Fic: Drove Through Ghosts to Get Here
Title: Drove Through Ghosts to Get Here
Author: Lindsay (nylana)
Beta: Mary (stillxmyxheart)
Rating: G
Genre: Angst, Drama, touch of Romance
Word Count: 5,767
Characters/Pairings: Sam, Audrey, George, Harrison, Nathan, April, Simon, Penny, Evan, Emily, Whitman (Sam/Audrey, Sam/April, touches of Nathan/Emily, Simon/April, and Evan/Penny)
Summary: One day your life will flash before your eyes. Make sure it's worth watching.
A/N: If any fic I've written so far could be called a labor of love, this would be it. From the moment Sam's death was decided, this story was in my head, almost in its entirety. It was my way of dealing with the death of a character I loved. Of course when I sat down to write, it was much more difficult to get out, for a lot of reasons. The title is taken from a song by 65 Days of Static, which is part of my apoca!fic playlist.
We'll take it from here, miss. There's an ambulance waiting for you on the east side of the building.
The warmth of April's hand slips away as the stretcher is lifted between the two paramedics. Sam's head throbs, his body aching with every jarring step they take, rocking and rolling across the chunks of fallen concrete and the cracked uneven ground to the waiting helicopter. He tries to look back, to find reassurance in her eyes, but his head is immobilized and she's being pulled away by the agents.
He takes a shuddering breath, feels the constriction and stabbing pain in his chest, and knows.
This is what dying feels like.
"Samuel!"
At the sound of his mother's voice, Sam Shipton abandons his latest backyard construction project and hurries towards the porch door. She calls out once more before he gets there, in that sing-song way that matches her smile. She twists aside so he can step through the door, admonishing him to wash his hands just as he starts to wipe them on his trousers.
After dinner they sit in the living room.
The TV is on, tuned to one of those twenty-four hour news channels, but the volume is too low for watching. His parents like background noise while they work. His father sits in his chair, a high backed leather affair, with his socked feet up on the coffee table and a laptop on his thighs, the tapping of the keys rhythmic and oddly comforting. In contrast, his mother lounges on the sofa, her bare feet with their delicately painted toe nails curled against her side. Notes are spilling over her lap and across the empty cushion beside her. She twirls a pen in her fingers, occasionally tapping it against her lips.
In the middle of it all sits Sam, surrounded by half stacked blocks and books. He is startled out his construction contemplation when a pillow flies across the room. He looks up to find his mother laughing and his father rolling his eyes. It's another one of their endless debates over something with an impossible answer like fate or the nature of time, things that they find themselves talking about late into the night. They are known around the University for their spirited arguments, but despite the raised voices and snide remarks, they love with a fierceness and loyalty most envy.
Sam just thinks they're silly.
"What do you think, Sam?" his father asks. Sam turns his head and frowns. "Do you have free will?"
"No," Sam replies simply. Then he returns his attention to his blocks.
"Why is that?"
Sam looks at his father and shrugs. "Because if I did, I could do whatever I wanted."
"But you can," his father insists.
Sam smiles. It's a knowing smile, Mum will tell him years from now, a smile that was always older than he was, wiser than it should have been. "If I could do whatever I want, when Mum calls me I'd say no. I'd stay out until the bugs bite," he declares. Then he pauses and tilts his head in a moment's contemplation. "Or I'd have cherry pie for lunch, with extra whip cream."
His mother laughs, a high, light sound almost like bells and leans over to ruffle his hair. His father nods and concedes the point with a smirk. Sam happily goes back to his blocks, surrounded by the quiet comfort of home. An hour later, as he shuffles off to bed, there are papers and wood blocks scattered over the living room floor, raised voices and two empty glasses of wine. His parents are arguing politics.
Sam still thinks they're silly.
On Sunday they go to church, less because they have a religious devotion and more because it's still what everybody does. There is something to be said for building a good moral fiber, but he's been far more interested lately in the new family sitting in the pew across the aisle. They have a daughter, a girl about his age with wild blonde hair tamed into a mop of a ponytail. She spends most of her time scribbling in a notebook, drawing or writing he cannot say, but he finds himself unable to look away from the graceful movement of her pink pen.
Once, just once, she catches him staring, and smiles.
Mr. Vice - ? - hear me, sir?
He feels like he's underwater.
There are sounds, words, noises muffled and far away, above him, below him, or maybe in another room, he can't be sure. There is light too, glaring and sterile and making his already aching head pound furiously. He keeps his eyes closed, squeezing them hard and trying to turn away from the brightness, but his head won't move.
You're at - hospital - George - .
His ears are ringing and something is being pressed into his skin. He barely feels it, like a bite from a gnat, something to be swatted away and ignored. There is a pressure in his chest too, a vague kind of relief from the tight pain he felt earlier.
