Fic: Catching Up
Title: Catching Up
Author: Mary (stillxmyxheart)
Beta: Lindsay (nylana)
Rating: G
Genre: Gen, Fluff, Angst
Word Count: 4,383
Characters/Pairings: Sam, Emily, Simon, Audrey, Nathan, April (Sam/Audrey, Nathan/Emily, Simon/April, Sam/April)
Summary: It's been a while since they've seen each other.
A/N: I'm not entirely sure where this idea came from (I think it may have spawned from one of mine and the braintwin's cracky conversations, as most of these things tend to), but as with most of them, it begged to be written. I wanted to explore Sam and Emily's friendship a little bit, and this is sort of abstract and unconventional way of doing it, but I'm super pleased with how this turned out. Also, this is apoca!fic #40! Holy crap! I can't even believe we have this many, it's slightly ridiculous XD Enjoy, bbs <3
The grass bends under his feet as he walks forward, the blades making a swishing noise as they bow in front of, and then below, his shoes. A gentle breeze blows, lifting his hair and whooshing softly past his ears. The sun is high overhead, warming his face and making him narrow his eyes against its brightness.
If he didn't know any better, he'd think it was real.
Though he supposes, technically speaking, it is real, because it was real once, and so it could be again, in this tiny suspended bubble of memory.
He's still not quite used to how everything works here. He knows that once he passes through the boundaries of the setting in which he currently finds himself, all of this will vanish, to be replaced with either stark, but somehow comforting, whiteness, or another memory, one of his own.
This memory he's in now belongs to the woman sitting on the park bench just a few paces away. Her red hair glows brightly in the sunlight and a smile crosses his face as he steps nearer.
He rounds the corner of the bench and she looks up, a soft smile appearing on her face.
"Hello, Sam," she says quietly, shifting over so he can sit down beside her.
"Hello, Emily," he replies as he settles into his seat.
"I've been wondering when you would come to see me," she says, her tone lightly teasing as she looks forward again.
He smirks. "Well, I've been a bit busy. People to see and all of that."
She nods, still smiling. "I'm glad you came."
"You thought I wouldn't?"
He finally tears his eyes away from her face to follow her gaze. He sees another woman with shining red hair, a younger version of the one sitting beside him, laughing as she chases after a small boy with wild brown hair and a broad grin.
"I thought maybe you had forgotten about me."
"Like I could ever forget about you."
The little boy races to the swings and climbs into one.
Push me, Mummy! he calls. Push me!
The young woman laughs again as she moves to stand behind him, gripping the chains tightly in her hands as she starts to pull him back.
"He's five there," the older version says softly from his right.
Older version, he thinks, frowning. Not that much older than she is in this memory; not even twenty years. She was barely past forty when illness took her away, stole her from her family and the people who loved her.
He finds himself feeling guilty for lasting as long as he did, for dying old when she died so young.
"Stop that," she murmurs, and he looks at her, surprised.
She glances over at him, the corner of her mouth rising in a smirk.
"You're in my memory. I know what you're thinking. Stop it."
He chuckles softly and her smile widens.
"You weren't that old. I wasn't that young. What happened... happened. There's no point dwelling on it now." She pauses, and when she speaks again her voice is softer and a little sad. "They do that enough down there."
The little boy jumps off the swing and dashes toward the slide.
Will you catch me, Mummy? he asks as he climbs the ladder.
"Of course I will, darling," she whispers. "I'll always catch you."
Her words mix with those of her younger self, twisting in the wind and echoing in his ears, and he can see the white beginning to encroach on the edges of the memory.
Comforting though it is, safe as he feels when he's there, he doesn't want the white space now.
The smell of books, old and musty, pervades his nose, interspersed with the tang of knowledge, of language and learning. It's always been one of his favorite scents.
He can hear the whispers of students and of pages turning, the scratching of pens on paper, the tapping of laptop keys.
He can just see a younger version of himself at one of the study tables, a small frown creasing his brow as he meticulously lays out his supplies. There's a shared thought between young and old - two papers and an ethics debate, because the old remembers this day with absolute clarity - and then -
She comes into view and he's just as breathless now as he was then. He can't see her very well from here, but it doesn't matter. She tucks her hair behind her ear and he remembers how smooth and silky it felt wrapped around his fingers, the way it glowed in the morning sunlight as it lay spread over her pillow. She smiles and he remembers how much he used to love to watch her lips curve gently upward, remembers how soft they were under his. She speaks, her voice low, and then he hears her quiet laugh and oh - he closes his eyes a moment, letting the sound of it wash over him, reverberate within him.
She shifts beside him - the red-headed she, of course, not this blonde she - and he takes a breath because he almost forgot she was there. He opens his eyes and glances over at her. She's silent, observing without speaking; she already knows about her, knows about this day and this moment, and a gentle smile touches her lips. He wishes he knew what she was thinking, but he doesn't yet know all of the tricks of this place, and he can't see inside of her head the way she could with him.
The thought of what will become of them in just a few short years, of what will become of her, tries to burrow its way into his mind, tries to spoil this memory for him, but he doesn't want to think about that, so he doesn't.
