forgotten about what toxin laced words he'd shot your way before leaving.

You pull the box from its dusty corner, not even realizing what it contains when you open it. That is, until you pick up a t-shirt that's one of your first gifts from Sam.

It's dark blue with an intricate design of embroidered constellations. One of your fingertips runs over the threaded design and you catch a faint whiff of the scent- it smells like Sam. His cologne, his pheromones, his essence are all woven into the shirt.

Short flashes of the day he'd given it to you pop into your mind but mostly how he couldn't keep his eyes off you when you wore it. Lifting it to your nose to take a deep inhale of the cloth had it all rushing back. Every soft moment you'd spent going through the cyclicals of life with him by your side- all good bad and ugly following. A bittersweet time you have looking back on it all, considering where you are now with him.

A cacophony of thoughts bombard your mind, eyes burning and throat growing a lump before tears threaten to spill over. It's the exhaustion, you tell yourself.

Unbridled, your tears soak the shirt, and you're stuck with regret and confusion while pondering everything you've come to call familiar.

How did you get here?

Is there a future where Sam relinquishes his desire for adventure, where he chooses you over the promise of riches of jewels and gold? Or will this run the both of you into the ground?

Burn the past three years of your life to ashes or worse, take Sam's life from him? Or will you choose to shove these ruminations of wanting a fuller life with him down until you learn to live with it?

A sob at the deafening feeling rips through your body, half attempting to keep quiet as to not wake him. Each breath you take against the shirt only makes you more nostalgic for the one thing you don't know if you'll ever have again, so you toss it from your grip back into the box.

Screw you, stupid shirt.

Wiping your tears away, you head to the bathroom and blow your nose, glancing at yourself from the side in the mirror.

Ugh, red swollen eyes meet you, splashing some water on your face and try to lessen it, but you fail. So your hair covering it would have to do to hide it. That and hoping Sam wouldn't notice, or that he'd be too groggy from sleep to see clearly.

Sam. He's probably awake by now.

You head down the hall quietly, avoiding eye contact with any of the hung frames with pictures of you two on the wall and not wanting to wake him.

Sam is thank fully still asleep when you peek in, leaving you to pad over into the kitchen for your bowl of cereal. You move fairly quietly, looking over at him every so often when you think you're being too loud. Once you sit down, the cereal clatters from the box into your bowl, filling it with a generous amount of milk. Hunger hits you like a truck, and soon you're scarfing down the first bowl and pouring yourself a second one with the left over milk. You finish, standing up just for the uncomfortable-too-full-stomach feeling kicks in.

You can't move, so you sit back down and close your eyes, resting your head in your palm to try and sit through the feeling, hoping it would fade away on its own. Stomach, why now?

Instead of that happening, the all too familiar lull of sleep begins to pull you under.

☆。*。☆。

Sam wakes a few minutes later, his eyes scanning the dim living room until he spots you under the single kitchen light, box of cereal and bowl still in front of you. He doesn't realize you're asleep at first since you've got your back turned to him, watching your slight twitching and small movements. It's when your palm gives out and you wake, catching yourself before your head hits the table.

Sam has to stifle a laugh when he realizes you were having one of those 'kitten falling asleep sitting up' moments. He watches silently as you rub your eyes and start to put your things away, but he can't take it anymore when you're yawning every five seconds, and sees those dark circles have gotten worse.

"You should get some rest."

His voice startles you, almost dropping the box on the floor.

"Jesus, you scared the hell out of me. How long have you been up?"

"Just a couple minutes. Well, long enough to be able to tell you need rest."

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not. Do doctors even take care of themselves anymore? You've already been up for a whole day. Don't make it two."

You want to combat him about it, but you know he's right… this time. You're not going to admit it to him, either.

"Fine."

You do a re-up of his meds and water, and before you leave, you speak again.

"I'll wash you up tomorrow."

Leaving him unwashed any longer would be too cruel.

"If you need anything else, don't hesitate to call me. I'll be right down the hall."

He knows. And of course you mean vocally call you instead of on the phone. He hasn't done that since before he left… before the fight. Almost a month ago.

Not the time, brain.

The walk to your bedroom feels as if it takes ages, each step heavier than the last until you made it to the doorway. It's so difficult to keep your eyes open, forgetting about brushing your teeth or washing your face for the night when you're undressing from your clothes and putting on an oversized shirt to sleep in.

The last of your effort is lost when you finally sink into the mattress and your head hits the pillow.

Time to recharge.

☆。*。☆。

You crashed pretty early, which is fine, unless you consider the fact that the clock says 7 am when you wake… which means you slept around 11 hours. A new record. You know for a fact Sam will be out for a few more hours, so you take them to relax in your bed a little more and stretch before getting up to make coffee.

It's around 10 when Sam stirs, asking you to help him get to the bathroom, because he's feeling a little more mobile after being a couch potato for god knows how long (one whole day). He finds himself still in a bit of discomfort, but nothing that couldn't be cured with a couple ibuprofen.

You both have some toast and coffee for breakfast before sitting on the couch awkwardly, watching TV.

Sam breaks the silence.

"I hear there's a hot bath in my future."

He speaks as if the last day and a half didn't happen. Amazing what some rest can do for someone teetering on miserable. He sounds like the old Sam, always easy going with light-hearted banter.

You so badly want to feel as if you can joke back. There's too much unsaid bottled up and waiting for you to burst.

"Yeah," is all you can get out, taking your dishes to the sink and disappearing to get everything prepared in the bathroom.

More bandages and gauze, isopropyl alcohol, anti-bacterial soap, and a fresh pair of clothes.

Internally, you feel as though you're going above and beyond for someone who can't even do the same for you. The other part of you strives to tell you how you can still do this because you care about and love him. Despite everything. It shows you have heart, and that a part of it was still reserved was him.

☆。*。☆。

Warm water fills the tub, heating the bathroom with the same temperature. You get up to help Sam walk over to the bathroom, but he barely needs to lean on you.

Nevertheless, you let him change and sit down in privacy, or as much as you could give him without feeling like it'll make things harder for him to do so without slipping. Soon enough, Sam calls you in, sitting with his back towards the door.

You'd already removed the old bandages, putting every inch of Sam's body and injury on display. The large scabs that have formed come with purple bruises and cover his back. Maybe it's just the lighting, but there were way more than you thought.

Thankfully, none of them are growing infected, nor have any opened up.

Dirt already washing off in the water, you enter the bathroom and close the door.

Immediately this feels more intimate than when you first cleaned his wounds. The air is different, it all is. There's a quiet comfort in the way you kneel onto the floor and move slowly to grab the washcloth.

