Chapter Text
[Belgrave Crescent, Stockbridge. —Edinburgh]
“You live in a posh wankers house.” Carl states with a smirk on his face, looking out the window at the house that Sam has just pointed out to him, his amusement seeping into every word.
“It’s a flat, firstly. And for your information, it’s fucking Edinburgh Carl, tell me how much you know about the housing market and how easy it is to find somewhere to live not only in close proximity to local amenities but also your brand new job.”
Sam doesn’t intend for his voice to sound so hollow and agitated but he can’t help but picture the home he used to share with Carl, the front door is the same shade of blue, the brickwork almost identical; that was part of the reason why he chose it.
“Alright alright,” he placates, “it’s nice, very homely.”
In comparison to his flat, it’s lighter, not so overshadowed by bustling Edinburgh traffic, quieter, pleasant. The gardens just across the street bring a lull of nature and warmth, children’s laughter echoing as he gets out the car, shrieks of happiness and a sense of freedom.
“You take Flora inside, I’ll start bringing some things upstairs. Go on.” Sam shoos him away after handing him the keys.
Carl stays on the pavement, Flora’s car seat nestled in the crook of his arm, the little girl still fast asleep.
“I can help–” but Carl stops short.
Sam glares at him from behind the car, and he holds his free hand up in mock surrender, waving the keys at him before walking up the garden path.
The three storey building looms above him as he slides the key into the lock, and part of him feels like he shouldn’t be the one doing this. That Sam should be the first one to walk into his new place.
Yet the idea of being scolded again makes him twist the key and push open the door, just as Sam’s footsteps follow behind him.
“The kitchen and living room are on the ground floor. Bedrooms are on the first floor, along with the bathroom. Then there’s an expanded living space on the second floor, mostly open plan. I believe the last owner turned it into a library/reading area.” Sam sides past him and takes the carefully stacked cardboard boxes into the kitchen and Carl moves into the living room.
He’s torn between disturbing Flora to put her in the wrap carrier just so he can offer some sort of help to Sam without leaving her alone, and letting her sleep soundly in the car seat while he darts in and out of the house quickly enough so that she’s never completely by herself.
“Hang on, I’ll come and give you a hand.” Carl catches Sam’s attention as he walks past the doorway, and he glances back at the sleeping baby before practically tiptoeing out of the room.
“You can’t leave her alone in the house!” Sam hisses, not letting Carl move over the threshold of the front door.
Carl folds his arms across his chest and sighs softly, “she’s sleeping Sam, she isn’t going to unbuckle herself and suddenly be able to crawl or walk. But if you want to stay with her, fine, I’ll go and get everything.”
His half amused smile doesn’t seem to translate, because Sam is still standing firm in the doorway.
“I said that I was fine to move everything, so why don’t you listen for once in your life Carl and go and sit down. I’ll be twenty minutes tops. I’m serious, and my patience is already wearing thin.”
Sam’s eyes are duller, and Carl can’t see the flicker of a smile on his lips anymore, only the down turned corners of his mouth that seem hellbent on producing only a frown.
He wants to carry on, to stand his own ground and actually be useful, not quite adjusted to having someone who wants to help him, but he has a feeling that Sam isn’t someone who takes no for an answer.
“What am I supposed to do, stare at the wall?” Carl snaps back, his icy tone returning with his own waning patience.
With Sam standing in front of him he has nowhere else to look but right at his face, right into his dark green eyes and for a fraction of a second he remembers doing the same thing once before, but when he sees Sam’s face in his mind he’s younger, much younger. The light in his eyes is back and there’s an iridescent smile on his face.
He blinks twice, running his fingers down his face and through his beard, across the stubble that needs tending to, and Sam is Sam again. Staring at him from just feet away, a perplexed look haunting his features.
A dull ache begins to pulse through the back of his head the longer he stands there, slowly coming back to his senses.
“Carl?” His voice is gravelly, and for some reason, it’s like he’s speaking to him through a tunnel, not standing right in front of him.
Then before he can answer him, Flora’s cries pierce the heavy silence and he comes back to reality, even though the pain in his head stays.
“I guess you win,” Carl murmurs, walking away from Sam and into the living room so he can see to Flora, all while he battles with the confusion at the image his brain just conjured up, and why he’s suddenly feeling the throbbing pain that is hauntingly familiar.
Focusing on Flora helps, and he tries not to watch Sam as he moves back and forth in the doorway every few minutes, but something has shifted, in his mind and in the tense atmosphere that blankets the house.
Not the absence of something, but like something’s been found. Dislodged even.
Whatever it is, although he can’t pinpoint it, consumes him until he finds himself drawn into the void of his mind, which he never can escape from without opening up old wounds. The one thing he never chooses to do, ever, but this time he hopes that maybe it’ll prove useful and explain exactly what happened in the hallway moments before.
He digs deep, deeper than he usually does, digging his heels in and delving beneath the surface until he’s rudely interrupted by Sam calling his name.
“What? Don’t you have boxes to get out of the car, all by yourself?”
Except Sam is looking at him with concern, and Carl frowns, looking down to see Flora staring back at him with a smile.
“I said your name ten times, and you didn’t hear me. I finished unpacking the car half an hour ago, is everything okay? Are you feeling okay?”
Sam doesn’t walk into the living room, he tries to instill some sort of boundary, but he can see the way Carl’s eyes are half closed, and the pain he’s clearly feeling isn’t so well hidden but rather etched into his face.
“I’m fine. Stop worrying. Now will you take Flora so I can at least use the bathroom and maybe get a drink? Or are you going to kick off again?”
Flora squirms in his arms, and he tries to reposition her but clearly she can feel that he’s uncomfortable too so Carl makes the decision for Sam and walks towards him, ready to pass Flora to him so he can try and sort himself out.
“Please?” Carl concedes, opting to leave the word ‘fucking’ out of his sentence this time round.
Sam rolls his eyes, but he scoops Flora up and settles her against his chest stepping aside so Carl has enough room to get past.
“Thank you,” Carl mumbles, the pain in his head only getting worse the longer he’s on his feet, especially now he doesn’t have Flora to focus on, “do you want a cup of tea?”
“We don’t have any teabags, or milk, or mugs.” Sam reminds him.
To which Carl grumbles, and swipes the keys off of the kitchen countertop, walking back down the hallway with a newfound hatred for the situation he’s found himself in.
“Where the hell are you going?” Sam calls out just as he’s unlocking the front door.
Carl considers not answering because he’s not the least bit in the mood, but for some reason he can’t quite understand, he stops and waits for Sam to appear in the hallway leaving the keys to dangle in the lock.
“To get teabags and milk and mugs. Perhaps I better get some sugar, some toilet roll and the fucking will to live as well? How about you write me a list and I’ll be on my merry way.”
