Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I want you to think very carefully about what you want the focus of your debate to be. What do you find interesting? What do you think is interesting to argue about? Some ideas might be… Parliamentary vs. Presidential. Democracy vs. dictatorship. Unitary vs. Federal.”

Miss Snyder strolls between each desk, dropping thick booklets of print outs and textbook photocopies on each desk as she goes.

“You can play devil’s advocate, if you like. In fact, I encourage it. You wanna argue about why the Bill of Rights isn’t worth the two hundred year old parchment it’s written on? Let’s hear it.” She looks at them, thrusting the handouts up in the air. “Just remember we need to hear the opposing argument, too. As eloquently as possible, please.”

A heavy booklet thuds on Grizz’ desk. Beside him, another lands on Clark’s. Clark starts slightly, as though somehow he wasn’t expecting it.

“Man, the fuck? This thing’s huge,” he complains, picking it up between thumb and forefinger like something dead. “How are we supposed to pick out of all this?”

Grizz flips to a page about the Constitution, pointedly ignoring the ‘we’ which implies, to his dismay, ‘Grizz and Clark’.

“They’re just ideas,” he replies. “You can pick your own thing. Whatever you think is worth talking about, I guess.”

Now it’s Grizz’s turn to jump, as a meaty finger slams into the middle of the page he was just about to turn.

“Yeah, man!” Clark nods. “The Constitution! Perfecto!”

“What?”

Clark bats Grizz’s arm, like he’s stupid. “We’ll do it on the Constitution. What’s more fuckin’ American than that? Hey, we could start off like ‘we the people’. It’d be, you know. Ironic and shit.”

“I don’t know,” says Grizz, flipping slowly through the pages. “She didn’t say it had to be, like… overly American. There’s a page about Communism…”

“Fuck that.”

“It might be easier to talk about something you feel strongly about.”

“What are you saying? I don’t feel strongly about Communism.”

“You strongly dislike it.”

Clark considers this. Then something beautiful happens, very briefly. For a moment, it appears as if something thoughtful, maybe even – dare Grizz think it – something introspective passes into Clark’s mind.

Then it vanishes, as quickly as it came. He jabs his finger at Grizz’s booklet again.

“Nah. You nailed it, bro. Good job.”

Which, for Clark, means time to relax. He pulls out his phone under the desk, swipes open his messages to start texting Gwen.

Grizz gnaws on his thumbnail, carrying on through Miss Snyder’s political scrapbook. There are so many great ideas, he wilts at the idea of talking about the Constitution with Clark. He can just picture it; Clark throwing out dumbass one-liners, resorting to making the class laugh, not letting Grizz get a word in edgeways. Clark is a great guy; they’ve been friends since they were five. But fuck if Grizz wants to partner with him in anything except racquetball.

“So, guys. Ideas?” Miss Snyder is in front of their desks now, looking at them expectantly. Looking at Grizz expectantly, because he knows she thinks highly of him, and that just makes it worse.

“We already picked,” Clark says confidently.

“Oh?”

“The Constitution.”

She blinks. “That’s rather broad. Any…specific aspect?”

While Clark waits for another of those lightbulb moments to flash, Miss Snyder, God bless her soul, makes a suggestion: “Actually, I think Greg wants to work on something to do with the amendments. Maybe you two should partner up, if it’s an area of interest for you?”

Clark pulls a face that says it all. Grizz nods, trying to encourage him. The frustrating thing is, Clark does give a shit about the amendments. He just doesn’t realise it. Of them all, he’s the likeliest to go off about freedom of speech, or fucked up gun laws; he just doesn’t ever seem to connect any of that to this class.

Miss Snyder turns her attention to Grizz instead.

“Grizz? Any ideas?”

“Uh…” Grizz flounders. He sometimes so desperately wants to impress his teachers, but Miss Snyder especially. She’s sort of everything he aspires to be, bar five foot two and female. Everything she says is clever. He tries to come up with something clever now, but close proximity to Clark seems to have had a damning effect, and his mind goes blank.

Miss Snyder pulls her booklet towards him and flips to a page on the Founding Fathers. She turns it back to him and taps one long nail on James Madison’s head.