There's a string quartet playing, delicate notes floating off of plucked strings and wafting gently through the air.
He sees himself in a well-tailored tuxedo, black dress shoes polished to an almost impossible shine, and then he sees her, red hair tumbling down her back in soft curls, complemented well by the shining green fabric of her gown.
"We have more than a few of these," she murmurs, and when he glances at her, she's smiling.
It's a shared memory, one of many events they were both present at, and while he doesn't remember what this was for exactly, he remembers how lovely he thought she looked that night, how happy she seemed with her arm linked through her husband's.
He sees himself approach the two of them, asking if he might have the opportunity to dance with her. His friend laughs and nods, carefully removing his arm from hers and pressing a soft kiss to her cheek before letting her go.
"I always loved dancing with you, Sam," she says softly as they watch themselves move to the middle of the room. "Nathan was a good dancer, in that way that most men who come from wealthy backgrounds are, but you had such a natural grace to the way you moved." She pauses and there's a shyness to her smile when she speaks again. "I always felt like I was floating with you."
He's quiet a moment, not really sure what to say, and then he chuckles softly.
"Would you believe me if I told you my mother taught me?"
"Yes," she says, without the slightest hint of hesitation, and laughs too.
They fall silent, watching their younger counterparts dance, and then he glances down at her and notices her eyes are on her husband, watching him watching them.
He follows her gaze and then blinks, startled, when the room suddenly goes dark.
He frowns and opens his mouth to ask her what happened when he hears a soft rustling off to his left.
He turns his head just as he hears her gasp, and is greeted by two shadowy figures pressed together against the wall. He catches a glimpse of red hair and the glint of a wedding band, hears a breathless giggle and a low laugh, and he arches an eyebrow as he realizes who it is.
He glances at her, an amused smirk playing across his features, and even in the darkness he can tell she's blushing furiously.
"I certainly don't remember this," he says, keeping his voice low even though he knows he doesn't need to.
"Shut up," she says, swatting his arm.
He hears a gasp and though he doesn't want to look, his attention is drawn back to the silhouetted couple. As he watches, his friend lifts his wife's leg against his side, hand nudging the green silk of her dress higher along her thigh before disappearing underneath, and he looks away just before she gasps again.
"Change it," she hisses from beside him, slapping his arm again.
"I'm not sure if I want to, I'm afraid of where my own mind may go," he replies, and laughs when she hits him yet again.
He grabs her hands, raising his eyebrows at her. "Why are you mad at me? You brought us here."
"Shut up, Sam," she says, laughing as she tries to pull her hands from his. "Change it."
"You change it, you -"
A sudden angry voice cuts him off and they both jump. His hands tighten reflexively around hers and then he lets her go, turning his head to see where they are.
He recognizes the house and the two men standing in the middle of the living room, both shouting, both angry, both drunk. The one who was five years old just a few moments ago now stands almost a good head taller than his father and is far too thin, wearing clothes that look at least two days worn.
He can see her standing in the doorway, tears streaming down her face as she begs them to stop, please, just stop.
They ignore her and continue to fight, though their voices are strangely muffled and he can't understand what they're saying. He wonders if it's something she's doing now or if it's part of the memory itself, but when he glances down at her, any inclination he might have had to ask vanishes when he sees the tears sliding down her cheeks.
"Emily," he says quietly, moving to stand in front of her, wanting to block the scene playing out before them.
He wants to tell her to change it to something happy, but when he hears the sound of an open palm smacking against a cheek, he grips her arms and squeezes his eyes shut, desperate to pull her away from this.
The memory changes so quickly that they actually wobble slightly on their feet when it's done, and he opens his eyes to another park, though the memory is his this time.
He guides her to a nearby bench and sits her down, taking her hands in his as he settles beside her.
"Emily," he says again, ducking his head to try to see her face.
She won't meet his eyes and he shifts closer to her, gently squeezing her hands.
"Em," he whispers, and she finally looks at him, her lips pressed into a tight line.
He pulls one hand free from hers and reaches into his pocket, withdrawing a handkerchief. He doesn't know if it was always there or if it appeared because he wanted it, but he doesn't really care either way as he hands it to her.
He watches as she passes the white cotton square over her cheeks, dabbing at her nose, her other hand still holding tight to his.
"I didn't mean -" she starts, and her breath catches in her throat. He tightens his grip on her hand, lightly passing his thumb over her skin, and she takes a deep breath.
"I didn't mean to go to that," she says quietly, sniffling lightly as she touches the handkerchief to her nose again. "I just got so flustered -"
"It's all right," he says gently, reaching forward and pushing her hair behind her ear. "It's my fault; I should've changed it when you asked me to."
She shakes her head and gives him a shaky smile. "I have enough good memories to keep the bad ones at bay, but sometimes..." She trails off, shaking her head again as she lowers her gaze to her lap, staring at their joined hands.
She squeezes his fingers lightly and then looks up at him again.
"Show me something happy, Sam," she whispers.