Sam isn’t the least bit amused, but he disappears for all of two minutes before coming back into the hallway with Flora strapped into her car seat.
“If you’re going, we’re going. Or, you stay here with your child, and I’ll go on my own. Those are your options Carl,” Sam bargains, gently bouncing the car seat to soothe Flora, “you might think that you’ve got this arrogant lone wolf persona down to a T, and that you can play the ‘woe is me’ card and I’ll let you walk all over me. But unfortunately Carl, you’ve got me all wrong if you think that.”
Carl shrugs off his coat, takes the car seat out of Sam’s hands and walks back into the living room, and although there are a lot of choice words and colourful phrases he’d like to use to convey how pissed off he is right now, he doesn’t.
It’s only when the door slams, and Flora starts to cry, startled by the noise, that he buries his face into a cushion and screams too.
.｡.:*☁︎⋆✿⋆☀︎*:.｡.
Just over an hour later Sam steps back over the threshold of his new flat, arms laden with shopping bags, all of his anger left at the door.
The house is eerily quiet, but Sam doesn’t call out for Carl, because as much as he’s been able to leave his anger behind he knows that it isn’t that easy for Carl.
He clocks the car seat at the foot of the stairs and the faint sound of music coming from upstairs and he relaxes a little because at the very least Carl’s still here, not out wandering the streets.
The hallways are bare, and Sam begins to plan in his mind of the artwork he might want to display, illustrious pieces that tell stories, reflections of the world, places he’s been and places he wishes to go; he’s never seen a piece of art that he hasn’t immediately been drawn to.
It’s the only blank canvas that he’s glad to have in the flat, he didn’t mind that it came fully furnished, or that the past owner may have left a book or two behind, all he had asked for was that the walls were left vacant.
Once the kitchen looks much more orderly, there’s food in the fridge and crockery in the cupboards, it begins to feel a little more like home.
He pours hot water into the two new mugs he bought, one red, one blue, and sets out making two cups of tea. Remembering exactly how Carl takes his tea, how he took his tea, as if the last time he did was yesterday.
Leaving some hot water to cool in a jug just in case Flora needs a bottle.
Sam barely makes it to the foot of the stairs before the disgruntled shouts of pure frustration float down from the first floor.
Carl’s voice is muffled, the music just barely absorbing his angry tone, but Sam knows that no matter what, the other man will stay upset and pissed off for as long as possible, so he grips the mugs tighter and ascends the stairs.
“Carl? Which room are you in?”
He stands on the landing, the length of the hallway is laid with freshly polished wood floors with a running length of carpet covering the middle, again the walls have been left bare, and at the end of the landing Sam presumes is the master bedroom, then next to it the other slightly smaller room which leaves the door to his left to house the bathroom.
“You finally returned then. I was beginning to think you might not come back.” The music stops and Sam hears movement from the second bedroom, noting that Carl's tone is considerably softer, but there’s still an edge to his voice.
Instead of waiting for Carl to appear he moves carefully across the landing and pushes the door open softly, concentrating mostly on the steaming mugs of tea so that he doesn’t spill a drop, “I made you a cup of tea, one sugar and a dash of milk and I made sure to steep the teabag for a few minutes longer.”
Carl goes to reach for the red mug, but Sam shakes his head and holds the blue one out to him, finally taking in the scene that’s laid out before him.
The bedroom floor is barely visible for the many pieces of unbuilt furniture, all stacked up haphazardly, an open instruction manual in Carl’s lap. Every flat surface is inundated with screws and other tiny materials.
Flora is sleeping soundly in the middle of the bed, and Sam smiles gently at the sight of Carl’s jumper draped over the sleeping infant.
“Would you perhaps like a hand?” He tries not to laugh at the exasperated look on Carl’s face as he takes another look at the mess and the instructions before throwing them down. His hair is all over the place, a telltale sign that his hands have been pulled through it too many times, and his features are drawn together in a permanent scowl.
Carl turns his head as he moves his mug away from his lips, “how did you know the exact way I take my tea?”
The lie comes so easily it’s almost as if he expected Carl to ask him this exact question, “James told me, because apparently you’re very particular about your tea and he didn’t want you to crucify me.”
Not because you’ve taken your tea the exact same way for over twenty years, you grumpy, predictable man.
“Now, I’ll ask you again because you ignored me the first time, do you want some help with all of–” he gestures to the ground with a knowing smile, “–this?”
Carl rolls his eyes, but he shifts closer to the bed so there’s room for Sam beside him, “I guess Flora does need somewhere to sleep by tonight, and I can’t understand a single thing this instruction manual is telling me.”
He waits for Sam to join him before passing the instructions over, briefly glancing over at Flora who is somehow still fast asleep, despite his barely contained rage at such a trivial task like building a damn crib.
“Make sure we have all the screws in one place and then we can start putting things in cohesive piles, this is actually quite easy to understand Carl, are you sure you weren’t just reading it upside down?” Sam dares to tease him, enjoying the look of utter contempt that flashes across Carl’s face.
He doesn’t bite though, and instead Sam waits patiently for Carl to gather up all of the screws into a neat pile, flipping through the pages of the manual to see just how long this is going to take them.
“We might not finish this before little miss Flora wakes up.” Sam ponders mostly to himself.
“She’s only just properly fallen asleep, I kept her awake with my grumbling until I guess it became soothing to her. If I turn the music back on she might sleep for longer.”
Carl reaches behind him and flicks the portable radio back on, “found this on the mantle over there, I’m surprised it still works,” he makes sure it’s on the classical station and then turns it up just a touch.
Finding himself getting lost in the melody, and when he opens his eyes just as the song reaches the middle he’s met with Sam’s curious gaze.
“Mmm?” He waits for the inevitable questions.
“Oh nothing I just didn’t have you pegged as a classical music lover,” Sam whispers, trying not to lose himself in the music too as he sorts through the different screws and checks the instructions again, “Tchaikovsky right?”
“You would be correct, it’s ‘none but the lonely heart’, I find classical music easier to listen to on the days when my head is too loud, I’m not sure when I started but it helps most of the time,” Carl shrugs, then nods towards the instructions on his lap trying to distance himself from Sam and this newfound openness that seems to have possessed him, “let’s get on with it then.”
Half an hour later and they’re getting somewhere, but Sam is growing tired and Carl is only getting more and more irritable.
“I thought you said this was the next step, this looks wrong! Fuck me. I’m pretty certain we need this bloody screw or else it’ll fall apart, and I’m not putting my–I’m not putting Flora in this death trap.” He catches himself before he can say daughter, because even just the word makes his stomach twist.