He shivers.
Sir?
It's so cold.
A chilling wind whips between the buildings, swirling Sam's long coat around his knees and whistling past his ears. He holds his collar closed with one hand as the other hooks a thumb through the strap of his backpack, tugging it higher on his shoulder. As it starts to rain, he silently curses the dormitory for being so far from the library.
He pushes open the double doors of the library and strides past the reference desk, a slow trail of water following behind him. His hair is matted to his forehead and his glasses are blurred over. Worse yet he has squidgy shoes. He winces as they squelch abruptly against the tile floor.
A group of students tucked into a corner of the small lounge are laughing and playing cards. He recognizes a couple of them from his History of the Americas lecture, and another that he thinks has a room on his floor. There are books scattered on the tables around them, but it's clear they have given up any attempts at serious study. He shakes his head, wondering why they bother coming here at all. Then he sees her and his breath catches.
Audrey, last name unknown, International Relations with Professor Roth, front row, third chair from the left.
The group grows quiet as he approaches, and part of him registers that he's staring at her, at them, as he passes. She looks up from her notebook and smiles at him and his whole world, indeed his whole life, constricts to this moment and the rosy blush of her lips. His feet stop of their own accord, squeaking to a halt as his mouth opens to speak, but no words come out. When he hears laughter, he shakes himself out of his catatonic state and realizes that are all laughing at him, at the strange sight he makes with his hair askew and his jaw slack. He snaps his mouth shut and hurries to the stairs, ears burning with embarrassment.
He climbs the steps quickly and turns left, heading to the stacks in the back part of the third floor. He's got two papers to write this week and an ethics debate to prepare for, but all he can think about is her smile and the way she flips her long blonde hair over her shoulder. He starts to smile and then hears the echoes of their laughter ring in his ears.
Tossing his backpack on a table, he pulls out a chair and slumps into it with a heavy sigh. It's been this way since his first day of school. He always knew something was different, in the way the other kids looked at him, the way his teachers spoke to him. Apparently an above average IQ and parents with PhDs was reason enough to be scorned and outcast.
Just as he has everything arranged around him, laptop in the middle, notebook to the right, books to the left, he hears a voice. He leans back and turns his head just in time to see Audrey peek down the aisle.
She saunters towards him with a soft smile, notebook pinned under her arm, blonde hair swaying in step with her hips.
The ringing in his ears is getting worse.
Mr. Vice - Sam?!
He opens his mouth to answer but nothing comes out. His throat is parched, his lips cracked and dry. The tightness in his chest is back, bringing with it the throbbing pain behind his eyes. It feels like the breath is being squeezed out of him.
40 - dropping.
His mind wanders briefly to April.
Damn it!
He remembers the bright red trail down the side of her face, how sticky and warm her fingers were. He doesn't know if it was his blood or hers.
Losing - !
He really wishes that bloody ringing would stop.
Outside the tiny world of their little flat, raid sirens blare and in the distance a thin gray column of smoke rises. There is a tension in the city, and draped across in the world, heavy and thick and leaving everyone uncomfortably on edge. The sting of his mother's death is still fresh. The knowledge that he'd had time to say what needed saying and that she is at peace, lying next to his father in a county cemetery, should be something he can find solace in. Instead it's just one more thing that makes his feet itch to leave.
Audrey runs a hand through her hair and turns away from him. "I can't believe you're doing this."
Sam sighs. "We talked about this. We -"
"No," she replies, shaking her head and turning to face him again. "Not we. You, Sam. You decided you needed to do this."
He rubs at his forehead and takes a step towards her. "Can we just - I only have a few hours left."
"War has never solved any of the world's problems. That was one thing I thought we always agreed on." She leans against the kitchen counter with her arms folded over her chest. "I don't understand why we can't go to America and wait this out. My aunt is there with -"
"Audrey," he says gently, taking another small step forward. "I have to try to do something. I can't run away when everything is falling apart."
"Oh, Sam," she sighs and moves towards him, meeting in the middle and slipping her arms around his waist.
He drops a kiss to the top of her head and squeezes her tight against his chest. "I'll come back, love," he whispers into her hair.
"I know," she breathes. "I'll be here."
Two years later, he keeps his promise.
Sam steps off the military transport plane, a heavy canvas bag slung over his shoulder and bits of random currency in his pocket. He looks around at the remains of London, the hollow shells of centuries old buildings still smoldering in the slow rain, and shakes his head. There are no cabs or cars, but there is a bus, the red painted over in army green. It takes him as close to the city center as is possible these days, and from there he walks four miles to his flat.