The leather couch creaks softly beneath them and there's a fire crackling in the fireplace. A tree stands in the corner, decorated with an eclectic mix of ornaments, the strands of lights wound through its branches glowing brightly.
"Last Christmas," he murmurs. "I spent it with Nathan and Simon and -"
A slim blonde walks into the room and he trails off, feeling like he's suddenly forgotten how to speak.
"April," she finishes quietly from beside him.
He nods, his gaze still fixed on her. He admires her now just as he did that night, stares at the way her red sweater clings to her, shining vaguely on account of the gold thread woven throughout. It's snug over her hips, contrasting vibrantly with the black dress pants she's wearing, and he follows the lines of her legs to her bare feet, smiling now, just as he did then, when he sees her bright red toenails, perfectly painted to match her sweater.
Her long blonde hair obscures her face as she bends over the coffee table to retrieve the two empty mugs and he watches her flip it back over her shoulder, feeling a little breathless when it catches the firelight and glows brilliantly.
"Tell me about her," she says, turning towards him slightly as they watch her leave the room. "I see her in their dreams sometimes, but it's hard to get proper facts from dreams." She pauses and a small smile appears on her face. "I want to know more about this woman my son and husband seem to love so much."
He smiles and raises his eyebrows as he looks down at his hands.
"I'm not really sure how to describe her. Nobody's ever asked before."
She laughs softly. "Well, she's clearly beautiful."
He nods and laughs a little. "Yes, she's beautiful. Smart too." He shakes his head. "She's so smart, and so sharp. She's beaten me in more than one argument before."
She raises her eyebrows. "That's something. Even I can't say that."
"Not for lack of trying," he says, raising an eyebrow as she laughs. He takes a breath to continue. "She's a hard worker - sometimes too hard -"
"Just like you," she murmurs.
He frowns slightly. "She had a - a rough childhood, but she's so strong in spite of it. And she loves your son and husband just as much they do her."
She smiles, tucking a loose section of hair behind her ear as she tilts her head slightly to the side.
She opens her mouth to speak but stops when the blonde reenters the room, followed closely by the man who was just a boy a little while ago, and a drunk a few minutes ago, and who is now clean and healthy and looking down at the girl with a slightly playful expression.
I thought you wanted to wait? she says, the corner of her mouth twitching as she tries not to smile.
Changed my mind. He's holding a small wrapped box in his hand and his grin widens when she takes it.
She slides the tip of one slender finger underneath the edge of the paper and tears it, tugging it off and dropping it onto the coffee table.
She opens the box and smiles brilliantly when she sees what's inside.
Oh, Simon, it's beautiful, she breathes, pulling the necklace out and holding it up, letting the gold heart catch the light, the rubies around one edge sparkling brightly.
He smiles as he takes it from her, moving to stand behind her and carefully pushing her hair to the side before he drapes the necklace around her neck.
This is sort of why I wanted you to wear this sweater, he says as he fastens the clasp and lets her hair go, running his fingers through it before coming to stand in front of her again.
He grins and starts to move away when his father's voice calls from the kitchen, but she grabs the front of his shirt and pulls him to her. She tugs him down and touches her lips to his, smiling when the kiss breaks and placing her hand on his cheek as she rests her forehead against his.
Thank you, she whispers, and her smile widens. I love you.
He smiles too and kisses her again before he replies. I love you too.
Her hand slides down his arm and their fingers weave together as they leave the room.
He sighs, looking down at his own hands, lying empty in his lap.
She shifts beside him and he can feel her elation at seeing her son so happy; she practically trembles with it and he half expects her to start floating in mid air. He doesn't know if it's possible for her to do so, but it wouldn't surprise him if she could.
He wishes he could share her happiness right now but all he feels is a deep longing, tinged with regret. A moment later her hand slips into his.
"You love her too, don't you."
It's not a question, because he knows that she knows, but he nods anyway.
"She must be something very special," she says softly.
He nods again, suddenly not trusting himself to speak, and she squeezes his hand.
"Come on."
This is reality. Not the false reality of the memories they've been traveling through, but true reality.
They stand by the wall because they both know how uncomfortable it is to be walked through, and he feels the air stir as people pass by, smells perfume and cologne, chewing gum and cigarette smoke. The sound of typing floats through the open doors of the Press Office, mixed with the sound of phones ringing and printers spitting out innumerable sheets of paper. There are voices all around, people talking and arguing, debating and flirting. It's a teeming mass of humanity, and he finds himself missing it a little.
He wants to know why she brought them here, but a moment later the reason is abundantly clear.
Nathan, Simon, and April step out of the Press Office, April shaking her head as she brushes crumbs off of Simon's tie.
"You're like a food tornado," she says, frowning as she moves her hand to his jacket, continuing to brush the offending specks from the black fabric.
Nathan smirks and Simon pretends to pout, watching the progress of April's hand.
"Satisfied?" he asks when she finally stops swiping her hand over his chest.
"I suppose you look presentable now," she replies.
A grin replaces his pout when she looks up at him and she smiles.
"I have to clock in," he says, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to her lips, eliciting a small smile from Nathan as he watches. "I'll see you later."