He can’t do this, he can’t build a damn crib and he can’t be Flora’s guardian, he can’t because he can’t get attached…yet he already has. He loves her, and he doesn’t even love himself. All he wants to do is protect her and keep her safe.
Panic attacks usually don’t phase him anymore, ever since his first one over six months ago he found a way to hide them from everyone, to isolate himself when he knew that one was coming, but this time he’s not in a familiar environment, it hasn’t been brought on by one of his usual triggers, and he has nowhere to hide.
It’s paralysing, the way his lungs seem to have closed off and his body goes all tingly then numb. Every move he makes amplifies the panic and the fear, and every breath he takes isn’t nearly enough to refill his lungs before he gasps for air once again.
Part of him thinks he deserves it, it’s always a thought at the back of his mind whenever a panic attack occurs, that it’s penance for all the times in his life where he was too arrogant, too selfish, too much of a downright horrible person to everyone not just the people who care about him.
Part of him thinks that they’re never going to end, and that he’ll die before he can regain any semblance of control.
“Carl, hey, Carl. Look at me, no, hey,” Sam watches helplessly as the colour drains from Carl’s face, as he desperately claws at the collar of his T-shirt and his shoulders heave with the effort of trying to take in even breaths but he can’t even get close enough to lay his hand on Carl’s knee before he’s on his feet and stumbling away, “for goodness sake Carl, you’re going to hurt yourself, will you just listen to someone for once in your life and stop being so arrogant and self-righteous!”
Every word cuts right through him, and he regrets using such a harsh, petulant tone but he can’t take back what he said.
Sam watches Carl leave, a loud crash following his departure, and then it’s just silent.
He scrambles to his feet, worrying about whether or not Carl’s just fallen down the stairs while simultaneously worrying about leaving Flora unattended on the bed even though she’s sleeping, but the half built crib by his feet isn’t an option so he has no choice but to scoop her up, along with Carl’s jumper, and bring her with him.
There isn’t much he can do when she starts crying, upset at being disturbed from her peaceful slumber, however the only thing on his mind right now is making sure that Carl’s okay.
So when he steps out onto the landing, the relief that fills his chest, seeing Carl sat on the ground leant against the wall, is immeasurable.
The upturned rug by his feet being what must have tripped Carl up.
“Fuck. Off.” Carl growls, except there isn't an ounce of fierceness left behind his breathless tone.
He’s still gasping for air, still unable to feel any part of his body except from the dull ache at the back of his head and the newfound throbbing of his knees from when he fell.
“Do you think that’s going to make me walk away?” Sam utters under his breath, closing the distance between him and Carl just as Flora begins to settle.
“It should,” Carl forces out through gritted teeth, “I don’t want you–” his eyes linger on Sam, and he feels another wave of anxiety wash over him when he sees Flora laid against Sam’s chest with his jumper wrapped around her, “or heranywhere near me right now.”
The fear in Carl's eyes reignites a feeling inside of him that he thought was lost, the overwhelming urge to protect the man sitting in front of him and be the buffer for all of the horrible things that life has to offer.
The promises he made long ago, when their first kiss still lingered, and early mornings waking up in each other's arms were longed for and savoured; promises that they both swore to never break. To love each other, to learn from each other, to never give up on them.
Sam sinks down onto the floor of the landing, keeping his distance when he notices Carl recoiling from him, and once Flora is content with her fist wound tightly around the collar of his shirt, finally sleeping again covered with Carl’s jumper, he lets his gaze rest on the man he loved.
“You remind me so much of someone I used to know, they were just like you. Arrogant, short-tempered, they thought the world was against them, and they shut people out.” He ignores the way his throat tightens just by talking about Carl in such an ambiguous manner, because right now it doesn’t matter how he feels. All he cares about is Carl.
There’s a brief pause in Carl’s stinted breathing, and Sam watches as he shifts and unclenches his fists.
“Let me guess you hated them too?” Carl swallows and tries his best to keep his tone steady even as his chest burns. Curiosity taking hold and pulling him away from the panic.
“No…” he wonders whether or not he should be so open with Carl, but when he notices that his breathing is slowly evening out he doesn’t hesitate, “I loved him.”
I loved him. Carl doesn’t miss the flicker of a frown that passes over Sam’s face. The way he quickly tries to disguise the obvious pain in recalling his past.
It goes against every fibre of his being as he prepares to broach the topic further, to understand Sam on a more personal level, but he does, even though for anyone else he would never, “tell me about him?”
There’s just something about Sam that makes him feel safe? Secure? Understood?
All feelings he resents, but he cannot stop from burrowing under his skin. However, regardless of the other feelings, the panic attack has dissolved and he places his hand right above his heart, which is beating slower. The burning in his chest still lingers but the panic resides. It’s been a long time since he’s been able to reign in a panic attack this quickly.
“Another time,” Sam shakes his head, glad to see Carl’s face regaining some colour, his shoulders no longer slouched over and heaving, “you should go and get some rest. I’ll watch Flora and finish building the crib.”
It’s clearly a sore subject so Carl doesn’t press any further despite his piqued interest, “she’s not your responsibility, she’s mine. Neither is building her crib. I’m sure you’ve got far better things to do than having to worry about me.”
“I offered to let you stay with me, if I didn’t expect to be helping you with anything, much less Flora then I wouldn’t have extended my hospitality to you Carl, now please go and relax and let me finish sorting the crib out. That’s an order.”
Sam stands up and starts walking back towards the bedroom, only turning to face Carl when he reaches the doorway, straightening the upturned rug.
“The man I loved, he would have disliked you greatly…but something tells me that you’re not the man you show to everyone and that there’s a different Carl under the surface that you keep locked away. Anyway, I’ll wake you up in an hour or so, get some sleep and we'll be fine.”
It’s not untrue, the Carl he loved would be so disappointed in the Carl he’s getting to know now, but Sam is still holding onto the hope of a time when his Carl comes back. Foolishly? Perhaps. But there is no universe where he walks away again, or lets himself lose sight of what could happen.
The door closes softly, and Carl pushes himself up, steadying himself against the wall as he finds his footing and regains feeling in his legs.
Sam is still an enigma to him, one he’s now more than ever desperate to solve. Why, he doesn’t quite know, but he doesn’t have the energy to fight with himself right now so he does as he’s told–for the first time–and finds himself in the master bedroom.
The moment he sees the bed, the exhaustion rips through his body and he barely manages to draw the curtains before sinking into the brand new mattress, burying himself under the dark blue sheets.
What he thinks is Beethoven filters through from the other room, and he smiles at the thought of Sam turning up the radio for Flora and perhaps him as well; with the knowledge that Flora is safe with Sam he closes his eyes.
.｡.:*☁︎⋆✿⋆☀︎*:.｡.