Sam's eyes close in preparation, as if he'll be overwhelmed with your hands on him- for the first time like this in weeks. You reached towards his body slowly, with a small measure of uncertainty. He can hear you dunk your hand into the soapy water, the ricochet of droplets as you move closer.

Upon first contact, Sam flinched. Your hand stilled, waiting for a sign to continue. To know that this was okay. But he's starving to be given more of your touch. To be given it again. Unconditionally.

He's so hungry that every taste of it makes him nauseous. It's been an eternity (well, that's what it feels like) since you've touched him. He can't even remember what your hands felt like stitching him up the other day because he was so out of it.

Is it too much now? Sam's heart is pounding.

It's so quiet in the small bathroom that it feels like you're aware of every pump and flow of the blood in his chest. He feels like a burden all over again.

Yet a moment later, he's choking down everything in him that wants to push you away and tell you that he can do this himself and that he doesn't need you.

While it's almost entirely true, that you're everything he lacks, Sam doesn't want to think so. Besides, he's way too injured and sore to reach every spot that's got dried blood and dirt.

This shouldn't be so tough. It's a dance the both of you know well.

Eventually he nods, letting relief wash over your face when you note his body physically relaxing more into the water. Your free hand lightly presses into a non-bruised area to reassure him.

As if to say I'll be gentle, and he knows you will.

Cupping the water in handfuls, its warmth caresses his skin. His eyes close, letting you do what you're doing because, and he only realized this just now, no one else would have.

Your washing is soft, but firm enough to rid his skin of everything. His back is first, then shoulders and arms, being cautious when you went around every healed scab or stitching in his skin. His legs are sore, muscles and all when you get to them, leaving him to do the area between his legs because you're not sure you should touch him there.

Leaving his chest for last, you're glad to see none of the cuts or bruises had reached his beloved star tattoo on the edge of his chest, and the one on his left arm went unscathed as well. Gliding over his pecs with the washcloth has his voice fall breathily, although when his eyes slightly open to see you in front of him like you have been so many times, he attempts to mask it, clearing his throat and taking a deep breath.

A few minutes go by without your touches on him, so he opens his eyes a peek. You're shuffling around in the cabinet above the toilet, finding his eyes on you when you look back eventually.

Caught off guard with your eye contact, he drops his gaze awkwardly, attempting to seem like he wasn't looking at you. As if it's illegal, something he shouldn't be doing no matter how hard he tries to resist wanting to do it again.

"I should probably wash your hair too…"

Wait, what?

He wasn't expecting this.

"Uh…"

"Would that be okay? I promise I won't take too long."

If you're insisting… how could he say no?

"Sure, couldn't hurt."

This is the part of you he's missed. Where you take charge and do unasked things for him because you know him like it's breathing.

Ten minutes later, you've shampooed his hair twice and conditioned it, rinsing it out with a bowl.

Sam couldn't help himself from the groans of enjoyment he was omitting from the feeling of your fingers on his scalp. Though his eyebrows furrow when you rinse his hair for the final time, brushing it through to get the rest of the product out.

"Damn, that felt really nice."

You let out a short chuckle, leaning over to pull the drain plug out.

"Well, you can't stay in here all night or you'll shrivel up like a raisin."

You help him stand up, shoving a towel his way and averting your eyes before you can get a glimpse of any more of him.

Sam chuckles this time, "It's nothing you haven't seen before, I assure you."

You try not to roll your eyes before allowing him to wrap himself up and step out of the tub.

"You can turn around now."

When you do, you're sitting him back down and getting right to work. Cleaning and covering his scabbed over gashes takes less time today, checking the stitches and each cut routinely, which again, have no sign of infection. All that med school debt, you should hope there's none. You'd be way too surprised if that were the case.

Freshly bandaged up, you leave the bathroom so Sam can get dressed, but you're not too far from the door in case he needs help. It's a couple minutes later when he opens the door, hot air pouring out into the much cooler hallway.

Sam steps out, his hair somewhat messy, a bit towel-dried of course, and the sight of him like this blows the breath from your lungs. You didn't even realize you grabbed that shirt. The gray Henley. It's your favorite on him.

How could you have missed that?

He still looks damn good in it with his sweats hanging low on his waist, the front of his shirt tucked into the elastic. You don't even realize your eyes have raked up his body before he snaps you out of it.

"I tried to clean up the water on the floor in there, but it might still be a bit wet."

Wet where? What's wet?

Huh?

"Uh, what?"

The floor. Water on the floor. It's slippery.

"Oh, right. Thanks."

You shuffle by him awkwardly, going back into the bathroom to turn the fan on and pack up the unused bandages and gauze pads before using another towel to get the rest of the water. Another thing you'd have to put in the laundry.

Shit, you hadn't even washed Sam's dirty clothes you tossed in there a day or so ago.

Bathroom tidied, you spot Sam actually walking steadily back to the couch.

"You're not limping anymore. That's a good sign."

"Yeah, I guess the ankle pain was just soreness and not actually a sprain."

"Thank god."

The air seems lighter around him in this moment, showing your gratitude over hims seeming like he's doing a bit better.

He nods with a soft yeah, sitting back down slowly.

"What're you doin' with all that?" Sam asks, pointing to the bundle of towels in your arms.

"Gonna throw these in the wash. I'll just be a few and then I'll make us something to eat."

The words fall from your mouth before you realize you've said us, sending a short smile his way and walking off. Sam can't do anything to help the smirk that grows on his lips.

☆。*。☆。

Sam's clothes remained in the pile you'd thrown them in when he'd first changed.

His belt clinks when you grab it all from the floor. Both of his shirts (his button down and the v-neck he's always worn under) are stained with blood, dirt, and whatever else he'd gotten on him. You'd rather not know, so you toss them into the wash before his jeans, which are also stained.

You're about to toss those in as well, when you remember his habit of keeping everything in the pockets of his jeans. He's never been one to carry a bag because, well… real men don't need bags. Or so he's said. As if he's never had a wrong opinion about something.

Right.

A hand digs in the front pockets first, pulling out a box of cigarettes with a foreign label along with his lighter from the right pocket, and his wallet from the left.

All seems in order...

You're about to relieve the belt from its loops when your hand runs over the back pocket which feels like there's something else inside.

It's probably just a receipt or some kind of trash, so mindlessly you dig your hand in and find a business card. Unfolding it in curiosity makes you wish you never looked closer.

It's a phone number.

With a woman's name.

And a lipstick mark.

Fuck.

It hits you like a punch to the gut.

This can't be what you think it is.

No, this can't be what you think it is. It can't.

But then you smell the perfume… and you know.