The empty lot is sad and unsurprising. He can see the lumps where the scraps of the building fell, covered over by dirt and debris and weeds. He had known long before he boarded the plane in France what he would find when he returned home.
The news reaching the front line had been bitterly clear.
It's strange the things one experiences in the last moments of life.
You read stories, hear tell of people floating above their bodies, of flashbacks and visions of the afterlife. It sounds almost magical, spiritual and calming, but Sam Shipton finds that to experience it for oneself is, well, awkward.
He stares through the impact resistant glass, the fine lines of the wire mesh breaking up the scene into little squares of reality. In one is a nurse's face, middle aged with a touch of gray in her brunette hair. In another, a doctor with red hair, too young but too experienced, barking out orders and wiping sweat from his brow.
He had hoped that out here in the quiet frenzy of the emergency room hallway that he'd escape that blasted ringing. Frowning he looks to his left, watching as staff hurry to and fro, brushing past each other without so much as a glance. He looks to his right and sees a glimmer of light. When he looks back at himself, laid out on the exam table with his white cotton dress shirt in tatters to either side, he sighs.
A fine green line stretches across the heart monitor.
Well that explains the ringing then, he thinks.
"So where is this limey wonder boy who won us the Massachusetts vote?"
Sam watches in amusement as his friend, Harrison St James, runs a frustrated hand over his face, shaking his head at his father.
"That would be me, sir," Sam replies, stepping forward to shake George St James's hand.
George smiles wide and bright, taking Sam's hand in a crushing grip. "Sam, great to finally meet you," he says, slapping a firm hand on Sam's shoulder. "My son seems to think you're a political genius."
Harrison gives Sam a plaintive look. "Dad," he says exasperatedly, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"What?" George asks, finally letting go of Sam's hand. He doesn't notice the way Sam rubs at his palm.
"Sam, allow me to apologize for my father," Harrison says. "His mouth works faster than his brain."
Sam bites back a laugh as George scowls at Harrison. "That's quite all right. It was, after all, his frank speech and affection for the truth that won him this rather historic election."
George laughs a deep loud sound that resonates in the nearly empty office space. "I've got a proposition for you, Sammy - can I call you Sammy?"
"I'd rather you didn't," Sam says quietly, but the president-elect seems to have no intention of listening for the moment.
"You see," George continues, "I find myself in a rather interesting position. Somehow I've gotten myself elected the president of one of only four remaining national governments in the world. According to my son here, you apparently share some of the blame for that."
Sam raises an eyebrow in Harrison's direction, smiling as the younger St James holds up his hands in abdication. "I really didn't do much, Mr. President, it was a team -"
"Nonsense!" George exclaims, stretching his arm around Sam's shoulders and steering him towards the large front window. "I know the idea for that speech I gave at Harvard was yours, and there's nothing wrong with taking credit when it's due."
"Thank you sir, but really I -," Sam starts to say, before finding himself interrupted for a second time.
"I need advice, Sam," George explains, stopping in front of the window and just staring out at the line of official vehicles parked along the curb. "And I need it from people who are smarter than me and who won't just tell me what I want to hear. I think you're one of those people."
Sam looks from the window view to George and frowns. "I'm flattered, but I'm not sure I'm qualified for such a job."
George laughs. "I'm not exactly qualified to be president either, but they elected me anyway." He glances at Sam and smiles. "The world is a mess, Sammy, and in order to fix it I need to surround myself with people I can trust. People like my son, like you, and like Nathan."
"Nathan?" Sam asks.
"Another friend of Harrison's," George answers. "Nathan Gates was one of our campaign managers. He's also a lawyer. I'm gonna make him my general counsel. You'd like him; he's a Brit."
Sam chuckles and shakes his head. "I don't know what to say."
"Just say yes," Harrison says stepping up on Sam's other side.
Sam looks from Harrison to George to the view of Boston through the office window. The city, like most other major metropolitan areas in the world, is half of what it used to be. Filled with abandoned buildings and refugees from other states and countries, it is a somber reminder of the reality they live in. He thinks if he could do something to help fix that, then maybe his parents, and Audrey, and all those men and women who fell on the battle field beside him, won't have died in vain.
"Yes," he answers quietly.
"Good man," George replies equally as quiet.
Seven short years later, Sam finds himself in a hospital room, standing beside George St James's bed, watching as his friend sleeps fitfully. George's face is drawn in a slight grimace, no doubt from the pain caused by the bullet wound in his right shoulder. A wide white bandage wraps around his arm, and Sam frowns at the brownish red stain that seeps through, a stark reminder of just how tragic this day could have been.
George's eyes flutter open, squinting in the glare of the florescent lighting. "Sam?" he rasps.
Sam reaches for the cup of water on the bed table and holds it so George can sip through the thin straw. "Don't try to talk too much, George. Your body's been through a lot in the last twelve hours."
