#<5000

“Hey, uh. I made—”

Nathan pushes past him, makes a beeline for the coffee pot. He’s still in his boxers, with a white tee thrown over his torso, and goes through a series of motions that look nothing short of mechanical.

Sam steps to the side, out of his way, feeling very much like he’s intruding on a routine. He fidgets in front of the stove, is careful not to touch the eye he’d just clicked off.

He’s still tapping his knuckles together, awkward and unsure of what to do, when Nathan turns around and jolts.

“Jesus,” he says, coughing because he breathed in a little too sharply. “I didn't—” He smacks a hand against his chest. “I didn't see you there.”

Sam quirks an eyebrow, picks up one of three plates sitting on the counter.

“I made breakfast.”

It's nothing special. Bacon, scrambled eggs, toast with butter and jelly. He figures it's the least he can do to pay them back for … well, everything.

Not that breakfast erases a mad trip around the world made under false pretenses, but it's a start.

Nathan blinks at him a couple times. The coffee pot gurgles in the background.

Elena comes up behind Sam, lids heavy with exhaustion, and reaches a hand up to lay on Sam’s shoulder.

He leans into the touch, eyes drooping a bit because he’s perfectly aware that she’s doing everything she can (Nathan, too) to make him feel at home. And, sure, it’s kind of awkward intruding on their lives like this, but, hell, they asked for it.

“Thanks,” she says, grabbing the plate from his hands. Her throat visibly constricts with all the effort it takes to sputter out a single word so early in the morning.

Sam’s eyebrow lifts. Didn’t these kids know about early birds and worms and all that?

Elena slides her hand away, then saunters over to the couch, flopping down like she’s participating in a trust fall. It’s a weird kind of graceful, Sam thinks. Kind of sloppy. Kind of reminds him of Nathan.

His little brother isn’t far behind, hands full with two mugs of coffee. He sets them on the coffee table, then he’s heading back to the kitchen, sidling around Sam to grab a third mug in a different cabinet. Yeah, there was no rhyme or reason to where they put what, and Sam had found that out earlier, scrambling around trying to find the right utensils to cook with.

Nathan thrusts the warm cup into Sam’s fidgeting hands. He grabs the other two plates before Sam can protest, and treads on over to the sofa, tilting his head for him to follow.

“You comin’?” Nathan says. His voice is shot to shit.

“Yeah, Sam, there’s plenty of room.” Elena pats the cushion next to her, and of course it’s in the crack of the couch, because Nathan, the little asshole, sits down on the other side.

It’s somewhat of a squeeze, at least for three grown-ass adults, but Sam doesn’t mind. Likes the contact, knees knocking against knees, if he’s entirely honest with himself. He’s a pretty tactile guy, likes to touch, and thirteen years in prison meant the only contact he ever got was his fist connecting with someone else’s face (or vice versa). Even the parade of women sliding in and out of his life after Rafe bought his freedom wasn’t enough to make up for all that time alone.

He props himself up on the edge of the couch, back cracking when he leans forward. Starts scarfing down food like it’s gonna disappear if he’s not quick enough. Out of the corner of Sam’s eye, he can see Elena cradling her coffee between trembling fingers (hint of blue beneath her nails, cold). She gives it one long, exaggerated whif, humming in the back of her throat. Damn if it isn’t endearing. Sam’s got a little tilt to his lips, like he’s accidentally caught something genuine. Cute.

“So,” he says, tongue rubbing along his bottom row of teeth. “You guys conscious yet? Because I swear I— I thought you were gonna eat my brain right outta my head when both ‘a you traipsed down the stairs.”

“Mm,” Elena mumbles into her coffee, drawing it away with a slurp. “Lucky for you, I’m on a strict no-brains diet.” Her elbow finds contact with Sam’s ribs.

“Yeah, uh-huh,” he says, rubbing his side. “That’s what they all say. Until your head’s cracked open and you’re, you know. Gettin’ your brain nibbled on.”

Nathan snorts into his own cup, and Sam beams at him.

“You’re so—” Nathan waves a hand. “Lame.”

“Oh, oh, I’m lame, huh?”

“Without a doubt.”

“I’ll have you know—”

“Will you, now?”

“I’ll have you know, that every girl I’ve ever met falls right for those zombie jokes.”

“She must’ve gotten a concussion, then.”

Elena whaps him on the shoulder (the injured one, Jesus). She hits harder than expected, so he’s left rubbing the ache out with gentle fingers, staring at her a little, yeah, a little hurt. Eyebrows up, in pursuit of his receding hairline.

“You’re family,” she says, worrying her bottom lip. A pause, teeth freeing sensitive flesh. “And, hey. You think I’m done listening to those embarrassing stories about Nate? Nuh uh. Not a chance.”