Sam is trying to make dinner when he hears movement from the hallway, and he’s met with a very different version of Carl than he’s seen before.
Hair still wet from showering, a pair of tartan pyjama bottoms in replacement for his jeans, and a red T-shirt which is damp and clinging to his shoulders.
“Feeling better?” Sam questions, returning his focus to the simmering sauce on the stove.
Carl shuffles closer, baby monitor in hand so that he can be alerted for any noises or crying from Flora. He does feel better, but the throbbing in his head is still apparent, and even as he massages the spot where it’s most prominent nothing dulls the pain.
“Not really but oh well, what are you cooking? It smells good.” He tries to figure out what he’s smelling but he can’t quite pinpoint what Sam is making.
“Italian sausage and mushroom pasta, I was going to order in but I thought that maybe you’d appreciate a home cooked meal.”
Carl stands there, slightly confused, a little conflicted and like his privacy has been invaded,“you really asked Hardy what my favourite meal was?”
Sam stops stirring for a second, resisting the urge to swear under his breath because he’d been on autopilot and now as he looks down at the creamy mushroom and sauce, along with the other pan where the pasta water is boiling he realises that he didn’t even notice.
It scares him how easily he slipped back into the past.
“No? It was just a lucky guess.” His recovery is poor, but when Sam glances back at Carl who seems more concerned with the back of his head than what he’s making for dinner, he lets out a quiet sigh of relief which is short lived.
“Take some painkillers if you’ve got a headache, don’t tough it out,” Sam worries, because all of a sudden Carl looks paler, less stoic more somber.
“I don’t have a headache,” Carl lies, but even so he sinks down onto the bar stool and leans his elbows on the kitchen island, cupping his hands behind his neck as he bows his head, “do you have any paracetamol?”
Admitting defeat really isn’t his strong suit, “please,” he adds quickly, feeling Sam’s eyes lingering on him even though he’s staring down at the marbled countertop.
Sam reaches for the box of paracetamol and slides it across to Carl, filling up a glass with water too, “eating something might help, but tell me if it gets worse yeah?”
To Carl, his head is hurting for an unknown reason.
To Sam, Carl’s head is hurting for what could be a handful of reasons. Stress from the panic attack. Stress from the last almost 48 hours. Or him, his presence, and the twenty year old injury that caused Carl to forget about him, about them.
He still remembers finding Carl, covered in blood, the dark crimson soaking into the carpet, into his clothes. Attacked in their home, a place they were supposed to be safe in. Attacked because of Sam’s bad decisions and his awful choice of career.
Carl slowly lifts his head, “you look like you’ve seen a ghost…” he pushes two of the pills out of the packet and forces them down, pushing both the packet and the glass of water away so he can rest his head on top of his arms.
He watches Sam move quietly around the kitchen, briefly letting his gaze flicker over to the grainy video of Flora sleeping.
It’s disorienting being in such a vulnerable state in a house that’s foreign to him, with a little girl he’s still getting to know and a man he doesn’t really understand but for some reason he’s desperate to figure out.
“Sorry,” Sam finally relents, his tone as dull and empty as the looming evening sky that’s slowly turning dark, “it’s just been a long day…why don’t you go and sit in the living room and I’ll bring dinner to you.”
In any other circumstance he would have protested and offered to help Sam, but the pounding in his head shows no sign of subsiding and he knows he should probably eat before he spends the night trying to sleep.
“Are you sure I can’t lend you a hand, I don’t want you to think I’m just taking advantage of your hospitality.” Carl forces a smile, because he’s arrogant, yes, but he isn’t a total jerk.
Sam selfishly grasps onto the brief smile on Carl’s face, wanting to remember it, to savour it lest it be some time before he sees it again, “you can help tomorrow when you feel better, but for now I have things covered. It’ll be another ten minutes if that, go on.”
It’s hard to stand without swaying, and even harder to appear steady when he feels Sam’s gaze fixated on him, but he reaches for the baby monitor and then slowly walks out of the kitchen.
Collapsing into the armchair, closing his eyes to try and stave off the pain.
He’s blaming it on the panic attack and the stress, the way his life has been turned irreversibly upside down in a matter of days, but when he reaches out to touch the back of his head, gently carding his fingers through his hair once more he finds it again.
The raised line, rough around the edges, the pain amplifying as he presses down. It feels somewhat like the scar on his neck, except it’s clearly had a lot longer to heal.
Which would make sense, but for the life of him, he can’t remember how he ended up with the scar in the first place.
The more he thinks about it the more his head hurts, so he tries to push all thoughts of it out of his mind and instead he turns around to grab the radio and switches it on to the classical station again.
Two of Mozart’s symphonies later and Sam appears in the living room doorway, two bowls in hand and a gentle smile on his face, even if it does look troubled and full of worry.
“I was going to ask if you wanted a beer,” Sam hands Carl one of the bowls and then leaves his own on the coffee table, “but I didn’t want to assume.”
The food smells amazing, and despite not feeling that hungry his stomach twists, his appetite reappearing, “as much as I’d rather be drinking a beer, water is fine. Thank you Sam.”
All of his energy is poured into his tone as he tries to sound as sincere as possible, because he is grateful to Sam for letting him stay, for letting him and Flora stay.
He waits until Sam comes back before he starts eating, and the silence that settles around them both is comforting, more than Carl expected it to be. The soft music filling the void where conversation might elude. It’s the most peaceful he’s felt in a long time.
Seeing Carl look content, as if all of the day's worries are being washed away even if the respite is only temporary, it’s enough to lift his own spirits for a brief moment.
Nothing will ever bring back the memories that he shared with Carl, the feelings held in the beginning, or the love that changed them both, but if he can have this for now, it’s enough for him.
~
Sam is washing the dishes in silence when Carl gently knocks on the doorframe, capturing his attention.
Tired blue eyes meet his, and Sam knows exactly what Carl is going to say to him.
“I’m going to head to bed now, thank you again for dinner. I’ll return the favour tomorrow, promise. Goodnight Sam."
He doesn’t move, his hands still suspended in the hot soapy water, but he turns his head, “you’re welcome. Goodnight Carl, see you in the morning.”
Only when he’s certain that he’s heard Carl close the bedroom door upstairs, does he let the sob rise from the back of his throat; he tries to hold himself up but when his legs buckle he falls to the floor.
Everything he’s been holding back rising to the surface, all of the pain, the fear, the rage and resentment. Twenty years of torn, pent up torment, finally making its way out.
Nothing is ever going to make it better, no amount of time, healing, therapy or distance. Sam lost Carl twenty years ago, and he will never get him back. He could have made a different choice, he could have saved himself so much heartache, but he didn’t. He chose to take life after life, little did he know he’d end up taking his own too, the life he meant to live with Carl.