The last 24 hours and change (and last three years of your life) flash through your head in a blink. All the shit you've done for him, everything you've constantly put up with. For him.

Your stomach churns, you may be sick right here in the laundry room despite there being nothing in your stomach. It sure as hell feels like it when a heat settles under your skin and in your gut, and you're tired of pushing things down. Tired of keeping them down for his benefit.

When has it ever done anything to improve your well-being?

Marching out of the room, your footsteps boom down the hall.

Sam's lying on the couch when you spot him.

"Here's your shit from your pants pockets. Your cigarettes, lighter, wallet, and your one night stand from god knows wherever the fuck you were."

You toss each object at him as you announce its presence.

"What?" Sam asks.

Oh, that's rich.

He picks up the crumpled card you've tossed his way, memory revealing what he doesn't recall, until he opens it and sees what you have.

"Don't play dumb, Sam. It's unbecoming."

"Shit. I forgot about this."

"Oh, you forgot. So you were going to destroy any evidence of your infidelity… why? For my sake?"

"This isn't…"

"Isn't what? The phone number of a woman you screwed? I'm not stupid."

"You're…"

"I'm what? Go on, say it."

"You're not." His shoulders sink, averting his gaze, guilt-ridden conscience at the front.

The confession forces a laugh from your chest. You're not sure where it comes from, because all you've got growing inside is betrayal, feeling like you could burst any second.

Why the hell not rip the band-aid off? The wound is grievous enough.

"Oh, great."

Sam stands from the couch.

"Can you let me explain?"

Another laugh threatens to escape you.

"How? How are you going to explain this? Just like you showing up on my doorstep a day ago half beaten to death? Guilt tripping me to let you in and fix you up? Bathe you? Make you food? Treat you like some goddamn prince to be waited on? I should've never—"

"No- god- FUCK would you stop and let me get a word in?!"

His outburst makes you freeze as he saunters towards you.

"You told me not to explain how this all happened, so I didn't. You could have shut the door on me when you saw me like that, but you didn't. That was your choice. I didn't make you do anything. And as for the treatment, I assumed you did that out of the kindness of your heart."

You raise your eyebrows at him, not speaking another word until he truly started explaining himself.

"I had no intention of ever seeing that woman again. I don't know how this got here," he says, holding up the card, "but she must've put it in my pocket before she left. I swear to god."

"Still waiting."

He huffs a breath.

"Okay… I walked out of this house weeks ago thinking we might have been done. I barely had a second to process any of it. I slept so fuckin' awful. Could barely eat anything. The second I found a bar out there, I drank it. I couldn't even look at your name in my phone, let alone try to figure out somethin' to say to you. It was too hard."

"This is not helping your case."

"I know I hurt you."

"That's a start."

"I was so wracked with guilt for even being there. For not being with you and making amends. I wanted to turn back so fuckin' bad, but the guys needed me, so I stood by them. The night before our last out there…"

You truly begin to break. Time to bite the bullet.

"At the bar… this woman and I got to talking all night. About you. She kept offering to buy me drinks, so I… accepted."

That same tightening feeling wraps around your lungs, the lump in your throat returning.

"Thought it would help me get all this shit off my chest so I could feel a little better at least… but it didn't. It made me feel worse. When I'd tired out my own brain talking it all out was when she made a move on me… and I was so fucking drunk- so fucking lonely that I didn't know what else to do. I don't even think we made it out of the bar before…"

Tears stream down your face, silently hyperventilating with shaky breaths.

Sam can barely look at you, but you can't tear your eyes away from him.

"You're pathetic." you whisper, still in utter disbelief of the things he's just admitted to you.

Only when you speak those words does he look at you. His eyes meeting yours fills you with such a blinding rage.

"Instead of contacting me at all… you aired out our dirty laundry to some slut in a bar who plied you with alcohol so you'd owe her sex for listening to you? What kind of bullshit is this?!"

"When you put it like that…"

"Jesus Christ."

"That's what happened. The truth. All of it, and I'm not saying I'm not a piece of shit."

"No, you are." you jab.

"I know."

His voice is a little smaller now.

"I'm not trying to make excuses either. I wish I would've had the balls to reach out and make sure you knew I was still thinking about you after everything. I missed you so much."

Sam's little reconciliation attempt doesn't faze you at all.

"God… even after I told you not to go- not to leave me again. You still did it. You still had sex with her. You're fucking selfish, Sam."

"Can we not do this right now?"

Avoidant as ever.

"When then? Because there's never a right time with you."

"Okay, guess we're hashing this out now then. Yeah, I did."

Wow, Sam Drake takes accountability for once.

At this point, the amount of respect you'd lost for him in this moment is monumentally large.

You force yourself to put space between you and him to calm down at all. Once your breathing steadies, you're left with a burning rage.

"I should fucking hate you."

"Baby, come on."

"No, I don't deserve this! I never deserved any of it! I needed so much more than being left twice a year because YOU wanted to chase fucking treasure!"

The silence that lingers after those words is deafening.

That, out of everything you've said, rattles him the most.

Sam's bottom lip quivers when he takes a breath in.

"I wasn't ready to quit yet. I wanted one more."

His voice is low in tone, eerily calm.

"One more before what? Before you could finally choose me? Choose us? Jesus, it's ALWAYS one more with you. You just couldn't live with some mysteries staying hidden, could you?"

That sets him off.

As if he's not been on the sidelines with the whole thing for a quarter of his life, forced to miss out while he went and found ancient cities, got married and created a family of his own. Without him.

Sam had this fuel inside him, this desire to make something of himself in the treasure hunting world where clues are lost and only the most brilliant of minds could crack them. He wanted to be one of those minds. Just like his brother.

The insecurity of being inadequate to his younger sibling after he's the one that made them Sir Francis Drake's heirs with just a simple name change simply wouldn't do.

Those mysteries gave him a reason to keep going, to feel like he had something in this world where he, physically, had nothing to his name.

His jaw clenches, his palms sweat easily when they ball into fists.

"No, you know what? This is NOT FAIR!"

"No, Sam. You know what hasn't been fair? The last three years of living with this resentment. Shoving it down constantly, blinding myself with the idea that you might actually be done with it one day."

"Oh, you resent me?"

"Yeah, I fucking do. Just didn't realize it till now."

"Telling me how you felt could have fixed this before it got to this point."

"I tried, Sam. I tried the last three times you left. I asked you what you wanted from life, if there was anything more, and you danced around my question until it came back around to the 'lure of adventure'. The adrenaline. The chase and the risk of it all. Every single time."

He scoffs, "You don't get it."

"Maybe I don't. But I'm open to an explanation."

"It's a long story. You know it is."