April nods and Simon turns to go, lifting a hand to his father before he starts down the hall.
Nathan waves back and he and April turn to head in the opposite direction.
Sam catches a glimpse of something sparkling just beneath the collar of her shirt, something that shifts as she turns, but he can't quite tell what it is.
Somebody suddenly brushes past April, bumping her arm and making her stumble. Nathan catches her but the files tucked under her arm spill to the floor and she sighs.
"Why does nobody ever apologize for anything anymore?" she asks as she kneels to the floor.
"Because people are assholes," Nathan replies, kneeling with her and helping to shove the papers back into their folders.
Sam kneels too, unsure if he thinks he's trying to help, or if he just wants to see her face, and as she leans forward, her necklace swings forward as well, revealing a ring dangling from a white gold chain.
Sam frowns at it, thinking it looks familiar but is unable to quite place where he knows it from, and he stands with Nathan and April, frowning curiously.
"That was my ring," Emily says quietly as they follow Nathan and April down the hall. "Nathan gave it to Simon to give to April."
"Where - when are we?" Sam asks hesitantly, not entirely sure if he wants to know.
"It's been about ten months since you died."
"Almost a year," Sam whispers, and Emily nods.
"She still misses you. Can you feel it?"
It's the strangest thing but he realizes he can, almost like a connection between a heart he no longer really has, and the one that still beats very firmly inside her chest.
"It'll fade, but it'll never really go away. I can still feel Nathan missing me, and Simon as well." She pauses as they slow to a stop, watching as Nathan and April stop to confer over something with another staff member. "They're moving on, Sam. Simon and Nathan, I can feel them moving on, and it makes me so happy. Simon has April and he's finally learning to let go of his past, to let himself love her without being so afraid all the time. And Nathan -" She laughs softly and Sam looks at her, surprised to see tears shining in her eyes. "I think he's falling in love again - I don't think he knows it yet, but I think he is - and I could honestly not be happier. He's been so lonely for so long, and it breaks my heart to see him like that."
"What's your point?" Sam asks, his voice low and with a slight edge, because he thinks he already knows.
"She's going to move on too, Sam," Emily replies, and he can feel her gaze on him. "And you have to let her."
Sam doesn't look at her, keeping his eyes on April.
"I know you went into her dream. I know you approached her."
He looks at Emily now, frowning slightly. "How -"
"I've been doing this a lot longer than you have. You and I were close in life, and we're connected here. That's how you found me, it's how I knew you were coming."
Sam doesn't reply, lowering his eyes to the floor for a moment before looking back at April.
"I've been in their dreams, Simon's and Nathan's, but I've never approached them. I was always afraid that if I did, it would ruin the progress they'd made in their lives, in their relationship." She takes a breath. "My death brought them back together. It's a sad truth, but a truth nonetheless, and it's not something I want to destroy, because they're happy now. My husband and my son are happy, and that in turn makes me happy."
She pauses again, her eyes on Nathan, just as Sam's are still on April.
"I know you want that for her too. You went into her dream, and you told her you loved her, and that's fine. She needed to hear that, I think, she needed to know, and you needed to tell her." He can feel her gaze on his face again and she shifts closer to him. "But I know you want to do it again, and Sam... you're going to have to let her go eventually. I know you miss her, but she has to live her life now, and if you continue to approach her in her dreams, you won't be visiting or popping in to say hello. You'll be haunting her, and she'll never be able to move on."
Sam takes a shaky breath, watching April toss her hair over her shoulder as she and Nathan continue down the hall.
"Can I - can I still go in? Just to see her, even if I don't approach her?"
He feels uncharacteristically vulnerable right now, more unsure of himself than he's been in a while. He hasn't seen April since the funeral, has been busy with this new life of death, but seeing her again like this, seeing her happy and smiling, makes him realize quite suddenly how much he misses her, how much he still loves her. He wishes so badly he could stand on the other side of her now, close enough to smell her perfume, wishes that he could speak to her, just as Nathan is, and have her look at him with those clear brown eyes. He wants to see her lips curve into a smile, wants to hear her say his name, wants to hear her laugh, and the knowledge that he can't hurts to his very core.
He remembers what he told April, that he was okay with dying, and maybe he was then, and maybe he still is now, but there's a part of him that can't let her go yet, even though he knows he has to.
Emily nods. "I still do it with Simon and Nathan sometimes. It's a good way to check up on them, though be careful which ones you go into. I've learned more about my son than I ever really wanted to know."
Sam laughs quietly. It feels a little strange for her to be the one reassuring him now, for her to be the one giving him advice and telling him what he should do, when so often in the past he was her shoulder to cry on, but he finds he doesn't mind. Her presence and her words are comforting, and he knows deep down that she's right.
Emily smiles as she takes his hand, twining her fingers through his and squeezing them gently. They watch April and Nathan a moment longer, watch as he says something to her that makes her laugh and nudge him with her arm, her head falling momentarily against his shoulder before they disappear into the briefing room.
"Come on," Emily says softly. "I believe we have some catching up to do."