“There’s nothing you can do about it now.” He murmurs to the empty room, dragging his knees to his chest, holding himself, as if his own words will actually bring him any comfort.
Somehow, he manages to pull himself back up and finish the dishes, halfheartedly cleaning the kitchen even though it still seems cluttered with unpacked boxes and other items without a proper place.
The clock only just strikes eleven when he finally drags himself upstairs to bed; only after he’s checked every door and every window, twice. A habit he adopted back when he was still new to his old job, one he never could quite shake.
He forgoes a shower not wanting to risk disturbing either of his residents, and instead he settles for washing his face and brushing his teeth, still not entirely sure if he’ll be able to sleep in his bed with the knowledge that Carl slept in it earlier.
It takes a lot of self control to not check on Carl under the pretence of checking on Flora but he leaves his door open so it’s ajar anyway, just in case Carl wakes up in the middle of the night, or Flora does too.
His room doesn’t feel like it’s entirely his, not now he knows that Carl was in here, but he draws the curtains and neatly folds his clothes trying whatever he can to avoid getting into bed until he has no other choice.
It’s overwhelming when Sam climbs under the covers, the scent of Carl’s cologne, the way the pillow is still slightly indented, moulded to his head.
He manages an hour of restless sleep, not even enough time for his usual slew of vivid dreams that always dissolve into nightmares to appear.
There’s nothing he can do to stop his mind from racing, wandering to the man sleeping in his spare room, the man who he used to share a bed with.
Until Flora’s cries pierce the heavy silence.
He doesn’t sit up right away, because if anyone should be tending to Flora’s distress it’ll be Carl, not him. Even if her cries tug at his heartstrings.
But after nearly five minutes, Sam can feel the worry gnawing at his chest and he decides that poking his head around the door won’t hurt.
His whole body turns cold as he pads barefoot across the bedroom floor and out onto the landing, pushing Carl’s bedroom door open with ease, glad that there’s a small amount of light spilling across the room from a dimmed lamp by the bed.
Carl is sleeping, and Sam knows that he should wake the other man up but judging by the heavy bags that are still so prominent beneath Carl’s eyes, he needs the sleep.
So Sam treads carefully over to the crib, the second he reaches out to brush his finger against Flora’s tear stained cheek her cries die down to soft whimpers, “oh darling, did you have a bad dream?”
Wasting no time, not wanting to disturb Carl as well, Sam scoops Flora up and lets her settle against his chest, taking her dummy and her blanket too so at least she can have something to bring her comfort and help her go back to sleep.
As much as he wants to climb back into his own bed, he doesn’t want to risk falling asleep whilst Flora is in his care, so he starts to make his way up to the second floor, where at the very least Carl won’t be disturbed by Flora’s crying if she becomes unsettled again.
It’s the first time he’s set eyes on the library, in person anyway, and the pictures he’s seen really didn’t do it justice. Much like the rest of the flat it’s been well cared for, but this room in particular seems to have been cherished the most.
The two lamps by an armchair provide him with enough ambient light that’s dim enough to not be too intense and stop Flora from falling asleep, but before he gets comfortable he browses the various books that were left behind.
His fingers run delicately over every spine, some words embellished in gold, others printed onto the covers, the thin layer of dust on the shelves underneath being disturbed as he pulls out a book he recognises.
Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh
One he’s been meaning to continue with for a while, his own copy sitting in one of the many boxes of his belongings that are currently tucked away in storage. Like his relationship with Carl, his book is twenty years old.
Sam carefully tucks the book under his arm and sinks down into the armchair, letting Flora stretch and squirm until she finds a comfortable position in his arms, then Sam covers her with the pink crocheted blanket and opens the novel to the page number he hopes is where he left off.
It seems silly to read out loud, but judging by his impromptu storytelling earlier, Flora is at the very least soothed somewhat by his voice, so he clears his throat and finds the first paragraph on the page, “Carl would have loved this story too sweetheart, if only he knew…”
It was about eleven when Sebastian, without warning, turned the car into a cart-track and stopped. It was hot enough now to make us seek the shade.
On a sheep-cropped knoll under a clump of elms we ate the strawberries and drank the wine—as Sebastian promised, they were delicious together—and we lit fat, Turkish cigarettes and lay on our backs, Sebastian's eyes on the leaves above him, mine on his profile, while the blue-grey smoke rose, untroubled by any wind, to the blue-green shadows of foliage, and the sweet scent of the tobacco merged with the sweet summer scents around us and the fumes of the sweet, golden wine seemed to lift us a finger's breadth above the turf and hold us suspended.
Flora is still fighting sleep when he glances down at her, the soft yellow light highlighting her delicate features. Dark green eyes watch him warily, thick eyelashes curling upwards and then settling when he gently guides his thumb down the bridge of her nose. Her body warm against his chest, tiny dimples appearing by her mouth as she yawns.
“Carl is going to take the best care of you darling, he’s a little bit rough around the edges, and he hides behind his anger. But he loves fiercely, deep down, he’s kind and gentle. He loves you so much already, and he’ll never let you doubt that.”
Sam clears his throat, adjusting Flora’s blanket before he continues reading.
"Just the place to bury a crock of gold," said Sebastian. "I should like to bury something precious in every place where I've been happy and then, when I was old and ugly and miser-able, I could come back and dig it up and remember."
This was my third term since matriculation, but I date my Oxford life from my first meeting with Sebastian, which had happened, by chance, in the middle of the term before. We were in different colleges and came from different schools; I might well have spent my three or four years in the University and never have met him, but for the chance of his getting drunk one evening in my college and of my having ground-floor rooms in the front quadrangle.
Charles and Sebastian seem to remind him somewhat of him and Carl, in small, insignificant ways. From his first time reading the book until now, years between the two, he never really realised just how much things have changed.
How much his life has changed.
How Charles lost Sebastian, how he lost Carl.
Somewhere between the first chapter and the next, Flora falls asleep. So Sam keeps reading, not out loud anymore but to himself, content with the gentle silence surrounding him, of Flora’s soft snores and her loose grip on the fabric of his shirt.
~
It’s the longest stretch of sleep he’s managed to get in a while, but it still pisses him off when he checks his phone and sees the lit up numbers telling him it’s only just half past one.
The house is silent, and Carl wonders if Sam’s asleep now too. He pulls the covers off and swings his legs out of the bed, sitting on the edge of the mattress as he slowly wakes up.
He expects to hear Flora’s breathing, but the more he listens the more he realises how eerily quiet it is in the bedroom and his blood runs cold as he takes tentative steps towards her crib.
It’s empty, no Flora, neither her blanket nor her dummy left behind and it’s suffocating all of a sudden, not knowing where she is.