"Oh, yes. The Drake's origin." You're the one scoffing now, "You know, Nathan warned me about you. I should've listened to him. God, I'm so fucking naive."

He doesn't blink at your self-deprecating comment.

"Don't you bring him into this. You know what we've been through. He chose to get out of that life. I hadn't seen enough of it yet. You know what I put on the line to get myself there- to get myself free? The last FIFTEEN years I was in prison. Watching so much of the world go by, and missing it while I was rotting in a cell. My thirtieth and fortieth birthdays. Lost to those walls."

"Circling back to it again. The Samuel Drake special: never moving on and never letting go."

"Fine. You're right. That what you wanna hear?"

"Not when you're saying it because I want to hear it. Especially not when you don't mean it."

"Maybe I do know that. Deep down. And maybe I'm fuckin' kidding myself to think you'll ever accept that this is who I am. What I want to do."

"God, don't you ever look out for yourself? Maybe worry that your next time going out there will be your last?"

"If I do, then that's my own fault. My decision. I've had too many years dictated by asshole prison guards who told me where to go and not go, what to do and when to do it. Day after day after day. I never wanted to feel that way again."

"Maybe you should've thought about that a little more before you told me you loved me and made me believe you would stay. But you lied. Every single time."

"I never lied to you. I wanted to stop and be the man you wanted me to be. I just… was never satisfied. I couldn't walk away. I didn't know if I could."

"If you just explained this to me—" you sigh, "Relationships are about compromise, Sam. We could have sorted this all out in due time. You just weren't clear enough with me like I was with you."

Sam's throat is dry from raising his voice when he speaks again.

"No, I wasn't."

"I can't take this anymore. You need to go."

"Go? You're the one that said I shouldn't be driving right now."

"Then start walking for all I care. I can't be around you anymore or have you in my life like this."

"No, I can't lose you! Fuck-"

"What is there to fix? You lost me as soon as you walked out that door. Not only did you chip away at the thought of a future with you, but you proved time and again that I'm not a priority in your life. You put the promise of riches before me- before the person who loves you- and look how that turned out. I'm not sure you can come back from that after so many times."

"Can I try?"

"I don't think I have another chance in me."

You're not sure when Sam moved forwards… he's standing closer than ever.

"You mean you don't want to deal with me anymore."

"I've done so much for you, and the one thing I asked you for you continuously failed to give me. So, yeah. I don't want to deal with you anymore."

His brows raise for a moment. Sam can't let you go. Not so easily.

He takes a deep breath.

"Those times I comforted you after you lost so many patience in one week, that didn't mean anything to you?"

Wait, what? What's he doing?

"Don't change the subject like that."

"I'm not. We're talking about our relationship. You've made your point already."

"Yeah, and I said I'm ending things."

He still deflects.

"You were so exhausted by the end of the week. Basically collapsed into my arms cryin'."

You don't want the image to come to mind, but it does anyway.

"I held you all night. You were glued to my side that weekend, remember? Said you didn't wanna be alone for a second."

"What? That's not—"

"I know you do. Almost quit bein' a doctor because of it. But I convinced you that you'd regret it."

This whole turn of the conversation has ambushed you.

"What does this have anything to do with-"

"And the week after, you were able to catch a woman's cancer early enough for her to get treatment right away."

This event almost made you change career paths. The fact that he even remembered an event you'd put so far out of your mind since then baffles you.

"You remember that." you exhale.

"Course I do, darlin."

Your gaze towards him has changed. It's disengaged from hostile and become docile.

"You're tired. We can talk about this some other time."

"What?" you say again, "No- stop whatever it is you're doing right now. I don't have the patience, and I'm done putting this off."

"Well, I'm not."

You shoot him an annoyed look, furrowed brows and all when you try to push him away from you. Although Sam had quick reflexes, and has your wrist in his grasp before you can even get your hand off his chest.

"You're not that fast, you know."

"What are you doing? I said we're done."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm fucking sure."

"Ehh… Really, though? Cause that's not what I saw right before you went to do laundry."

"You mean before I found out you cheated on me. Cause I remember that."

"You're still mad about that?"

"Mad isn't enough to describe how I'm feeling right now."

"Well, that was a one time thing. …It's funny though, you don't seem like you are."

"I'm a master at suppressing my emotions because of you. But I wouldn't expect you to know anything about that since you're not the one who's been disappointed for three years in this relationship."

"Disappointed? Are you? I've always delivered when we're together."

The smirk on his face says enough about what he's thinking about when he says that.

"That's not what I'm talking about and you know it."

"But really, are you? The blush on your cheeks is telling another story."

"I'm not blushing."

Wait, were you?

That lowered tone of voice is doing you in. You're supposed to be furious at him. Lashing out, screaming and crying, telling him off like you were before. Yet you're frozen.

He hasn't been this close in almost a month.

"What are you doing, Sam…"

"Tryin' to take your mind off it."

"You're not going to change how I feel."

Sam sighs, "Maybe… maybe not. But I can't shake this feeling that you're still harborin' somethin' for me."

"I can't just snap my fingers and get over you."

"You don't have to, if we don't end things."

"Sam…"

"Don't act like you don't want me, baby."

"I don't."

"Well, now you're in denial."

He steps closer, privy to how subtly your breath is shaking. Sam is far too close for comfort right now.

"Then tell me… not to do anything, and I won't."

His tall figure looms over you with those heavy-lidded eyes.

Oh, those caramel irises. How lucky Sam has to be to know how to get you right where he wants you before he's pulling the trigger and planting a kiss on your lips.

"What are you doing?" you repeat in a whisper this time.

He doesn't speak right away, just sneaks his hands under your shirt, testing the waters of your skin with his fingertips. You look up, and you can smell him he's so close. Standing right there… all freshly clean and healing. Thanks to you.

"I'm not done wanting you…"

"You certainly were the night you fucked that whore."

"Come on, gorgeous. You know she wasn't even half as good as you. And what do you care? Thought you said you were done with me."

"You still fucked her."

"I was drunk, sweetheart. Besides, all it did was make me miss you more. Who do you think I had in mind the whole time?"

His sweetening of the proverbial pot and the idea that he'd always think of you even when he's cheating does nothing good for the strength in your legs.

"I almost moaned your name, too…"

"Ugh, you're disgusting."

"Baby…" he grumbles, taking a deep inhale of your skin, "I missed you so much… Please let me prove it to you."

His next move is closer to you, following like a dog on a leash when you walk backwards, hitting the wall much sooner than expected.

"C'mon… please, pretty girl?"

God, him and his fucking sweet talking.