“You’ve written great stuff for me on the War of Independence. History seems to be your go-to.” She gestures behind his head. “Sam’s thinking of working on something to do with American identity and the motherland. I think you guys could come up with something really good there, don’t you?”

Grizz glances over his shoulder. Sam Eliot? Grizz can’t remember the last time he spoke to him.

Last year, maybe. The Halloween dance. Sam was dressed as Napoleon Dynamite, throwing up in the apple bobbing bucket.

“I’m not sure I…” Grizz trails off again; he can feel Clark staring at him, boring a look into him that’s trying to say don’t partner with Sam, or I don’t get to goof off all week. He looks at Miss Snyder; she raises her eyebrows. That’s enough to do it. “I mean yeah, I – I could talk to Sam. Sure.”

She smiles. “Great!”

“What?” says Clark.

Grizz looks at him, feigning innocence. “What?”

Clark waits until Miss Synder has gone.

“Look, man, I don’t wanna sound fucking heartless –”

“But you’re going to anyway,” Grizz mutters.

“How exactly,” Clark says slowly, like he’s really trying to figure this out, “would you debate with Sam?”

“What are you –” Realisation hits. “Dude.”

“What? I’m serious.”

“Clark. Fuck off.”

“I just don’t understand how that would work. We can’t all…” Clark jiggles his hands about aimlessly, in a poor imitation of signing. Grizz empties the top of his desk into his backpack.

“I’ll see you at lunch,” he says.

“You’re seriously ditching me? What am I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know, learn something? I know it’s a crazy concept, but just take it slow, okay?”

“With Dewey?” Clark swivels in his seat, points an accusatory finger at Greg, who rolls his eyes. “That Dewey?”

Grizz shrugs, trying not to smile.

“We could’ve had something good, man,” Clark grumbles, but he’s starting to gather his things up too. He slings his backpack on to his shoulder, sliding his chair back so he can move to Greg’s table. “That’s the last time I give you a great idea.”

Everybody has started moving from desk to desk at Miss Snyder’s (gentle but firm) suggestion, so Grizz feels less weird about jumping up in the middle of the room and demanding an audience with Sam.

Sam’s eyes are glued to his Gov textbook, one hand propping his head up, not like he’s bored, but focused. Grizz isn’t sure how to get his attention at first, and eventually opts for just swivelling the empty seat in front of Sam’s desk around and sitting down. Sam doesn’t even blink; clearly, he already knew he had company.

“Hey,” says Grizz, chancing an awkward wave he immediately regrets. “Uh, do you mind? Miss Snyder said…” He points to where their teacher is in the corner, (gently but firmly) coaxing two more polar opposites together. “Well, she thinks we might be interested in the same thing.”

For some reason, this makes Sam laugh. Grizz, slightly bewildered, smiles back.

“I’m kind of really into, like, the colonies era. Tea parties, angry Brits, all that… stuff. Is that something you’d be interested in looking at with me?”

Sam is still smiling, and he tilts his head side to side, like he can’t decide. He’s teasing him, which Grizz didn’t expect because hey, he was the one who comforted Napoleon Dynamite when he was chucking up Jägermeister and candy corn.

“Okay, well.” Grizz pauses. Scrunches his nose contemplatively. “I think it’d be good for you.”

“How’d you figure that?” asks Sam.

“Well, I wasn’t gonna say anything,” says Grizz, toying with the hem of his hoodie, “but Miss Synder just said right now that I’m a really spectacular writer, so. You know. I guess you’re kind of lucky to have me.”

He isn’t sure it’s the right thing to say at first. Then Sam’s smile broadens in what seems like approval.

He uses his long fingers to swivel his textbook round to face Grizz. His eyes give the tiniest roll, twinkling, to show he's joking.

“We’ll see,” he says.

Grizz swallows around a smile of his own, hitching his chair up to Sam's desk and pulling the book towards him. “Okay. Guess we will.”

Chapter Text

“Do you know what I’m worried about?” says Grizz, staring up at the dark ceiling of his bedroom.