Carl pinches furiously at his skin, hoping, praying that this is all some sordid nightmare but he’s still standing in the middle of the room, Flora’s crib is still empty, his forearm covered with red nail shaped indents and he can’t breathe.
The first place he checks is Sam’s room, not caring about privacy or boundaries as he barges into the other man’s bedroom barely stopping the door from crashing against the wall.
Except his bed is empty too. Blue sheets obviously disturbed and unslept in.
His throat tightens and he can feel the cold sweat dripping down his back, the fabric of his t-shirt clings to his clammy skin.
Nothing has ever felt like this, so terrifying and unsettling, he’s had Flora for no longer than two days and his whole body is painful, aching at the thought of losing her.
The hallway looms in front of him, dark, cold, empty, and he doesn’t want to shout but when he reaches the top of the stairs and glances down at the undisturbed entryway and the still locked front door all sense of rationale leaves his mind, “Sam! Where the fuck are you!”
It’s a noise above him, and then the sound of hurried footsteps that makes him spin around, but when he sees Sam, holding Flora, the relief he wants isn’t what comes.
The only emotions he can feel are a mixture of hollow fear and pure unbridled rage.
“What. The. Fuck.” He hisses, lowering his tone when he sees that Flora is sleeping, but his fists are clenched and his chest is rising and falling erratically, all of his anger struggling to stay contained inside.
“Let me put her down, please, I’ll explain in a second.”
Carl wants to reach out, to take Flora from Sam and make sure she’s safe himself, but the wave of nausea that comes when he moves keeps him rooted to the spot.
It takes Sam twenty three seconds to reappear, he closes the bedroom door and extends his hand, holding the baby monitor for Carl to take.
There’s nothing polite about the way he snatches the monitor from Sam, he still can’t breathe and nor does he want to talk to him, but the anxiety he’s feeling mixing with the anger makes him feel wired.
“Downstairs. Now.” He snarls through gritted teeth, because he’ll be damned if Sam thinks that a civil conversation is going to take place.
“Carl, look, please calm down,” Sam tries to keep the peace, wanting to have the chance to explain what happened before Carl comes for him with all guns blazing.
But the second they’re in the kitchen, the second Carl stops and turns to face him, he realises that any attempts at reasoning with him are going to be useless.
“Don’t tell me to calm down! Don’t you fucking dare! You have no idea how I felt in the minutes after finding her crib empty, when I found your bed empty too, I thought the worst! How the fuck was I supposed to not think the worst!”
This isn’t the first time that he’s seen Carl angry, of course it’s not. But it’s the first time in a long time, and it’s hard to swallow, even harder to digest knowing that he’s the one Carl’s angry with. The heightened emotions of the situation coupled with the dredged up pain of the past. It takes him back to the first real fight they ever had.
“You were sleeping, she was crying, what was I supposed to do? Wake you up when you look like you haven’t slept in weeks?” He tries to control his own simmering anger, not directly because of Carl, mostly at himself because of his own poor judgment.
“Yes Sam! You should have woken me up! You can’t just take her, I was terrified Sam, fucking terrified!”
And right then, in that split second, there’s a flash of the old Carl in the look he gives him, the pure fear and despair in his gaze.
⋞☁︎⋆☀︎⋟~~then
“Carl, please darling, it’s not what you think.”
Every single word, every syllable, every second that Sam spends trying to convince him that he’s not being deceitful, that he hasn’t been leading him on, twists the knife further and further into his spine, the tip pressing dangerously close to his heart.
“Stop lying to me!” Carl slams down the wooden spoon, dinner long forgotten as he spins around to face his partner, the one person who was supposed to tell him everything. Who he trusts more than anyone.
Sam is standing by the front door, hair soaking wet, his clothes too, and Carl can’t stand to look at him. To watch his face as he lies yet again.
“Please, please Carl just listen to me. I didn’t lie, not like that, not to deceive you. I lied to protect you, because…I love you.”
This isn’t how he wanted to say it for the first time, this isn’t how it was supposed to go but the words come tumbling out of his mouth before he can stop them.
“Don’t say that,” Carl’s voice is barely above a whisper now, “don’t say that while you’re lying to me…”
Sam watches as Carl recoils from him as he advances, there’s something new in the way he looks at him, it’s no longer just happiness or love that clouds his gaze, it’s uncertainty and distrust.
All because of him.
“Not only did you lie, you chose not to trust me. I don’t care about your reasons, I don’t care if you did it to protect me. I’m your boyfriend, I’m supposed to be someone you can talk to, to share things with.” His voice is steady, somehow, but his hands are shaking and his heart is beating out of his chest.
“I’m sorry, I can’t take back the fact that I lied to you, and I won’t stand here and keep lying. I really, truly am sorry Carl, but please darling, will you let me explain?”
It’s almost as if the reality of the situation is only just hitting him, like a sharp slap across the face.
“They had a gun,” he whispers, the tears that spring to his eyes are ones of fear and anger, not sadness, “this person I didn’t know, but who knew everything about me, came into our home waving a gun around like a child would wave around a toy. Without a care in the world. They would have shot me, given half the chance, that I do know. Because of your lies, because of whatever the hell you’re caught up in, something you didn’t think to tell me about. To trust me with. I could have been hurt, or worse…”
Sam lets out a guttural sob at the mere thought of Carl being hurt because of him, and even though his chest aches for his partner, the only constant in his life, he stays standing where he is. Keeping his distance because right now Carl hates him, doesn’t trust him and he’s scared of him.
“I want you to leave…actually no. I’ll leave, I don’t feel safe here right now, in this apartment, or with you.” Carl stumbles over his slippers and pulls the tea towel from his shoulder, barely remembering to turn off the hob before he retreats to their bedroom.
Pulling his duffel bag from the top of the wardrobe and throwing any item of clothing he can get his hands on inside, some things are his and other things probably belong to Sam but right now he doesn’t care.
It takes him five minutes to get together enough for at least two days away, but when he turns to leave Sam is standing in the doorway.
“Don’t go.” He pleads, and he considers dropping to his knees and begging.
Carl closes his eyes, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose a little too tight before he swipes his trembling hand down his face, “Sam, I’m not going to change my mind, I need time and I’m asking you to respect that. Tonight was too much, this,” he gestures halfheartedly between the two of them, “right now, is too much.”
His grip on the handles of the duffel bag makes his knuckles turn white, but Carl focuses on the taut fabric digging into his palm instead of the look of pain and despair on Sam’s face.
“Sam. Move, please.”
If he spends another minute standing there, he’ll cave just to pacify Sam; he’ll unravel his own mind just to help pick up the pieces of his boyfriends.
He does, when Carl doesn’t back down, and it takes every ounce of strength not to let his knees buckle as he watches Carl walk towards the door.