His stubble against your neck is equivalent to drugs going directly into your veins. It has you at a loss for words and any other actions that don't involve his needy kisses on your skin.

When he smells so fucking nice after being dirty while wearing your favorite shirt on him… it's too much. Too much and not enough.

You're the one whose breath falls shaky this time, much more prominently than before when his palms find your waist, and not just his fingertips. They're his anchor to you, doing much more than enough now to make your body yearn.

The need to feel him again burns with such familiarity, like you had with him for so long. Missing his nicotine breath and the way he held himself when he walked.

So welcoming, inviting, like he'd give you the world.

Or maybe that was another thing you had kid yourself into thinking.

Dried up promises flaked away when his lips found your pulse point, hands still frozen at your side.

"You know you want me," he mumbles, "You were never able to resist me when I got you like this."

"We shouldn't…"

"No, I think we should."

His kisses travel up your jawline, one of his hands grabbing your chin to press another kiss to your lips. You can't help the whimper that escapes you when your body is starved of his touch, but your mind believes different.

"Just this once, yeah? I promise, babygirl."

There goes that mocking tone of his, gravel and low in his chest like he does when he's trying his hardest to get you to give in. He always has, but it's different now. He's not the sweet Sam you once fell for. He's only doing this for his benefit before he eventually leaves again.

There's no desired outcome here. But god fucking damn, it feels good.

"Mmh…" you moan.

"That's my girl."

Sam slots his thigh between your legs, pushing his knee against the apex of your thighs.

He's caging you in like a predator with its prey, but it's not time to initiate the chase yet. He had to catch you off guard for that.

"You're an asshole…" you mutter against his lips.

"Oh, am I?"

kiss

"Yes."

kiss

"What else?"

kiss

"Selfish, and a fucking dick when you want to be."

His laughter reverberates underneath your skin, uncomfortably so. He's too fucking good at this."

"Oh yeah?"

"You know you are…"

"Am I any more of a dick when I do… this?"

He punctuates the question with a hand rubbing over your crotch, stoking the fire that burns for him right under the cloth.

"Fuck you," you manage to get out before he's biting at the skin of your neck, right where he knows you're weak for him.

"Uh oh, looks like I found your sweet spot."

He's known where it is for so long that you know he's just taunting you.

"Shut up, Sam…" is the last thing you say before pushing him backwards onto the couch.

His eyes are hungry as he tips his impatient fingers, anticipating your weight on his lap.

When you do, you're ripping your shirt over your head and watching as he struggles to do the same.

"Aw, forget you're still injured?"

"Not gonna help me out?"

"Oh, I've helped you enough. I'm enjoying watching you struggle with this."

His mouth is back on yours as soon as it's off, greedy hands undoing the buttons of your pants. It's a moment later you're fully in your underwear, pressing your lips against his because you're not sure what else you can do.

Sam's put you in a very difficult position, and you'd have to trudge through mid with weights tied to your ankles to make it out alive.

When you fully, finally sink onto his lap, his bulge underneath you is much too prominent for your liking. Because instead of being able minded and pushing yourself off him, your brain decides to focus on all the times he's been inside you and how long it's been without his touch. That all too familiar ache between your thighs wants more.

In this moment you despise him, but you can't push away these feelings of starvation your entire being seems so keen on keeping around. Any semblance of his touch reminds you how good he is at loving on you.

"I thought you were the one who said we shouldn't do this." Sam speaks, condescending tone in his voice as he cocks his head to the side, squinting a bit as he looks at you.

He's got the slightest smirk growing on his lips, knowing he's got you right where he wants you.

"Oh, now you're opposed? Five seconds ago you were the one begging me… shoving your tongue down my throat?"

Perhaps you're exaggerating. Nothing he hasn't done before.

Sam doesn't respond, grabbing the sides of your face to lay another one on you.

"That's what I thought. Now…"

You run your fingers down his chest teasingly, hair a welcome invitation to the rest of him, especially his happy trail as you hook your fingers under his waistband and take his boxers with them. His hips lift accordingly, eyeing how his hardened cock slaps against his stomach.

"Fuuhck, that feels better."

You stand to drop your panties to the ground, such a welcome sight to him when you position yourself over his lap again.

"God, I missed you."

For the first time today you let yourself smirk at his words shamelessly. He clearly takes enjoyment in seeing how his comment gets you with the way that smirk embellishes his face so well.

"I missed this pretty boy, too." your voice mocks. "No touching till you're inside me, we wouldn't want any of those cuts to open up, now would we?"

"I don't see how-"

"Would we?" you repeat.

"Hmph, guess not…"

"And no cumming inside."

Oh, now you've kicked the poor dog.

"You're lucky I even let you kiss me."

"If I remember correctly, this mouth has made you cum many times."

Though you can't deny it, you want to string him along some more.

"I said no."

"But-"

"No."

He sighs dramatically, obeying and keeping his hands on the couch when you give him a look and pull away. Then your hands are wrapping around the nape of his neck, bare pussy rutting up against his cock to tease him.

"Jesus, you're killin' me, babe."

"Consider it your punishment. Don't worry, I wouldn't give you anything you couldn't handle… just don't be a bitch about it."

Sam's eyebrows furrow, taking a direct stab to the chest with your words, but you don't care. He's put you under enough duress to last you a lifetime, he can take a little longer without his dick in you.

Annoyed, he growls under his breath in frustration because his pretty cock's just throbbing and he hasn't felt your walls around him in oh so long.

Each grind of your hips paints his base in the messy slick, balls twitching right underneath.

"I can feel how wet you are for me… even without much… I turn you on that bad, baby?"

The smirk on his face is as devious as it is greedy, etching the wetness of your pussy lips into his brain permamently.

"You did miss me, I knew it. Hah…"

His strained voice is music to your ears, enjoying the torture that is edging Samuel Drake for all he's worth. Which, by now… is not much.

"You're torturin' me here…"

Oh, the Boston accent came out with that one.

"Poor you, so tortured by the world," you mock.

"You're not bein' very nice to me."

He's finally getting it.

"I'm very fucking nice, so shut your damn mouth."

But stubborn that he was, would not do so… and you're truly getting on his nerves a bit.

"You know I can overpower you, right? That I can take what I want if you keep this up?"

Any other day, you'd believe him. Today was not that day.

"I'm sure you could, Samuel. Probably. But it's me that knows how much your body can take, and who you'll take it from."

That makes his cock twitch against you. Not often do you use his full name, but you always did with purpose when the right moment came.

You're being so cocky, as you should.

Sitting up on your knees, you take him in your hand and run him through your folds, soaked with arousal that covers the tip so easily.