Author: Mary (stillxmyxheart)
Beta: Lindsay (nylana)
Rating: G
Genre: Gen, Fluff, Angst
Word Count: 4,383
Characters/Pairings: Sam, Emily, Simon, Audrey, Nathan, April (Sam/Audrey, Nathan/Emily, Simon/April, Sam/April)
Summary: It's been a while since they've seen each other.
A/N: I'm not entirely sure where this idea came from (I think it may have spawned from one of mine and the braintwin's cracky conversations, as most of these things tend to), but as with most of them, it begged to be written. I wanted to explore Sam and Emily's friendship a little bit, and this is sort of abstract and unconventional way of doing it, but I'm super pleased with how this turned out. Also, this is apoca!fic #40! Holy crap! I can't even believe we have this many, it's slightly ridiculous XD Enjoy, bbs <3
The grass bends under his feet as he walks forward, the blades making a swishing noise as they bow in front of, and then below, his shoes. A gentle breeze blows, lifting his hair and whooshing softly past his ears. The sun is high overhead, warming his face and making him narrow his eyes against its brightness.
If he didn't know any better, he'd think it was real.
Though he supposes, technically speaking, it is real, because it was real once, and so it could be again, in this tiny suspended bubble of memory.
He's still not quite used to how everything works here. He knows that once he passes through the boundaries of the setting in which he currently finds himself, all of this will vanish, to be replaced with either stark, but somehow comforting, whiteness, or another memory, one of his own.
This memory he's in now belongs to the woman sitting on the park bench just a few paces away. Her red hair glows brightly in the sunlight and a smile crosses his face as he steps nearer.
He rounds the corner of the bench and she looks up, a soft smile appearing on her face.
"Hello, Sam," she says quietly, shifting over so he can sit down beside her.
"Hello, Emily," he replies as he settles into his seat.
"I've been wondering when you would come to see me," she says, her tone lightly teasing as she looks forward again.
He smirks. "Well, I've been a bit busy. People to see and all of that."
She nods, still smiling. "I'm glad you came."
"You thought I wouldn't?"
He finally tears his eyes away from her face to follow her gaze. He sees another woman with shining red hair, a younger version of the one sitting beside him, laughing as she chases after a small boy with wild brown hair and a broad grin.
"I thought maybe you had forgotten about me."
"Like I could ever forget about you."
The little boy races to the swings and climbs into one.
Push me, Mummy! he calls. Push me!
The young woman laughs again as she moves to stand behind him, gripping the chains tightly in her hands as she starts to pull him back.
"He's five there," the older version says softly from his right.
Older version, he thinks, frowning. Not that much older than she is in this memory; not even twenty years. She was barely past forty when illness took her away, stole her from her family and the people who loved her.
He finds himself feeling guilty for lasting as long as he did, for dying old when she died so young.
"Stop that," she murmurs, and he looks at her, surprised.
She glances over at him, the corner of her mouth rising in a smirk.
"You're in my memory. I know what you're thinking. Stop it."
He chuckles softly and her smile widens.
"You weren't that old. I wasn't that young. What happened... happened. There's no point dwelling on it now." She pauses, and when she speaks again her voice is softer and a little sad. "They do that enough down there."
The little boy jumps off the swing and dashes toward the slide.
Will you catch me, Mummy? he asks as he climbs the ladder.
"Of course I will, darling," she whispers. "I'll always catch you."
Her words mix with those of her younger self, twisting in the wind and echoing in his ears, and he can see the white beginning to encroach on the edges of the memory.
Comforting though it is, safe as he feels when he's there, he doesn't want the white space now.
The smell of books, old and musty, pervades his nose, interspersed with the tang of knowledge, of language and learning. It's always been one of his favorite scents.
He can hear the whispers of students and of pages turning, the scratching of pens on paper, the tapping of laptop keys.
He can just see a younger version of himself at one of the study tables, a small frown creasing his brow as he meticulously lays out his supplies. There's a shared thought between young and old - two papers and an ethics debate, because the old remembers this day with absolute clarity - and then -
She comes into view and he's just as breathless now as he was then. He can't see her very well from here, but it doesn't matter. She tucks her hair behind her ear and he remembers how smooth and silky it felt wrapped around his fingers, the way it glowed in the morning sunlight as it lay spread over her pillow. She smiles and he remembers how much he used to love to watch her lips curve gently upward, remembers how soft they were under his. She speaks, her voice low, and then he hears her quiet laugh and oh - he closes his eyes a moment, letting the sound of it wash over him, reverberate within him.
She shifts beside him - the red-headed she, of course, not this blonde she - and he takes a breath because he almost forgot she was there. He opens his eyes and glances over at her. She's silent, observing without speaking; she already knows about her, knows about this day and this moment, and a gentle smile touches her lips. He wishes he knew what she was thinking, but he doesn't yet know all of the tricks of this place, and he can't see inside of her head the way she could with him.
The thought of what will become of them in just a few short years, of what will become of her, tries to burrow its way into his mind, tries to spoil this memory for him, but he doesn't want to think about that, so he doesn't.