Sam has his head against his chest, and it’s only the vibration of Grizz speaking that makes him look up, hair mussed, all in his eyes. He quirks an eyebrow.

“Sorry,” says Grizz. “I said I’m worried.”

“About what?”

“My hair.”

Which of course makes Sam crack up, and Grizz too, when he realises how ridiculous it sounds.

“I don’t mean it like… okay, I’m not losing sleep over it.”

Sam’s laugh softens into a smile. “Then what?” he says, tapping Grizz gently, two fingers against his ribs, which are starting to stick out a tiny bit.

“Our hair’s growing. I’ve been thinking about who’s going to cut it.” To make his point, Grizz lifts a hand to brush away the hair that’s flopped into Sam’s eyes.

Ever since returning from the woods, a little over two weeks ago, it’s been niggling at the back of his mind, bothering him whenever he has a quiet moment to himself, away from thoughts of Allie and Will, and Lexie and Harry, and Becca and the baby, and the whole notion of trying valiantly not to starve.

It’s all well and good, when you figure that stuff out, but who’s going to cut everyone’s hair?

Sam leans in and puts his middle and fore-fingers around a lock of Grizz’s hair like scissors.

“You should let me cut it.”

Grizz kisses Sam’s palm where it rests by his mouth. “You can do that?”

“I don’t know. May be a hidden talent waiting to reveal itself.” He cards his fingers through Grizz’s hair, pushing it back away from his face. “I could buzz it for you. You’d look kind of weird.” He brushes his middle and index finger against his chin, signing. “Cute, though.”

“I had my head shaved on vacation once when I was like, twelve. My dad said I looked like Sigourney Weaver in Alien 3.”

“Now there’s a compliment.”

“Doesn’t it weird you out, though?”

“Alien? Sometimes.”

“No. I mean. The thought that there’s no hair stylist.”

Sam shrugs, signing lazily: what’s your point?

“Our hair’s gonna grow eventually. Who’s gonna be the barber?” Grizz pauses. “Who’s gonna be the dentist? What happens if we get cavities?”

Sam considers this. Clenches his fist twice.

“Pliers?”

Grizz rolls his eyes. “Okay, smartass, what happens when… I don’t know, when someone’s eyesight starts getting bad and they need glasses? Or someone’s car breaks down and they need someone to fix it?”

“Where would they be driving to?”

“You know what I mean. What I’m saying is…” Grizz sits up a little, propping himself up on his elbow so he can look at Sam properly. “Doesn’t it freak you out a little? The thought that there’s gonna come a time when we need a professional we haven’t got?”

“Gordie and Kelly figured out how to deliver a baby,” Sam points out. It’s clear he regrets saying this as soon as he does, as his eyes dart away from Grizz’s. Even if they’ve decided to start sleeping together in the wake of the expedition’s surprising success, Eden is still a sore spot between them.

“That’s different,” Grizz says, laying his head back down. “Gordie’s a genius. Besides, women have been having babies since day one. Becca did most of the work.”

It’s not much, but it’s a subtle attempt at trying to show he’s learning to be absolutely cool with the whole Becca-and-the-baby thing. Sam can probably see straight through it; he leans in and kisses Grizz gratefully anyway.

“Don’t worry so much,” he says. “We’ll figure things out. We have a library.”

Which, in the absence of Google, seems to be the mantra around here these days.

They fall silent for a little while after that. Sam drifts in and out of sleep, holding Grizz’s hand loosely; Grizz stares at the ceiling, picturing ridiculous scenarios of them all – five, ten years from now: Bean shoving bowls over people’s heads, hacking out Amish haircuts; Campbell, a crazed dentist, pulling teeth with giant pliers, one foot up on the pneumatic chair for leverage; Gordie, left to run rampant in the hospital, administering mysterious lurid green shots: “Well, we still don’t know what this one does yet, but I guess we will in a minute!”

It’s ridiculous. They’re all clueless, himself included. Kelly seems to be enjoying the idea of becoming some kind of New Ham Dr Quinn, but what’s the point in learning about how to cure people from the library textbooks? Ones that recommend drugs that aren’t always going to be here? That are going to run out?