George wrinkles his nose at the flat, warm taste of the water. "What hap -?"
"You got shot," Sam interrupts with a smirk. "Some nutter snuck into the auditorium with a gun and hid backstage. That new agent, Keller I think his name is, took one in the shoulder for you." George raises his eyebrows and looks over at the wound on his arm.
"Unfortunately, "Sam continues, "the bullet went through Agent Keller's shoulder and winged you on its way by."
"Jesus," George breathes, shaking his head. "And Harris -" He doesn't get the rest out as a coughing fit overwhelms him.
"Harrison is fine," Sam answers. "He went back to the White House with Nathan."
George sips a bit more of the lukewarm water, trying to wet his throat enough to speak properly. "Sam, I need you to promise me something. And don't promise unless you're sure."
Sam frowns and steps closer to the bed. "Anything, George, you know that."
George nods and fiddles with his straw. "I'm not going to be here much longer." Sam opens his mouth to object but George raises a hand to silence him. "We both know either some lunatic or fifty years of bad eating habits is going to catch up with me sooner or later, and I'm okay with that."
"George," Sam begins, but once again, George interrupts him.
"Now, Sammy, just listen. I need to know you'll be there for Harrison, the same way you've been there for me. I need to know you'll keep his mouth from running away with his head."
Sam frowns again, but nods in agreement.
"He's more like me than he thinks," George says. "And I know he trusts you as much as I do. He'll listen to you. Can you do that for me?"
Sam laughs and leans on the bed railing. "Yes," he replies, smiling down at his friend. "You should know by now my answer's always going to be yes."
It seems fitting that she is the first one he comes to.
He watches for a moment as April leans against the wall of the hallway. Her head is tilted back, her eyes closed, chest rising and falling slowly as she breathes. He can tell she's trying to keep herself together and wishes she would just stop trying to be so strong all the time. But then she was always very much like him in that regard. Perhaps that's why he was so drawn to her, a bit of kindred spirit.
She straightens and starts pacing in the small corridor, alternating between wringing her hands and fidgeting with her necklace. Her blouse is stained with streaks of dirt and a fine layer of grey dust, ash or concrete maybe, dulls her hair.
He moves towards her, coming to stand by her side as she faces the wall, gripping the railing until her knuckles turn white. Her forehead settles against the bland light green paint and the first tear falls. He reaches for her, without thought or consideration for the strange state in which he finds himself. His palm settles on her shoulder, fingers curling over the silk of her blouse and then through as his hand falls back to his side.
He feels the tight pain in his chest again, though consciously he knows there is nothing left of him to feel.
Helplessly he stares, her body shaking with silent sobs. His hand reaches for her again, desperate to comfort her, to take her in his arms and tell her it really is going to be all right, but he knows she would only slip through his grasp like sand. He has a knack for finding her in the moments where she needs a friend the most.
It's one of his greatest regrets that it is all she will ever be to him.
A moment later, Sam finds himself in the doorway to a waiting room.
Nathan sits pensively in the first chair, sliding his tie through one hand and then the other, staring blankly at the simple striped pattern. A commotion grabs his attention, and then he's springing out of the chair and through the door as Whitman carries an unconscious April past the room.
Sam shivers as his friend steps through him.
Over his shoulder a white light flickers.
Sam remains stoic and unreadable as the young reporter steps into the presidential office of Air Force One. She's pretty and pleasant, very eager, but so young for this kind of job. He wonders what Harrison's thinking choosing her for such an important job as Press Secretary.
She greets Harrison enthusiastically and then turns her gaze to Sam, extending her hand to shake. "Mr. Vice President," she says. "It's an honor, sir."
"Likewise," Sam replies, his voice steady and authoritative, "Miss Newcastle."
As he grasps her slim hand, he catches a flash of shock in her eyes and grins inwardly. He's known for being quite intimidating when he wants to be, and he finds himself a bit pleased at the way her mouth works to form a sentence.
Her hand slides free of his, and he steps around her to the door of the office. As he exits he muses to himself that maybe this will show Harrison that he needs to find someone more seasoned for the job.
A year later, Sam is quite pleased to be wrong. He follows April through the door of the briefing room to the back hallway, hurrying to keep up with her frantic pace. He finally catches up to her at the elevator, stopping a short distance behind her, watching as she holds a thick binder and several file folders with one hand while trying to smooth the skirt of her dress with the other. He tilts his head and tries to remember if he's ever seen her wear a dress before. He's very certain he'd recall if she did, given how attractive she looks in this one.
He is shaken from his contemplation by the sound of her voice, sharpened with anger.