There's a string quartet playing, delicate notes floating off of plucked strings and wafting gently through the air.
He sees himself in a well-tailored tuxedo, black dress shoes polished to an almost impossible shine, and then he sees her, red hair tumbling down her back in soft curls, complemented well by the shining green fabric of her gown.
"We have more than a few of these," she murmurs, and when he glances at her, she's smiling.
It's a shared memory, one of many events they were both present at, and while he doesn't remember what this was for exactly, he remembers how lovely he thought she looked that night, how happy she seemed with her arm linked through her husband's.
He sees himself approach the two of them, asking if he might have the opportunity to dance with her. His friend laughs and nods, carefully removing his arm from hers and pressing a soft kiss to her cheek before letting her go.
"I always loved dancing with you, Sam," she says softly as they watch themselves move to the middle of the room. "Nathan was a good dancer, in that way that most men who come from wealthy backgrounds are, but you had such a natural grace to the way you moved." She pauses and there's a shyness to her smile when she speaks again. "I always felt like I was floating with you."
He's quiet a moment, not really sure what to say, and then he chuckles softly.
"Would you believe me if I told you my mother taught me?"
"Yes," she says, without the slightest hint of hesitation, and laughs too.
They fall silent, watching their younger counterparts dance, and then he glances down at her and notices her eyes are on her husband, watching him watching them.
He follows her gaze and then blinks, startled, when the room suddenly goes dark.
He frowns and opens his mouth to ask her what happened when he hears a soft rustling off to his left.
He turns his head just as he hears her gasp, and is greeted by two shadowy figures pressed together against the wall. He catches a glimpse of red hair and the glint of a wedding band, hears a breathless giggle and a low laugh, and he arches an eyebrow as he realizes who it is.
He glances at her, an amused smirk playing across his features, and even in the darkness he can tell she's blushing furiously.
"I certainly don't remember this," he says, keeping his voice low even though he knows he doesn't need to.
"Shut up," she says, swatting his arm.
He hears a gasp and though he doesn't want to look, his attention is drawn back to the silhouetted couple. As he watches, his friend lifts his wife's leg against his side, hand nudging the green silk of her dress higher along her thigh before disappearing underneath, and he looks away just before she gasps again.
"Change it," she hisses from beside him, slapping his arm again.
"I'm not sure if I want to, I'm afraid of where my own mind may go," he replies, and laughs when she hits him yet again.
He grabs her hands, raising his eyebrows at her. "Why are you mad at me? You brought us here."
"Shut up, Sam," she says, laughing as she tries to pull her hands from his. "Change it."
"You change it, you -"
A sudden angry voice cuts him off and they both jump. His hands tighten reflexively around hers and then he lets her go, turning his head to see where they are.
He recognizes the house and the two men standing in the middle of the living room, both shouting, both angry, both drunk. The one who was five years old just a few moments ago now stands almost a good head taller than his father and is far too thin, wearing clothes that look at least two days worn.
He can see her standing in the doorway, tears streaming down her face as she begs them to stop, please, just stop.
They ignore her and continue to fight, though their voices are strangely muffled and he can't understand what they're saying. He wonders if it's something she's doing now or if it's part of the memory itself, but when he glances down at her, any inclination he might have had to ask vanishes when he sees the tears sliding down her cheeks.
"Emily," he says quietly, moving to stand in front of her, wanting to block the scene playing out before them.
He wants to tell her to change it to something happy, but when he hears the sound of an open palm smacking against a cheek, he grips her arms and squeezes his eyes shut, desperate to pull her away from this.
The memory changes so quickly that they actually wobble slightly on their feet when it's done, and he opens his eyes to another park, though the memory is his this time.
He guides her to a nearby bench and sits her down, taking her hands in his as he settles beside her.
"Emily," he says again, ducking his head to try to see her face.
She won't meet his eyes and he shifts closer to her, gently squeezing her hands.
"Em," he whispers, and she finally looks at him, her lips pressed into a tight line.
He pulls one hand free from hers and reaches into his pocket, withdrawing a handkerchief. He doesn't know if it was always there or if it appeared because he wanted it, but he doesn't really care either way as he hands it to her.
He watches as she passes the white cotton square over her cheeks, dabbing at her nose, her other hand still holding tight to his.
"I didn't mean -" she starts, and her breath catches in her throat. He tightens his grip on her hand, lightly passing his thumb over her skin, and she takes a deep breath.
"I didn't mean to go to that," she says quietly, sniffling lightly as she touches the handkerchief to her nose again. "I just got so flustered -"
"It's all right," he says gently, reaching forward and pushing her hair behind her ear. "It's my fault; I should've changed it when you asked me to."
She shakes her head and gives him a shaky smile. "I have enough good memories to keep the bad ones at bay, but sometimes..." She trails off, shaking her head again as she lowers her gaze to her lap, staring at their joined hands.
She squeezes his fingers lightly and then looks up at him again.
"Show me something happy, Sam," she whispers.