“I love you.” Sam knows deep down that now isn’t the right time, but the utter fear that is swallowing him whole that is telling him this might be the last time he sees Carl draws the three, arguably most important words from his cracked tear stained lips.
The cool brass doorknob soothes his aching palm, but he doesn’t turn it yet, because Sam’s voice has him rooted to the ground.
He aches to turn around, to say it back, because he does love Sam, so fucking much, but right now he doesn’t like him, doesn’t understand him, doesn’t trust him.
“I know…goodbye Sam.” Four words are all he leaves behind, but they’re not the four words he wishes he could have said.
⋞☁︎⋆☀︎⋟
“…there has to be a hotel that will take me and her.”
Carl grumbles defeatedly under his breath, but just loud enough for Sam to catch as he comes back to reality.
The other man is scrolling on his phone, shoulders hunched over as he leans against the kitchen counter.
“Don’t leave, please. It’s the middle of the night and Flora’s sleeping now, you’re exhausted Carl, so stay. I won’t do anything like that again, you have my word.”
Desperation clings to his words as the past and the present blur into one, last time he couldn’t stop Carl from leaving, and this time he’s determined to get him to stay.
"You crossed a line Sam," Carl pauses, "I don't want there to ever be a moment where I can't keep her safe. I have never felt more scared than I did when I woke up and realised she was gone. Her father isn't a good person, from what minimal information we've been able to dig up. There won't ever be a point where I'm not constantly on edge, worrying about her. It's my responsibility to keep her safe…I can't fail her."
There's a vulnerability in Carl's eyes, one that Sam deciphers easily, even after all these years he's still fluent in the language of Carl Morck and his grumbles and unpleasantness, eye rolls and long stares, dismissible body language that he can deduce meaning for in seconds.
"She's safe here, she's safe with you Carl. That little girl may only be two months old, but she's observant and intelligent; if she didn't feel safe with you then you'd know because she'd tell you, in a manner of speaking. As for failing her, I know that you won't let that happen."
Carl lays his phone down, and turns his attention to Sam, "how do you know that? That I won't fuck this up, fuck her up? You don't know me."
It's a half smile that Sam gives him.
"You think I made the choice to accept the position from Moira without doing some background research first? I know bits and pieces from Hardy, but I also read the papers Carl. I like to know things, I prefer to have a slight upper hand when I find myself in a new, and possibly volatile environment. You were shot, twice. You still haven't given up on finding the person who shot yourself and Hardy. You didn't let anyone stop you from solving the Merritt Lingard case. You took in a baby, just because she was left on your doorstep. You don't sleep, but you pretend that you're a somewhat functional member of society, you won't rely on pills to dull the ache and make it bearable. You don't give up. So, you won't fail Flora, you won't let yourself do that."
Sam watches as Carl's jaw falls open just slightly before he straightens up and all emotion is wiped from his face.
He almost lets Carl go without saying anything else, but just as he reaches the kitchen doorway his throat tightens and he swears that his heart breaks all over again.
“I’m sorry,” Sam whispers, there’s an edge to his tone that makes his chest ache, it’s an apology steeped in years of pain and remorse, not just an apology for tonight, but for all those years before when he made the first big mistake in their relationship, “thank you for staying.”
Carl is still pissed off, the flame is still burning in his chest, even more so now that he knows Sam has done some digging, that he knows things about he would never willingly divulge.
But he stops walking and turns around just long enough to catch the other man's slumped shoulders, "goodnight Sam."
It's a gesture devoid of emotion and his words still stick in the back of his throat but he feels lighter as he continues to walk away.
Tomorrow is a new day, another obstacle to overcome, and all he wants to do is be on his own for a while, before he has to deal with everything that comes with the sunrise and the looming morning ahead.
.｡.:*☁︎⋆✿⋆☀︎*:.｡.
~~the next morning
"It's really rather rude to wake up before the sun," Carl whispers to Flora, who seems to have the same dislike for sleeping at nighttime as he does, but even so he welcomes the sudden company and enjoys the small moment he gets to share with Flora laid in his bed as he props himself up on his side, "you mustn't make this a habit sweetheart."
She just smiles and blows a raspberry in response, reaching out to take his hand, wrapping her tiny fingers around his own.
The sound of movement on the landing and then muffled footsteps descending the stairs lets him know that Sam's awake too.
It seems like none of them got any decent sleep last night.
"Shall we get up then? Hopefully Sam's making some coffee because I don't think I'll survive without it," Carl reluctantly leaves the comfort of the bed, quickly pulling on a jumper and some socks to try and keep in the warmth, "right then little lady, let's go."
He scoops her up with ease, and cradles her with one arm so he can reach down and grab her dummy and blanket before he shoves his feet into his slippers and shakes off the beginning of bad mood because the tension in the house is palpable, and all he wants is to get on with Sam for the remainder of his time here. Not walk on eggshells.
The bitter aroma of coffee fills his nostrils just as he reaches the bottom of the stairs, and Carl closes his eyes, trying to pull himself together and not lead with his asshole persona as he makes his way into the kitchen.
Yet, his mood drops considerably when not only does Sam not acknowledge him when he walks in, but chooses to pick up his mug and walk away, out of the French doors and onto the patio.
"Fuck you then." Carl mumbles, walking into the living room to search for the baby sling so that he can at the very least make himself a cup of coffee.
Once Flora is strapped safely against his chest, he sets about reboiling the kettle, and then searches through the cupboards for two plates and some bread.
Her stint of quietness lasts all of fifteen minutes before she's crying, wriggling against his chest and digging her tiny hands into his neck.
"Alright sweetheart, I know. Give me five more minutes and it'll be cool enough." His own breakfast long forgotten as he places the boiling hot bottle of milk into a jug of cold water.
Carl doesn't realise Sam is back inside until he clears his throat, and even then Carl ignores him.
Deciding to give the other man a taste of his own medicine.
"Real mature Carl," Sam rolls his eyes, the frustration and misery from last night still lingering, even though he wishes that they even had a reason to resolve their argument from the early hours of the morning. But they're two strangers, from Carl's point of view, and last night probably seems so insignificant to him, in comparison with how much it's weighing him down.
“Is she still unsettled?” Sam probes, trying once more to strike up a conversation, his interest right now lay only with Flora, who is the only one in the house who hasn’t managed to piss him off entirely.
Carl’s sharp, tired gaze tells him that she is, and probably has been for most of the night, yet he watches far too intensely as the taller man suddenly loses all sense of superiority and lets his guard down.
And there he is, all over again. The man he loved, long ago.
“I figured a stroll in the gardens across the road might soothe her after she eats, if you wanted to join?” Carl acquiesces, finally, their argument following last night still stagnant in the air. Carl’s patience for their childish behaviour begins to wear thin the longer Flora cries.