"I cannot -," she starts to say, then pauses to take a deep breath and run a hand through her hair. "I cannot believe he almost did that. I spent hours drafting that speech and he was going to -" She presses a hand to her forehead and turns away from Sam, impatiently jabbing her finger at the elevator button a second time.
"It's all right, April," he says. "Just calm down. If you go out to that podium visibly stressed, they'll know something is up and -"
"I know that," she hisses, throwing a glare over her shoulder. "Look, I know you don't think I know what I'm doing but I think in the last year I've proven I can do this job."
Sam would laugh if it weren't for the fiery look in her eyes and the angry red flush to her skin. He knows he hasn't always been easy on April, but she has indeed proven herself more than capable. "April -"
April whirls around and interrupts him, ignoring the elevator doors opening behind her. "I just can't have my own boss undermining the plans he insists I come up with. It's -"
Sam holds up a hand and steps towards her. "I know," he says, softening his tone. "I was going to say that you handled that expertly and defused a potentially volatile situation caused entirely by our over anxious boss."
He smiles and leans around April to push the button for the elevator again, as she stands there with her mouth hanging open, blinking at him in astonishment. As the lift dings and the doors slide open, he bends close to her ear and says quietly, "And you look lovely in that dress."
With that he steps around her and into the elevator. She turns and flashes him a bright, wide smile just as the doors slip closed.
He really hates these things.
So much wasted time, milling around a room, eating half stale snacks and sipping punch; hands shaken between people who on any other occasion wouldn't have two civil words to say to each other. And it's all because of him.
He sighs and catches himself before he can slump against the wall. He's already made that mistake once and has no desire to pick his ghostly arse up off the floor again. He watches Harrison nod to Simon and then leave the room, knowing as well as Harrison does where to find April.
His office is exactly as he left it that afternoon, minus the fine layer of dust across his desk and the slim blonde occupying the leather sofa. He swallows the lump in his throat, even as he reminds himself that it, like him, doesn't exist. It takes him a moment to notice the open bottle on the coffee table and the glass in her hand.
It's another moment before he sees the second glass.
Her hand is shaking as she lifts the glass to her lips, eyelids slipping closed when she swallows. She leans back and sighs, brushing away an unshed tear. He makes his way across the office and takes his customary seat beside her, surprised when he can feel the gentle give of the leather under him.
April's head rolls to the side, and he can swear she's looking right at him, her warm brown eyes dulled with sadness. Her body sags, sliding down in her seat and leaning to the side. He freezes as she brushes against his arm, shocked at how solid even that brief contact feels. She tips a little further and her cheek comes to rest on his shoulder.
"Oh, Sam," she whispers, closing her eyes as a single tear runs down her face and over the edge of her jaw.
He can feel the heat and weight of her body, and if he wasn't already dead, he's fairly certain the grief straining her voice would kill him. He kisses her forehead, lips lingering over her soft skin, smelling the light scent of her perfume, and he thanks whatever god might be waiting on the other side for this one last moment.
He looks through the open door, down the long corridor to the doors to Oval Office, and catches the faintest flicker of light.
"Do you think eventually we won't find these little affairs fun anymore?" Nathan asks, swirling the ice in his empty glass.
Sam chuckles. "I don't know that I ever found them fun."
"Yeah, you've never been one for small talk." Nathan shakes his head and claps Sam on the shoulder. "But you're way better at being civil than me." He shoots a glare in the direction of the New York governor and snaps, "Bloody tosser."
"Nathan," Sam admonishes, still smiling as he sips his drink.
A short while later, the two friends find themselves engrossed in a very serious discussion of domestic commerce policy as it relates to the production and import of fine liquor. Emily Gates glides over to her husband and rests a delicate hand on his shoulder.
"May I interrupt this highly important conversation to request a dance with my favorite politician?" She angles her head towards Nathan and smiles sweetly.
Nathan grins and replies, "Of course. Sam, would you excuse -"
"Thanks!" Emily says with a wave and a backwards glance at her husband, as she leads Sam out onto the middle of the ballroom.
Nathan Gates' hand clenches at his side as he stares at the decanter sitting in the middle of the counter. He leans on the edge of the granite, illuminated by the dim light above the stove. Next to the bottle sits a cut crystal glass with three ice cubes.
Sam stands at the opposite end of the kitchen, hands clenched at his sides, silently begging Nathan to walk away. He can see the layer of dust that dulls the sparkle of the bottle and the places where Nathan's fingers smudged the dirt over its surface.
Why Nathan kept it, Sam doesn't know. Maybe the knowledge that it was there and being resisted meant something. He watches as Nathan turns and shrugs off his suit jacket, laying it over one of the stools sitting around the island. He strides forward, futilely putting himself between his friend and temptation.