The leather couch creaks softly beneath them and there's a fire crackling in the fireplace. A tree stands in the corner, decorated with an eclectic mix of ornaments, the strands of lights wound through its branches glowing brightly.
"Last Christmas," he murmurs. "I spent it with Nathan and Simon and -"
A slim blonde walks into the room and he trails off, feeling like he's suddenly forgotten how to speak.
"April," she finishes quietly from beside him.
He nods, his gaze still fixed on her. He admires her now just as he did that night, stares at the way her red sweater clings to her, shining vaguely on account of the gold thread woven throughout. It's snug over her hips, contrasting vibrantly with the black dress pants she's wearing, and he follows the lines of her legs to her bare feet, smiling now, just as he did then, when he sees her bright red toenails, perfectly painted to match her sweater.
Her long blonde hair obscures her face as she bends over the coffee table to retrieve the two empty mugs and he watches her flip it back over her shoulder, feeling a little breathless when it catches the firelight and glows brilliantly.
"Tell me about her," she says, turning towards him slightly as they watch her leave the room. "I see her in their dreams sometimes, but it's hard to get proper facts from dreams." She pauses and a small smile appears on her face. "I want to know more about this woman my son and husband seem to love so much."
He smiles and raises his eyebrows as he looks down at his hands.
"I'm not really sure how to describe her. Nobody's ever asked before."
She laughs softly. "Well, she's clearly beautiful."
He nods and laughs a little. "Yes, she's beautiful. Smart too." He shakes his head. "She's so smart, and so sharp. She's beaten me in more than one argument before."
She raises her eyebrows. "That's something. Even I can't say that."
"Not for lack of trying," he says, raising an eyebrow as she laughs. He takes a breath to continue. "She's a hard worker - sometimes too hard -"
"Just like you," she murmurs.
He frowns slightly. "She had a - a rough childhood, but she's so strong in spite of it. And she loves your son and husband just as much they do her."
She smiles, tucking a loose section of hair behind her ear as she tilts her head slightly to the side.
She opens her mouth to speak but stops when the blonde reenters the room, followed closely by the man who was just a boy a little while ago, and a drunk a few minutes ago, and who is now clean and healthy and looking down at the girl with a slightly playful expression.
I thought you wanted to wait? she says, the corner of her mouth twitching as she tries not to smile.
Changed my mind. He's holding a small wrapped box in his hand and his grin widens when she takes it.
She slides the tip of one slender finger underneath the edge of the paper and tears it, tugging it off and dropping it onto the coffee table.
She opens the box and smiles brilliantly when she sees what's inside.
Oh, Simon, it's beautiful, she breathes, pulling the necklace out and holding it up, letting the gold heart catch the light, the rubies around one edge sparkling brightly.
He smiles as he takes it from her, moving to stand behind her and carefully pushing her hair to the side before he drapes the necklace around her neck.
This is sort of why I wanted you to wear this sweater, he says as he fastens the clasp and lets her hair go, running his fingers through it before coming to stand in front of her again.
He grins and starts to move away when his father's voice calls from the kitchen, but she grabs the front of his shirt and pulls him to her. She tugs him down and touches her lips to his, smiling when the kiss breaks and placing her hand on his cheek as she rests her forehead against his.
Thank you, she whispers, and her smile widens. I love you.
He smiles too and kisses her again before he replies. I love you too.
Her hand slides down his arm and their fingers weave together as they leave the room.
He sighs, looking down at his own hands, lying empty in his lap.
She shifts beside him and he can feel her elation at seeing her son so happy; she practically trembles with it and he half expects her to start floating in mid air. He doesn't know if it's possible for her to do so, but it wouldn't surprise him if she could.
He wishes he could share her happiness right now but all he feels is a deep longing, tinged with regret. A moment later her hand slips into his.
"You love her too, don't you."
It's not a question, because he knows that she knows, but he nods anyway.
"She must be something very special," she says softly.
He nods again, suddenly not trusting himself to speak, and she squeezes his hand.
"Come on."
This is reality. Not the false reality of the memories they've been traveling through, but true reality.
They stand by the wall because they both know how uncomfortable it is to be walked through, and he feels the air stir as people pass by, smells perfume and cologne, chewing gum and cigarette smoke. The sound of typing floats through the open doors of the Press Office, mixed with the sound of phones ringing and printers spitting out innumerable sheets of paper. There are voices all around, people talking and arguing, debating and flirting. It's a teeming mass of humanity, and he finds himself missing it a little.
He wants to know why she brought them here, but a moment later the reason is abundantly clear.
Nathan, Simon, and April step out of the Press Office, April shaking her head as she brushes crumbs off of Simon's tie.
"You're like a food tornado," she says, frowning as she moves her hand to his jacket, continuing to brush the offending specks from the black fabric.
Nathan smirks and Simon pretends to pout, watching the progress of April's hand.
"Satisfied?" he asks when she finally stops swiping her hand over his chest.
"I suppose you look presentable now," she replies.
A grin replaces his pout when she looks up at him and she smiles.
"I have to clock in," he says, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to her lips, eliciting a small smile from Nathan as he watches. "I'll see you later."