“Stroll? Who’s the posh wanker now, hmm? But yes, I'd like that."
There is no edge to Sam’s voice though, and Carl is glad of that. He doesn’t want another argument, nor does he think he has the strength or emotional capacity to continue such a contemptuous fight.
"I made you some toast, although it's been sitting there a for a while because you were outside stewing over our stupid vendetta." Carl smirks, nodding to the plate of slightly burnt toast, reaching out to take the bottle from the jug and press the teat of the bottle against the inside of his wrist, breathing a sigh of relief when he finds it to be cool enough.
Sam rolls his eyes, but he doesn't let his smile drop, and instead he briefly watches Carl as he takes Flora out of the carrier and settles her in his arms to feed her, overwhelmed with a sense of melancholic sadness as he remembers the life they planned long before. But he turns away just as Carl looks up, going to the fridge for the butter and the jam.
"I am sorry for last night," Sam murmurs, his thoughts spilling out as he concentrates on spreading a thin layer of jam onto his toast, "I know what I did was wrong and I know I scared you. I wasn't thinking, and I wish I could change how I handled it but I can't. I can however promise that it won't happen again."
"You can stop apologising now, it happened, we dealt with it. She's fine, and that's all I care about." Carl somehow holds a steady tone as he talks to Sam, even though he doesn't really recognise himself as the reassurance settles the other man's features into a look of renewed calm and relief.
"Do you want me to watch her while you go and get ready?"
Sam watches the cogs turn in Carl's head as he deliberates his offer, and for a moment he thinks that he's going to say no, but then he's walking towards him and stops barely inches away.
It's disorienting, being so close to Carl, and with the environment already being so emotionally charged, his heart rate is elevated and he can feel the heat rising to his cheeks. The words he aches to say feel like lead on his tongue, and no amount of swallowing helps the feeling go away.
"Just don't run off with her." Carl smirks, letting Sam take Flora from him; immediately missing the weight of her in his arms.
Sam rolls his eyes in response, had he not been so preoccupied with the little girl now in his arms, he would have stuck his middle finger up at Carl too for good measure, "you're not going to let that go are you?"
"How long do you plan on working with us?" Is all Carl says in response, taking the stairs two at a time so that Sam doesn't have a chance to reply.
The genuine smile on his face making his jaw ache slightly, because he can't remember how long it's been since an actual smile graced his lips. Not a smirk or a grimace, or anything remotely sarcastic. But a proper smile.
~
It takes them thirty minutes to get out of the house, and for 27 of those minutes Flora screams, so loudly and with so much ferocity that Carl worries that something must be wrong.
Until he, begrudgingly, lets Sam help him put Flora in the baby carrier, and the moment she realises and settles against his chest, she falls quiet.
"Oh god." Sam mutters, not meaning to actually say those words out loud as he follows Carl out the door.
"What?" Carl scowls, turning to face Sam and blocking him from continuing down the steps.
"Your ego, it must be absolutely enormous. Well, I imagine even more so than normal."
Sam attempts to sidestep past Carl, but he's unsuccessful as the man towers over him even though he's stood on the steps.
"In what way?" Carl questions in a slightly gentler tone. Hyperaware of any movement or shift in Flora's breathing patterns.
"In this way," Sam gestures to Flora with a smirk that dissolves almost immediately into a soft smile at the sight of Flora smiling in her sleep, "in the way Flora only settles for you, adores you, and consequently has you wrapped around her little finger. That little girl feels so safe with you, and it shows. You love her already, and god that shows too."
Carl finally turns around, not quite sure how to answer Sam, hoping that by the time he catches up with him that the warmth in his cheeks will have disappeared.
He does love her, he loves her in the same way he loves Jasper, even though he hasn't been there for the most part, he's there when it counts, and he hopes that he'll be able to be there for Flora for as long as she needs him. In the same way he's been there for Jasper since his mum up and left to spend her time travelling the world instead of being a mother.
The park is mostly wide open space, with trees lining the outer edges, but there's a water fountain in the middle, and plenty of benches and well tended to plants reaching across the vast expanse of green lawns.
"Sorry if I said something wrong." Sam murmurs as he falls into step beside Carl.
He stiffens, not at all used to being spoken to in such a gentle, caring manner. It's so different to the banter he has with Hardy, or the silent communication he's developed with Akram. Or the teasing commentary he has with Rose. It's throwing him off balance, but there's a part of him that feels comfortable, almost as if he's remembering a past life.
"You didn't," Carl reassures him, gently brushing his thumb against Flora's cheek to move an eyelash, "I just have a hard time accepting any sort of praise or appreciation."
There's a vulnerability in the way he talks, yet it feels strained, and all Sam can wonder is how long Carl's felt like this. How much has he been through that means he no longer trusts himself, or feels like a good person. What happened exactly to turn him into a version of himself that Sam knows the old Carl would hate.
"I guess when you're a sarcastic, arrogant person like me, then you burn bridges pretty easily."
Sam has to shove his hands deep into his pockets to stop himself for reaching out to take Carl's hand, he bites his tongue so the word he wishes he could say disappear before they reach his lips.
"Have you thought about seeing a therapist?"
Carl sighs, "I tried that, after I got shot the first time. Then I got shot again and…" he trails off and lets his words disappear, not quite
"And you tried to pretend you were okay, except you're really not?" Sam finishes his sentence with ease, not a single ounce of judgement coating his tone, only empathy and compassion.
Carl nods, but doesn't say anything else.
They probably spend over an hour in the park, walking, observing, sitting and just being in each other's company.
To his surprise, Carl doesn't hate it, the scenery or the company.
And what matters most is that Flora is finally settled.
It still doesn't mean that his mind is though, Sam's words are still buzzing around his head, along with the events of last night which have left the anxiety he felt behind, digging its claws into his chest and taking root.
"I'm just going to take this." Sam gestures to his phone, and as Carl comes back to his senses he hears the faint hum of the ringtone.
He nods, and watches as Sam walks towards the water fountain.
The uncertainty of everything suddenly blankets him, the fact that as Flora stirs and her tiny hands reach out and latch onto him before she falls back asleep, the moment dissolves. The mirage of peace in the midst of so much chaos.
She's safe with him now. But he isn't so naive and foolish to believe that things will stay that way. Tomorrow is never promised, and he's learned that the hard way after all these years.
Not in life. In a job. In relationships. In a once happy marriage.
He wants to tell Flora that everything will be alright, but if he can't even tell himself that he can't bear to lie to her too. No matter how little she is, regardless of whether she understands.
"I've got you kid," he murmurs, it's about all he can manage to say that isn't coated in falsehood and pretence, "for however long this lasts. I've got you."