"No," Sam whispers desperately, watching as Nathan steps forward, passing through him without so much as a hesitation. He shuts his eyes, listening as the bottle rattles against the countertop and the stopper is pulled free with a muted pop.
A moment later there is the sound of splashing liquid and Sam opens his eyes to see the amber liquid spilling down the drain. Nathan frowns at the bottle, shaking the last few drops free, before turning on the faucet and washing the remains away. Sam sighs in relief and runs a hand over his face, feeling a rush of pride for how strong Nathan has become. There's another rattling sound, more metallic than glass and when he glances down he sees a shiny gold coin sitting in the middle of the counter.
Nathan pulls out a stool and sits down, a mug of coffee in his right hand. He looks at the coin intently, tracing the edge with his thumb and then spinning it under his index finger. Then he looks up, staring straight across the island.
Sam can feel Nathan's gaze settle into the space where his body would be, if he were still real and solid and actually able to stand here. To his left there is a glow, warming the side of his face, and he knows he doesn't have long.
Nathan lifts his mug and smiles. "Here's to you, Sam."
Harrison looks over his shoulder, smiling slightly as Sam steps through the French doors into the small sitting area of the Rose Garden.
"Your daughter is looking for you," Sam says. He shuts the doors quietly behind him and moves to stand next to Harrison, slipping his hands into his pockets. "I think it's against etiquette to hide from your own inauguration banquet."
Harrison sighs and looks down at his shoes, black and so shiny he can see his reflection in them. "Tell her I'll be back inside in a minute. I just needed some air."
Sam nods, but makes no move to leave. He simply waits until Harrison speaks again.
It looks like rain and somehow, Sam thinks, it's appropriate for the occasion. He leans against a tree, just down the small hill from where his friends are gathered, watching the procession.
April's hand must be shaking because she almost drops her rose and he feels a pang in a heart he shouldn't have. Simon puts his arm around her, pulling her close and kissing her temple as they wait for Nathan. The three of them walk down the aisle, April in the middle with arms linked with both Simon and Nathan, and Sam knows he needn't worry. She has two of the best men he's ever known to love and support her. He thinks if he was ever lucky enough to have a daughter, he'd want her to be just like April.
There's a gasping sob and he turns to see Penny, leaning heavily against Evan, her face buried in a white handkerchief. She's not even showing yet, but he's certain half the eyes present are glancing at her stomach and wondering. He doesn't know how he knows, but he knows in some certain way that everything will be okay.
It finally starts raining as the last of the attendees files out, and it's then that Sam notices Harrison is still there, hand pressed against the lid of the coffin, head bent low. Harrison straightens and starts to leave, flanked by his usual retinue of agents, one of whom is attempting to hold an umbrella steady over his head.
Sam sighs when he sees Harrison's gaze fixed on his shoes, and he is reminded of that first inauguration day, when they stood in the garden together.
"You know," Harrison begins, "there's a lot of people in there who think that you should have been sworn in today as president. They think you would have done a better job than Dad, and they know you'd do a better job than me."
Sam nods and gives Harrison a small smile. "And they're wrong."
"They're still wrong, my friend," he whispers, and it's then that Harrison stops and looks up.
Their eyes meet across the open grass, and for the first time since that strange moment in the hospital, Sam knows he's truly seen. He grins and nods, trying not to laugh at the look of astonishment on Harrison's face.
Then he feels something warm and bright, like sunshine, on his back. He sighs and turns towards the glow, finding that even though it should be blinding, he doesn't need to squint or cover his eyes.
A voice soft, and almost musical, calls to him. "Samuel!"
He smiles and steps into the light.
Author: Lindsay (nylana)
Beta: Mary (stillxmyxheart)
Rating: G
Genre: Angst, Drama, touch of Romance
Word Count: 5,767
Characters/Pairings: Sam, Audrey, George, Harrison, Nathan, April, Simon, Penny, Evan, Emily, Whitman (Sam/Audrey, Sam/April, touches of Nathan/Emily, Simon/April, and Evan/Penny)
Summary: One day your life will flash before your eyes. Make sure it's worth watching.
A/N: If any fic I've written so far could be called a labor of love, this would be it. From the moment Sam's death was decided, this story was in my head, almost in its entirety. It was my way of dealing with the death of a character I loved. Of course when I sat down to write, it was much more difficult to get out, for a lot of reasons. The title is taken from a song by 65 Days of Static, which is part of my apoca!fic playlist.
We'll take it from here, miss. There's an ambulance waiting for you on the east side of the building.
The warmth of April's hand slips away as the stretcher is lifted between the two paramedics. Sam's head throbs, his body aching with every jarring step they take, rocking and rolling across the chunks of fallen concrete and the cracked uneven ground to the waiting helicopter. He tries to look back, to find reassurance in her eyes, but his head is immobilized and she's being pulled away by the agents.