April nods and Simon turns to go, lifting a hand to his father before he starts down the hall.
Nathan waves back and he and April turn to head in the opposite direction.
Sam catches a glimpse of something sparkling just beneath the collar of her shirt, something that shifts as she turns, but he can't quite tell what it is.
Somebody suddenly brushes past April, bumping her arm and making her stumble. Nathan catches her but the files tucked under her arm spill to the floor and she sighs.
"Why does nobody ever apologize for anything anymore?" she asks as she kneels to the floor.
"Because people are assholes," Nathan replies, kneeling with her and helping to shove the papers back into their folders.
Sam kneels too, unsure if he thinks he's trying to help, or if he just wants to see her face, and as she leans forward, her necklace swings forward as well, revealing a ring dangling from a white gold chain.
Sam frowns at it, thinking it looks familiar but is unable to quite place where he knows it from, and he stands with Nathan and April, frowning curiously.
"That was my ring," Emily says quietly as they follow Nathan and April down the hall. "Nathan gave it to Simon to give to April."
"Where - when are we?" Sam asks hesitantly, not entirely sure if he wants to know.
"It's been about ten months since you died."
"Almost a year," Sam whispers, and Emily nods.
"She still misses you. Can you feel it?"
It's the strangest thing but he realizes he can, almost like a connection between a heart he no longer really has, and the one that still beats very firmly inside her chest.
"It'll fade, but it'll never really go away. I can still feel Nathan missing me, and Simon as well." She pauses as they slow to a stop, watching as Nathan and April stop to confer over something with another staff member. "They're moving on, Sam. Simon and Nathan, I can feel them moving on, and it makes me so happy. Simon has April and he's finally learning to let go of his past, to let himself love her without being so afraid all the time. And Nathan -" She laughs softly and Sam looks at her, surprised to see tears shining in her eyes. "I think he's falling in love again - I don't think he knows it yet, but I think he is - and I could honestly not be happier. He's been so lonely for so long, and it breaks my heart to see him like that."
"What's your point?" Sam asks, his voice low and with a slight edge, because he thinks he already knows.
"She's going to move on too, Sam," Emily replies, and he can feel her gaze on him. "And you have to let her."
Sam doesn't look at her, keeping his eyes on April.
"I know you went into her dream. I know you approached her."
He looks at Emily now, frowning slightly. "How -"
"I've been doing this a lot longer than you have. You and I were close in life, and we're connected here. That's how you found me, it's how I knew you were coming."
Sam doesn't reply, lowering his eyes to the floor for a moment before looking back at April.
"I've been in their dreams, Simon's and Nathan's, but I've never approached them. I was always afraid that if I did, it would ruin the progress they'd made in their lives, in their relationship." She takes a breath. "My death brought them back together. It's a sad truth, but a truth nonetheless, and it's not something I want to destroy, because they're happy now. My husband and my son are happy, and that in turn makes me happy."
She pauses again, her eyes on Nathan, just as Sam's are still on April.
"I know you want that for her too. You went into her dream, and you told her you loved her, and that's fine. She needed to hear that, I think, she needed to know, and you needed to tell her." He can feel her gaze on his face again and she shifts closer to him. "But I know you want to do it again, and Sam... you're going to have to let her go eventually. I know you miss her, but she has to live her life now, and if you continue to approach her in her dreams, you won't be visiting or popping in to say hello. You'll be haunting her, and she'll never be able to move on."
Sam takes a shaky breath, watching April toss her hair over her shoulder as she and Nathan continue down the hall.
"Can I - can I still go in? Just to see her, even if I don't approach her?"
He feels uncharacteristically vulnerable right now, more unsure of himself than he's been in a while. He hasn't seen April since the funeral, has been busy with this new life of death, but seeing her again like this, seeing her happy and smiling, makes him realize quite suddenly how much he misses her, how much he still loves her. He wishes so badly he could stand on the other side of her now, close enough to smell her perfume, wishes that he could speak to her, just as Nathan is, and have her look at him with those clear brown eyes. He wants to see her lips curve into a smile, wants to hear her say his name, wants to hear her laugh, and the knowledge that he can't hurts to his very core.
He remembers what he told April, that he was okay with dying, and maybe he was then, and maybe he still is now, but there's a part of him that can't let her go yet, even though he knows he has to.
Emily nods. "I still do it with Simon and Nathan sometimes. It's a good way to check up on them, though be careful which ones you go into. I've learned more about my son than I ever really wanted to know."
Sam laughs quietly. It feels a little strange for her to be the one reassuring him now, for her to be the one giving him advice and telling him what he should do, when so often in the past he was her shoulder to cry on, but he finds he doesn't mind. Her presence and her words are comforting, and he knows deep down that she's right.
Emily smiles as she takes his hand, twining her fingers through his and squeezing them gently. They watch April and Nathan a moment longer, watch as he says something to her that makes her laugh and nudge him with her arm, her head falling momentarily against his shoulder before they disappear into the briefing room.
"Come on," Emily says softly. "I believe we have some catching up to do."