“You’re thinking way too hard,” Sam says against his chest, eyes closed. “It’s kinetic. I can feel it coming through your chest.”

Grizz taps him on the shoulder, gently, to make Sam look at him, read his lips.

“What are you gonna be?” he asks. “If we have to stay?”

Sam doesn’t hesitate.

“That’s easy.” He points at Grizz. “Farmer.” Then himself. “Farmer’s wife.”

“Right,” says Grizz, not wanting to laugh but laughing a little anyway. “I’m trying to be serious.”

Why? Sam signs. “It’s just us.” A pause, while Grizz doesn’t answer. “Sometimes I don’t think you give my jokes the credit they deserve,” says Sam.

“Sorry,” says Grizz, and he is, for everything, but it’s possible he’s starting to go out of his mind. Lying here, every day, wondering how many more years this can go on for.

“Don’t be,” says Sam, curling back around him again. He takes hold of Grizz’s hand, squeezing gently. “Don’t be worried. Just be here. Like this.”

There must be something in the way Grizz is holding himself, tense, that Sam notices. He reaches out two fingers, very gently, and places them over Grizz’s eyes, closing them for him.

“Don’t think.”

“Easier said than done.”

So Sam kisses him, harder than before, shifting upwards to bear down on him.

“Well,” says Grizz, when they stop. “That helps.”

Sam untucks his hand from behind Grizz’s head to thumb gently at his face. He looks at him all over.

“I’ll cut your hair,” he says.

And he looks at him, and his eyes say There. Sorted.

It isn’t an answer to anything. Somehow, weirdly, Grizz still feels relief.

He nods. He's okay with the idea. Everything will be wrong and wretched again tomorrow, but maybe it's right that he shouldn't have to think that far ahead. That he doesn't. That it's kinder to just think as far as falling asleep for a while, and waking up at some point, and not being alone.

Chapter Text

Becca keeps taking pictures.

Eden on the sofa. Eden on the floor. Eden sleeping. Eden awake. Eden’s pacifier. Eden’s teddy bear (Becca’s teddy bear). Eden’s crib, gifted from someone in the town who had a baby sister before.

The only pictures she doesn’t take are the ones she asks Sam to take – of herself, with Eden.

They go through them together in the evenings, either end of the sofa, Becca’s toes on Sam’s. She clicks from one image to the next, and the next, and occasionally flips the camera round for Sam to see.

Sam is running out of ways to smile fondly. Fortunately, Becca is so fixated on the tiny screen she doesn’t notice that the last five reactions have been exactly the same.

“Did you just love her?” she asks, flipping it again to show him a picture of Eden in the hospital, skinny and new and wetly pink.

Instantly, Sam nods. No hesitation, like a husband telling his hugely pregnant wife she doesn’t look fat.

**

He and Campbell never had younger family members growing up. There were the cousins in Maine, and Allie and Cassandra. No babies. No pets. They didn’t go on the kind of vacations where there were younger kids to temporarily adopt or fuss over.

Sam has never had to love anything unconditionally except his parents. And so he has to test his feelings for Eden by thinking, not of the good things about her, but of the terrible things that might happen to her. Choking on a toy, falling from her crib. Being taken by someone.

It twists his stomach in knots to think about it, and so he decides he must love her, in some form.

Kelly tells them she thinks Eden has colic. At night, her little tears become wails, and Sam’s head throbs with it.

**

Grizz eventually lets it go, when Eden becomes something concrete and breathing, knowing he's lost whatever battle he’s been fighting with whoever he’s been fighting against: the baby, or Sam, or Becca.

“I guess it’s the fact that I like, thought I had something?” he confesses one night, on Helena’s back porch, a little drunk.

They’ve found apple vodka in her freezer; everyone is lethargic and sad, and in their infinite wisdom they decide to drink it.

“Something that was for me, you know? Like how Luke has Hel, and Hel has her wedding, and… I don’t know. Gordie has his… projects. I thought maybe you could have me, and I could have you, and then it would be worth it.” Grizz looks at him. His eyes, normally so sharp and focused, drift. “But you already have your thing. So.”