He takes a shuddering breath, feels the constriction and stabbing pain in his chest, and knows.
This is what dying feels like.
"Samuel!"
At the sound of his mother's voice, Sam Shipton abandons his latest backyard construction project and hurries towards the porch door. She calls out once more before he gets there, in that sing-song way that matches her smile. She twists aside so he can step through the door, admonishing him to wash his hands just as he starts to wipe them on his trousers.
After dinner they sit in the living room.
The TV is on, tuned to one of those twenty-four hour news channels, but the volume is too low for watching. His parents like background noise while they work. His father sits in his chair, a high backed leather affair, with his socked feet up on the coffee table and a laptop on his thighs, the tapping of the keys rhythmic and oddly comforting. In contrast, his mother lounges on the sofa, her bare feet with their delicately painted toe nails curled against her side. Notes are spilling over her lap and across the empty cushion beside her. She twirls a pen in her fingers, occasionally tapping it against her lips.
In the middle of it all sits Sam, surrounded by half stacked blocks and books. He is startled out his construction contemplation when a pillow flies across the room. He looks up to find his mother laughing and his father rolling his eyes. It's another one of their endless debates over something with an impossible answer like fate or the nature of time, things that they find themselves talking about late into the night. They are known around the University for their spirited arguments, but despite the raised voices and snide remarks, they love with a fierceness and loyalty most envy.
Sam just thinks they're silly.
"What do you think, Sam?" his father asks. Sam turns his head and frowns. "Do you have free will?"
"No," Sam replies simply. Then he returns his attention to his blocks.
"Why is that?"
Sam looks at his father and shrugs. "Because if I did, I could do whatever I wanted."
"But you can," his father insists.
Sam smiles. It's a knowing smile, Mum will tell him years from now, a smile that was always older than he was, wiser than it should have been. "If I could do whatever I want, when Mum calls me I'd say no. I'd stay out until the bugs bite," he declares. Then he pauses and tilts his head in a moment's contemplation. "Or I'd have cherry pie for lunch, with extra whip cream."
His mother laughs, a high, light sound almost like bells and leans over to ruffle his hair. His father nods and concedes the point with a smirk. Sam happily goes back to his blocks, surrounded by the quiet comfort of home. An hour later, as he shuffles off to bed, there are papers and wood blocks scattered over the living room floor, raised voices and two empty glasses of wine. His parents are arguing politics.
Sam still thinks they're silly.
On Sunday they go to church, less because they have a religious devotion and more because it's still what everybody does. There is something to be said for building a good moral fiber, but he's been far more interested lately in the new family sitting in the pew across the aisle. They have a daughter, a girl about his age with wild blonde hair tamed into a mop of a ponytail. She spends most of her time scribbling in a notebook, drawing or writing he cannot say, but he finds himself unable to look away from the graceful movement of her pink pen.
Once, just once, she catches him staring, and smiles.
Mr. Vice - ? - hear me, sir?
He feels like he's underwater.
There are sounds, words, noises muffled and far away, above him, below him, or maybe in another room, he can't be sure. There is light too, glaring and sterile and making his already aching head pound furiously. He keeps his eyes closed, squeezing them hard and trying to turn away from the brightness, but his head won't move.
You're at - hospital - George - .
His ears are ringing and something is being pressed into his skin. He barely feels it, like a bite from a gnat, something to be swatted away and ignored. There is a pressure in his chest too, a vague kind of relief from the tight pain he felt earlier.
He shivers.
Sir?
It's so cold.
A chilling wind whips between the buildings, swirling Sam's long coat around his knees and whistling past his ears. He holds his collar closed with one hand as the other hooks a thumb through the strap of his backpack, tugging it higher on his shoulder. As it starts to rain, he silently curses the dormitory for being so far from the library.
He pushes open the double doors of the library and strides past the reference desk, a slow trail of water following behind him. His hair is matted to his forehead and his glasses are blurred over. Worse yet he has squidgy shoes. He winces as they squelch abruptly against the tile floor.
A group of students tucked into a corner of the small lounge are laughing and playing cards. He recognizes a couple of them from his History of the Americas lecture, and another that he thinks has a room on his floor. There are books scattered on the tables around them, but it's clear they have given up any attempts at serious study. He shakes his head, wondering why they bother coming here at all. Then he sees her and his breath catches.
Audrey, last name unknown, International Relations with Professor Roth, front row, third chair from the left.