“Hey,” Nathan says, eyes cast up to the sky, a groan rumbling its way out of his chest.

Sam can’t help the grin, the instinctive search through various pockets for his pack of cigarettes. He pulls one out, slides the filtered tip into the side of his mouth.

“Well, as tempting as that might be … ” The cigarette waves up and down while he talks. He’s quick to notice Nathan’s balled up fist, not quick enough to dodge the light tap on his arm. Sam sidesteps after the gentle touch grazes his shirt sleeve. Little bubbles of laughter slip out. “I’ve got, y’know. Other things. Lotta catchin’ up to do.” Fingertips fish inside another pocket, make contact with cold metal.

He dips his head, cups his hand around the lighter so the flame doesn’t snuff out before he can light his cigarette. Long draw in. He blows smoke out the other side of his mouth, so it doesn’t get in anyone’s face.

He’s already talked to Nathan about this. It’s not time for him to settle down—not with thirteen years of prison putting his life on hold.

Sam’s pretty confident he’ll get away with it (not that he’s getting away with anything, he’s just trying to live his life), but Elena steps into his line of vision and she’s … well. She’s pretty damn tough to say ‘no’ to. Not when she carries herself like the whole world’s wrong if it disagrees with her.

“Come on, Sam. Just a couple weeks?” She’s persistent, he’ll give her that.

It sounds like a request. Sam’s about ninety percent sure he’s not allowed to turn her down, but at least it sounds like he can. Plus, those sweet wide eyes are staring up at him, all kicked-puppy-like. He definitely, definitely knows it’s a ploy, but that doesn’t stop the way his gut clenches at the thought of disappointing her.

He turns to Nathan, pointedly, looking for some backup, but the smarmy little bastard only holds his hands out, palms forward, and takes a step back.

“Hey,” Nathan says, “I’m on her side here. As much as I want you to get a chance to do your own thing, I could stand having you around.”

“You could stand it, huh?” Sam takes another drag on his cigarette, blows out smoke through his smile.

“Don’t get cocky, didn’t say for long.” And Nathan’s got his hand around Sam’s bicep, suddenly, giving it a squeeze. Playful warning, reassurance, all swaddled up together.

Sam’s got another excuse on the tip of his tongue. He pulls the cigarette out of his mouth, holds it between his middle and index fingers.

“Give us a week, at least,” Elena says. Her fingers circle his wrist and tug hard. “We’re not taking ‘no’ for an answer, alright?”

He stumbles in her direction, throws a look at his little brother.

Nathan grins, follows behind them to the taxi.

*****

The first night home is awkward.

The flight’s long. Way way way too long. Sam’s antsy and purposefully annoying the entire time. There are a lot of stops, layovers, and in the final stretch, Sam occupies the middle seat of a three-person row just so he can sling his arms around the pushy couple and regale them with Panamanian prison culture until they’re grossed out and pleading for him to stop.

Touchdown in New Orleans.

They stop at a convenience store on the way home, to buy an air mattress. Sam tries to convince them it’s unnecessary, he can just sleep on the couch, really guys, but they’re having none of it.

He’s too exhausted to pay much attention to his surroundings by the time they get home. While they’re setting up the mattress in a guest-room-turned-office, he attempts one more shaky attempt to convince them to let him crash on the sofa (no, no, I don’t wanna—listen, I don’t wanna be, like. A bother. And we’re all runnin’ on fumes here. Give me two minutes alone and I’ll pass out on your living room floor, honest).

They ignore him, attach an air pump, plug it into the wall, and let the room fill with piercingly loud noise. Sam leans against the doorway leading to his own (temporary) private bathroom. Fingers shaking for a nicotine buzz.

Elena fits sheets onto the squeaky blue air mattress while Nathan drags out an assortment of blankets from their bedroom closet. As soon as they’re done, Elena gives Sam another hug, Nathan pats his shoulder, and they retire for the night.

Sam undresses down to his boxer briefs, falls into the air mattress, and immediately everything becomes very, very awkward.

He’s on the verge of surrendering to the void when he hears muffled conversation across the landing between both rooms. He can’t hear the words, but it’s clipped. Staccato and heated, and he remembers, oh yeah, he got Nathan into some deep marital shit with this whole adventure. Built on lies, no less.

Whoops.

It’s really none of his business, but he can’t help how he instinctually strains to hear. Are they talking about him? Was Elena just being nice, earlier, with that whole ‘stay with us for a while’ bit? Does she hope he’d refused just one more time, to let her off the hook?

Sam clenches his eyes closed and is still hypersensitive to every little sound, when the noises … change.

It takes him a moment to place it.

Thump. Groan.

His eyes shoot open. The rubbery mattress whines its protest with how fast he pulls the covers over his head.