Sam tries to explain that he does not want Eden to be wholly his thing. That she is Becca’s thing, and Sam, with no real claim to her, does not have a thing of his own. He can’t articulate this in any effective way, and instead watches helplessly as Luke pushes open the screen door to pass another drink down over Grizz’s shoulder, and Sam’s phone buzzes in his pocket with a message from Becca, asking him to come back.

**

Every night, Sam has to listen to the minutiae of Eden’s day. When Becca senses he’s bored, she snaps, “You asked for this.”

If Sam were feeling pedantic, he’d point out that he never asked for this, he merely offered to play a part in it.

If he were feeling honest, he’d say I know I did, but I didn’t expect it to be like this.

**

He likes it best when Eden is asleep, and he gets to hold her. She’s a warm, heavy thing in his arms. He loves the smell of her warm little head, dusted with Becca’s dark hair. He likes how her tiny squirmy fingers with their soft nails curl and uncurl against his neck.

He looks at her and thinks, I love you. Then feels, somehow, she can sense his dishonesty, and he thinks instead, I will.

Her small hands, previously clutching at him, relax.

**

Sam knows Grizz feels like Eden, or perhaps Becca, robbed them of their story before it even had a chance to begin. Their Great Teenage Romance pummelled by baby cries. How can you stride up to someone’s bedroom window and hold up a boombox blasting ‘Don’t You (Forget About Me)’ when the person at the window has to lean out, baby in arms, and say, “Okay, could you not, though? I just got her off to sleep…”

Because Sam always gets the sense that in another time, another reality, Grizz would have been one for overt displays of romance. Candles around the bed. Road trips to tranquil lakes. Mix tapes with ‘Iris’ by the Goo Good Dolls and Cat Power's cover of ‘Sea of Love’. Frank O’Hara poems. Polaroids.

They spend time together. They sometimes end up in bed together, Sam’s face pressed into the crook of Grizz’s neck, sweaty under flannel covers. But whatever wonderful, intimate, us-against-the-world romance might have existed in the old world, it doesn’t in this one.

Grizz is sinking. Sam tries to comfort him with the same weak mantras: Things will get better. Harry and Lexie will come to their senses. It’ll start to warm up. Things will start to grow.

“I don’t care anymore,” is Grizz’s response at one point, and Sam knows this isn’t true; he knows Grizz cares so deeply it’s suffocating him.

Sometimes Sam offers him a hold of Eden like some consolation prize. Grizz isn’t graceless enough to say no, but he holds her stiffly every time, looking at her like a piece of equipment he can’t quite figure out how to assemble, and invariably she starts to cry.

“Shit, shit, shit. It’s no use,” he says, rushing her back into Sam’s arms. “I’m no good with babies. They’re too intuitive.”

Other words Grizz has used to describe Eden include: selective, shrewd, round, jolly, effervescent and – once when he was drunk and feeling sentimental – dope.

**

Sam wishes he could sing to Eden. Some of his earliest memories are of his own mother, singing to him. Lullabies, always sweet; off tempo, she’d say, like all the best Irish songs.

He can’t sing to Eden, but he whispers the words he remembers against her small head, swaying with her in his arms very gently. She won’t settle at first, but he shifts her to his other shoulder, rubbing her back and hushing her, and her fussing gradually slows to a stop.

Sometimes, when Becca is upset and overwhelmed, or Eden is sobbing without reprieve, or they’re all just big tangled knots of fear and confusion cooped beneath the same stuffy roof, breathing the same anxious air, Sam isn’t sure he can do this.

But when he can – when it works, when Eden relaxes into him, drools happily against his shoulder – he feels confident in his abilities as a father, and as a person. Sometimes it’s only Eden who can reassure him that he’s human. Getting on with things, coping. Doing an okay job; doing what he's promised he would do.

He’ll love her, one day, without having to think first of all the terrible things that could happen. He’ll love her because of who she is, and because he wants to, and because she needs him to.

Sam closes his eyes, holds her to him as she sleeps, untroubled, and he thinks I will, I will, I will.