"God, you…"

Right as he thinks you're about to tease him some more, you sink his tip into you and hold it there while he tries to maintain any and all composure.

"Gah… fuck."

A choked moan escapes his throat unexpectedly, revealing some of his unbridled need for more of your body.

"Sorry, what was that?"

"Fuck… th-thank you…"

"Such a good boy."

He hates being called that, and you know it. The praise falls from your mouth anyways because you want to piss him off like he's pissed you off, but in a way that will fully affect him.

If poor Sammy Drake can't get his rocks off, then it's everybody's problem.

He looks ready to cry when you barely move an inch, staying right where you are to watch him sweat. It's a fun sight for a few moments when he's panting, but then you're the one who can't take it anymore after hearing him whimper.

Sam never whimpers.

The moan that rips through you as you sit down on him inch by inch is much too desperate than you'd be willing to admit, welcoming him so well until you're sat at his base. He mutters another thank you, panting and trying to catch his breath.

"Now can I touch?"

Always so eager.

"Say please."

"Fuck, please."

"There you go."

Twist the knife a little more.

"Good boy."

Sam's hands are rough and warm on your waist, kisses coming with, down the valley of your chest and neck. He has to stop himself before he gets too handsy, looking up at you with those brown eyes you adore so much.

"Can I see your tits, baby?"

His palms run up your back, under the clasp of your bra even though he wants to undo it right there.

"Miss those pretty things. My favorite to kiss 'n suck on. God, please…"

The scratch of stubble right between the valley of them does you in, your head falling back for a moment before realizing that the sight of him between your boobs is one to be cherished.

"You're being so polite, handsome. What have you done with the real Sam?"

He can't help but smile when you compliment him. He's floating on top of the world.

"He's right here… waiting so so patiently to be able to suck on such pretty tits…"

A light laugh escapes you as you speak again, "Okay, baby."

Not even a split second goes by before the clasp is undone and the wired bra comes free, getting tossed somewhere in the room. You wonder what he's quicker at: undoing things or pickpocketing people.

Somehow his calloused hands help in this aspect, so much more pleasurable when he's got them squeezing the plush of your boobs. One of his hands immediately attaches to one, the other sucking your nipple into his mouth and flicking it with his tongue.

It pulls a moan from you, something Sam's been begging to hear for ages. You're trying your hardest not to clench around him, but this is making it so much harder when it shoots straight to your heat.

"You're still so good at that…"

One of your hands runs through his hair, pulling him closer while you lift your hips up once.

"Never stopped bein' good at it."

A groan leaves him when you lift your hips again, moving on him shallowly to help you stretch out around him. Nipples nice and sensitive, he gives a little nibble and switches to the other, head falling back when you finally adjust, a prominent wet sound coming from where you meet.

Your eyes roll back with how nicely filled you are with him. Even if it was the last time, you were going to enjoy it.

Sam's tongue tires on your chest, pulling back to watch as you bounce on him from above with a steady pace.

"You know- hah- I didn't care if I came back half dead, I just knew I had to get back to you… one way or another."

"Fuck, Sam."

His words strike a sympathetic cord, affecting you much heavier than anything he's said in the last… however many hours.

Your forehead falls to his shoulder, not expecting tears to flow but they come before you know it. His hands run up your back again while you move on his dick, trying your best to keep this emotional outburst under wraps. But it's too late when one tear falls, then two, and it's not long before he notices your sniffling, and the wet dripping down his skin.

"Hey, you cryin'?"

"Mm-mm." you lie.

Sam knows better though, cupping your face.

"Look at me…"

Not moving at first, you sniffle again and then look at him, vulnerable and half-regretting it while you hope this isn't ruining the moment.

He clicks his tongue upon seeing your red puffy eyes.

"You are."

"Shut up… why'd you have to say that…"

You look upwards to prevent more droplets from falling down your cheeks, but it doesn't help. They fall anyway.

"Cause it's true."

Your hips halt their movement, nuzzling your cheek into his palm as he swipes the droplets away. You press a kiss into his hand and he can't resist pulling you in for the real thing.

This is the sweetest he's been all day.

"Still so pretty when you cry, even though I hate when you do." he murmurs in that soft, low voice.

"Don't flatter me, I'm a mess right now."

"You're my mess."

His.

"When did you become all lovey-dovey?"

"Just now." he replies, watching as you giggle. "Soak it up because once it's gone, I'll be back to… what was it that you called me?"

"Selfish, an asshole, and a dick."

"Right."

His eyes rake over your body, watching him bite his lip.

Stay on track for god's sake.

"You're perfect." He states, wolf whistling as he studies your figure.

"Stop buttering me up, I'm not falling for it." You pout.

It's a good enough attempt to get you to stop crying, and he's taken his shot.

"Wha- I'm not!" Sam chuckles, noting how your eyes have stopped watering. Your hips also haven't moved, but his slight movements when he laughed push him deeper in and you gasp.

"What do you say we make each other feel really good, and then we can sort everything out?"

His attempt is innocent enough, but you still see right through.

"Oh, I see. You are buttering me up so I'll let you cum inside."

"No… you know I don't mess around when it comes to you cryin'."

That's not what occurred earlier, but sure.

You tilt your head at him, and Sam knows you know.

"Aaand it's a little bit of that."

"Ugh," you scoff, "Asshole."

He chuckles again, knowing you'll give in eventually, grabbing your waist and running his thumbs over your skin. An unspoken cue has your hips starting their movement again, guiding yourself up and down on him deep inside.

"Ugh… missed this perfect pussy…"

"Missed this cock inside me…"

"It missed you, baby. Couldn't stop thinkin' about you. Jerked off every night with you on my mind. Thought I was gonna go crazy. Fuck, you make me crazy."

"As long as it was me you were cumming to, and not whatever her name was."

"There's no one else but you, sweetheart."

"Thank god…" you sigh dreamily, losing yourself in him little by little.

"You love me like this don't you?"

He groans with a little discomfort, taking it all on the chin in the name of your pleasure.

"Like what?"

"Little beaten up… so I can't move too fast when I'm not at my full strength. Cause if that weren't the case… I'd be fuckin' you so rough right now. So right."

"Maybe I do… Hnngg..."

"Oh yeah, you like when I'm rough too… Shit…"

"Uh huh… mmh…"

Your slick drips all over his base and down his balls, making it easier for you to move on him and pressing him impossibly deeper.

"Look at you, you're gushin' around my cock…"

Sam can see the shine of it covering you both where you connect, a welcome sight when he's so sensitive after not being touched properly by you for so long.

"Baby…"

"Yeah? Gettin' close?"

"Mhm…" you pant.

He knows you are, Sam's been able to read the cues your body gives him for so long that they're just pure instinct by now.

"Me too.. gonna let me fill you up?"

"Don't… know…"

"Well you're gonna make me cum one way or another, darlin'. Gotta tell me where to put it."

"Ahh… f-fuck…"

"What was that? You want it inside?"

"Mmmhh… Sam…"

"Lemme… lemme do it, pleeaaasseee.."

His words are drawn out with that low gravel, tired and raw and real.

"Mm-mm… told you no…" you shake your head, eyes closed and about to pull yourself off him.

Beginning to lift yourself up, the friction against your walls is so deliciously that it coaxes your orgasm closer.

The moment it's only his tip left inside you is when he becomes so damn needy.

"N-no pleasepleaseplease dont do-dont…" Sam begged.

If you couldn't see how red his cheeks are and the little beads of sweat that form on his forehead, you would've thought he was begging for his life. He might as well have been with his desperation reaching new heights. Everything about him screams pathetic, and it's never been this prominent than in this present moment.

You can't help yourself when you've been given a sight like this one, in full control of what happens next. Haven't you been mean enough? Doesn't he deserve this because he's still alive to feel so?

God, yeah he does. You do too.

Your hips press down into him again, shamelessly watching as Sam's eyes close and his breath hitches as his cock kissing the deepest parts of you has him losing it.

It's too much for him to take so unexpectedly, but enough to make him explode.

"Fuck- fuck…"

Coincidentally, it does the same to you too.

"Oh god… I'm-"

He knows you are, walls fluttering around him as he's pushed over the edge and can't help but watch as you gush around him just as he paints your walls white with his spend.

A few moments of catching your breath and your forehead falls against his, afterglow beaming from his skin.

His tired, lidded eyes graze over your body and you realize.

No matter how hard you try, he's in your DNA and you can't get away. It's always going to be him you're stuck with it.

Further apart, the closer you are.

You can't even have a second of basking in how strong your orgasm was before reality hits.

You've handed it to him- what he's wanted this entire time- on a goddamn silver platter.

Clarity washes your view clean. How filthy it's been with promises of hope and change this entire time.

"Fuck.." you exhale, more defeated than anything else.

"That was…" he pants, still riding the high of that very pent up release.

A mistake…

"Amazing." He finishes his own sentence, dragging a hand up and down your side.

You're panting as well, but not the kind of panting where you're out of breath from the sex you've just had, no. It's the kind of panting that could turn into hyperventilation and soon, a panic attack if you didn't act quickly.

"Yeah…"

You manage to return the comment so he doesn't suspect anything's wrong, frozen on the seat before realizing your heart rate's not slowing down. The very thick air in the room begins to suffocate you, and when you realize your heart rate isn't slowing, you stand to exit the room and escape it. But he's still here.

Sam grabs your wrist before you could get too far.

"Hey, where you goin'?"

Those caramel eyes look your way, big and round and curious as if they've got a power of their own to make it harder to pull away that threatens to intoxicate you again.

Think of something. Anything.

"I have to pee," you say to him, "and get water."

"Okay," he drops your wrist, still smirking, "Well hurry back, gorgeous."

You shoot him a soft smile, the only thing you have a bit of energy for, and scoop up your underwear and shirt from the floor before attempting to calmly walk to the bathroom.

When you get there and shut the door, you're dressing yourself and sitting on the bathroom's cold tile floor, chest rising and falling faster than you could've imagined. The world around you fades out, and you can't breathe. Suffocation by the air you inhale, holding your arms to your chest and doing the bare minimum to get yourself through it. Surviving is all you can do right now, shoved into yet another hole you've dug yourself.

The tile's coolness under your thighs and feet do a minimal amount of grounding you back to reality. Before you realize, you've grabbed a towel from the rack on the wall and begun breathing into it, attempting to muffle any sound that could've escaped from behind the door. The bathroom fan is still on too, so that does a majority of the work for you.

God, you're so tainted. The pleasure faded away so fast that you're not even sure how you made it through.

An overwhelming sense of dread splashes over you like a wave. A sinking feeling in your gut. Pounding in your chest. The only thing you can hear besides the low hum of the bathroom fan, and even that is muffled. Sam's assault of touch. Of his kiss. Fuck. Fuck.

You can't fill your lungs properly. It hurts when you try. You need to get out of here. Out of this house and away from him. Forever. You can't. The rest of the world melts away. Nothing else exists for you and this overwhelming sense of wrongness.

This isn't right. Nothing is right.

Am I dying? It feels like I'm dying. I need to leave. Why can't I?

Your stomach is tying itself in knots. Hands and legs shaking like you're seizing. At least that's what it feels like. Ears ringing. Your head spins like it's been put in a blender and told to walk straight.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

What do I do.

Water. Cold water.

Something opposite from the overwhelming pounding in your head and dissociative state looming to take over.

Pushing yourself up from the floor is a struggle enough, forehead pressing against the cold ceramic of the sink when you manage to balance on your knees. Weakened grip on the faucet, you manage to turn the sink on, running the stream for a few seconds.

Rushing water breaks the silence, deafening the uneasiness for a moment.

Immediately you shove your hands under the stream, dirtied not just from bodily fluids, but from him. From the tainted mess you've made all by yourself in the other room.

Focus on one thing at a time. Don't think about him. Think about the coldness.

Its temperature spreads along the skin of your hands and drips down your wrists. Like holding your hands under a cool stream in the middle of a forest where the only thing you're surrounded by is nature and the blue sky.

Soon enough it dawns on you that your heart rate has slowed, and the tunnel vision that threatened to encroach on your field of view has thankfully lessened.

Reality isn't as blurred now when you look at the bathroom floor, yet your thoughts still run rampant with what to do when you're forced to leave and face him.

A few minutes of breathing deeply to feel the air enter and exit your lungs pass before your body is strong enough to pull yourself to your feet. You stand, splashing some of the water on your face. Then your brain finally registers that your bladder does have to empty itself.

Soon as that's done, you turn to the door and find yourself hesitant to reach for the doorknob.

It's fine, you tell yourself. You've put up worse masks than this around Sam. One more before you finally pull the trigger on your relationship for good wouldn't hurt.

Would it?

Either way, you finally pull it open after what seems like ages, hoping he's not noticed how long you took when you return with two glasses of water. He's dressed himself partially, which works in your favor because you could not have handled seeing him naked still.

"Wow.. you're glowin'." Sam speaks as you walk into the room.

"Am I?" you ask, genuinely surprised he's said so.

"Yeah."

"Wonder what could've done it."

Sam chuckles, but your statement is genuine. Was it the panic attack you'd had silently in the bathroom? Or the afterglow your mind attempts to shield you with?

Handing him the glass, you sit on the opposite end of the couch from him while you slowly sip from yours. Wordlessly he moves closer, already in the know of his desire to pull you into his arms and cuddle. It's been his post-sex routine for this long, and this old dog never learns a new trick. Pretending to want this is escaping you, and the mere presence is too much for you to put up a wall around.

Realization hits: you refuse to go through another year half-dissociated after Sam eventually chooses treasure over everything you'd offered to him at the start of your relationship.

He'll never be the perfect boyfriend, and outdated and unrealistic as that term is for relationships, it still stings fresh like an open wound.

Seeing as you don't melt into his touches like usual, his eyebrows furrow while you stare forwards at the tv, mentally debating what to do. Sam notices how minimally you move when he puts his arm around you.

"You okay? Did something happen?"

"Did something happen?" you repeat.

"Yeah. You don't seem…"

"Like myself?"

"Yeah…" he echoes. "Something on your mind that you're not telling me?"

"You can't be serious."

"What? What did I do now?"

His arm drops from your shoulder.

"You know exactly what you did, and I told you that us having sex wouldn't change my mind."

"You still think you wanna end things…"

"Think? No, I know. It took me forever to come to this decision, Sam."

He scoffs, "I can't believe you'd be this selfish."

"Selfish? No, you listen to me. I'm choosing myself for once. You're the most stubborn, selfish man I've ever had the inconvenience of trying to change."

You can't get away from him fast enough, standing a few feet away from the couch where he's still sitting. Disgust ripples through you, affecting the tolerance you have towards being around him, which happens to be dwindling on low.

"I clearly wasn't enough to keep you happy. Not forever. You chose something else instead of me over and over."

"I always came back to you! Can't you cut me some slack for wanting to have a little fun now and again?"

"Cut you some slack? I've been doing that ever since you told me how much this shit has affected your life since you were a kid. You're not anymore, and you can't seem to get a hold on it now. So I'm giving you an out."

"I don't want an out."

"I kept every promise I made to you. You kept none of mine. And besides that point, you still cheated on me with another woman. I don't care if she bought you drinks and let you pour your little fucking heart out all night to her. I didn't deserve that, you know I didn't.”

"I said I was sorry."

"No, you didn't."

"I explained everything."

"But the words of an apology never left your mouth."

"What more do you want from me, huh?"

"What more? What have you given me? Face it: you can only take so long of living this boring, normal life with me before you go distant. Coming to me all doe-eyed and so fucking sorry to say, 'I'm going to leave again for weeks on end because I can't stand being here, but I'm going to find another treasure with the boys! Please forgive me?' And I've fallen for your bullshit every time! So I'm done!"

Oh, he hates how you've just read him for filth.

"That's not fair."

"It's way more than fair."

"I gave you my full attention always… The last three years of my life? My darkest secrets and vulnerability? What else could you fucking need from a guy?!"

You scoff, crossing your arms over your chest.

"You always did that."

"Did what?"

"Made me feel like I was asking for too much by asking for anything at all."

He huffs a breath in disbelief, that actually might've made a dent in him.

A thickening silence slips in between you, heat radiating in your chest and stomach. Sam's hands are at his sides, balling into fists to control his anger, and yet his arm veins are bulging. He's not too skilled at reigning in his emotions when it comes to this.

"Every time you left, it felt like you were tearing pieces of me out."

You break the deafening silence.

"Maybe if you felt the emptiness I do, you’d finally understand."

"I tried to. But you never tried to understand why I never wanted you to leave. The choice to do so was yours and I've gone over everything about you in my head a million times. It's just gotten to the point where it affects our relationship way more than you think it does. I can't imagine what others have suffered the same fate."

"You know, I hate myself enough for what I did. I've beat myself up over it so many times."

"You mean leaving? Or cheating on me?"

Sam sighs.

Both, he wants to say. But you cut him off before he can.

"You know what? Save it. I've cared about you for the last three years of my life with everything, and you couldn't even try to care about me enough to stay. But that's fine. You don't have to have the guilt of crawling home to me for forgiveness anymore."

"You don't get it, do you?"

"Get what?"

"You're everything I have."

Desperation drips from every word, standing there soaked in his own dignity which dwindles on extinct at the very moment.

"I'm sorry. For everything. The leaving, cheating on you-"

“Just stop! I forgave you the first three times. There won’t be a fourth.”

"One more! That was all I needed!"

"Well, now it doesn't have to be your last. Go back to more warm bodies in shoddy motel rooms and cheap beer that tastes like piss, because I know you miss it. Then you'd be guilt free for not knowing the name of the woman you're sleeping with just to leave her in the morning. It's gotten you so far in life before you met me."

Sam begins to break. This is really happening right now.

Not how he'd envisioned the rest of his day going at all.

"You know I can't imagine living in a world where we're not together."

"Then kill yourself."

The look on Sam's face says enough about how shocked he is to hear that come from your mouth. He's so fucking offended by that insinuation compared to what you were saying before.

"You're serious."

"I am, and I'm done talking about this. I've been trying to get you to see things from my perspective, but it's clear you're a lost cause."

Sam stands still when you start picking up his clothes and his jacket, shoving them into his arms with such a force you'd thought it would knock him over.

"Now get out of my house and go find somewhere else to live."

"What about all my shit?"

"You can pack it up when I'm at work, get it all out of here by the end of the week. I don't want to see a glimpse of you ever again when I get home on Friday."

"Where the hell am I supposed to go?"

"How about you beg your brother for a few nights on his couch. After that? You're on your own. Consider this the last thing I ever do for you."

No- no. This can't be it. This can't be the end- and you cannot have the last word.

"Fine. If this is how you want it, then fine. I'll leave."

Sam starts walking towards the door, defeated. You've cut him open stem to stern with each word thrown his way, not blinking as his back is turned towards you, guts in hands.

He's almost there, almost to the door frame that gets him out of your life for good, when he stops.

Sam, like all other things he's taken, steals the last word from you with a rough kiss shoved against your mouth. A final kiss to ruin whatever high ground you were standing on. He tastes the same, how you'd want you to remember him: nicotine on his breath, paired with the salt from your tears you weren't even aware were falling.

The door slams. He's gone.

He may have taken this from you, but you hope he remembers how your tears taste on his tongue for the last time.

On the other side of the door, Sam digs for the cigarette box and his lighter in his jeans pocket, walking off down the road with his jaw clenched.

a/n: if you've caught any of my references or the symbolism. i love u. hope u enjoyed this horrible fic and i don't know if i'll ever write something that's the same amount if not worse than this again… but an enby can dream :)

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