The group grows quiet as he approaches, and part of him registers that he's staring at her, at them, as he passes. She looks up from her notebook and smiles at him and his whole world, indeed his whole life, constricts to this moment and the rosy blush of her lips. His feet stop of their own accord, squeaking to a halt as his mouth opens to speak, but no words come out. When he hears laughter, he shakes himself out of his catatonic state and realizes that are all laughing at him, at the strange sight he makes with his hair askew and his jaw slack. He snaps his mouth shut and hurries to the stairs, ears burning with embarrassment.
He climbs the steps quickly and turns left, heading to the stacks in the back part of the third floor. He's got two papers to write this week and an ethics debate to prepare for, but all he can think about is her smile and the way she flips her long blonde hair over her shoulder. He starts to smile and then hears the echoes of their laughter ring in his ears.
Tossing his backpack on a table, he pulls out a chair and slumps into it with a heavy sigh. It's been this way since his first day of school. He always knew something was different, in the way the other kids looked at him, the way his teachers spoke to him. Apparently an above average IQ and parents with PhDs was reason enough to be scorned and outcast.
Just as he has everything arranged around him, laptop in the middle, notebook to the right, books to the left, he hears a voice. He leans back and turns his head just in time to see Audrey peek down the aisle.
She saunters towards him with a soft smile, notebook pinned under her arm, blonde hair swaying in step with her hips.
The ringing in his ears is getting worse.
Mr. Vice - Sam?!
He opens his mouth to answer but nothing comes out. His throat is parched, his lips cracked and dry. The tightness in his chest is back, bringing with it the throbbing pain behind his eyes. It feels like the breath is being squeezed out of him.
40 - dropping.
His mind wanders briefly to April.
Damn it!
He remembers the bright red trail down the side of her face, how sticky and warm her fingers were. He doesn't know if it was his blood or hers.
Losing - !
He really wishes that bloody ringing would stop.
Outside the tiny world of their little flat, raid sirens blare and in the distance a thin gray column of smoke rises. There is a tension in the city, and draped across in the world, heavy and thick and leaving everyone uncomfortably on edge. The sting of his mother's death is still fresh. The knowledge that he'd had time to say what needed saying and that she is at peace, lying next to his father in a county cemetery, should be something he can find solace in. Instead it's just one more thing that makes his feet itch to leave.
Audrey runs a hand through her hair and turns away from him. "I can't believe you're doing this."
Sam sighs. "We talked about this. We -"
"No," she replies, shaking her head and turning to face him again. "Not we. You, Sam. You decided you needed to do this."
He rubs at his forehead and takes a step towards her. "Can we just - I only have a few hours left."
"War has never solved any of the world's problems. That was one thing I thought we always agreed on." She leans against the kitchen counter with her arms folded over her chest. "I don't understand why we can't go to America and wait this out. My aunt is there with -"
"Audrey," he says gently, taking another small step forward. "I have to try to do something. I can't run away when everything is falling apart."
"Oh, Sam," she sighs and moves towards him, meeting in the middle and slipping her arms around his waist.
He drops a kiss to the top of her head and squeezes her tight against his chest. "I'll come back, love," he whispers into her hair.
"I know," she breathes. "I'll be here."
Two years later, he keeps his promise.
Sam steps off the military transport plane, a heavy canvas bag slung over his shoulder and bits of random currency in his pocket. He looks around at the remains of London, the hollow shells of centuries old buildings still smoldering in the slow rain, and shakes his head. There are no cabs or cars, but there is a bus, the red painted over in army green. It takes him as close to the city center as is possible these days, and from there he walks four miles to his flat.
The empty lot is sad and unsurprising. He can see the lumps where the scraps of the building fell, covered over by dirt and debris and weeds. He had known long before he boarded the plane in France what he would find when he returned home.
The news reaching the front line had been bitterly clear.
It's strange the things one experiences in the last moments of life.
You read stories, hear tell of people floating above their bodies, of flashbacks and visions of the afterlife. It sounds almost magical, spiritual and calming, but Sam Shipton finds that to experience it for oneself is, well, awkward.
He stares through the impact resistant glass, the fine lines of the wire mesh breaking up the scene into little squares of reality. In one is a nurse's face, middle aged with a touch of gray in her brunette hair. In another, a doctor with red hair, too young but too experienced, barking out orders and wiping sweat from his brow.
He had hoped that out here in the quiet frenzy of the emergency room hallway that he'd escape that blasted ringing. Frowning he looks to his left, watching as staff hurry to and fro, brushing past each other without so much as a glance. He looks to his right and sees a glimmer of light. When he looks back at himself, laid out on the exam table with his white cotton dress shirt in tatters to either side, he sighs.
A fine green line stretches across the heart monitor.
Well that explains the ringing then, he thinks.
"So where is this limey wonder boy who won us the Massachusetts vote?"
Sam watches in amusement as his friend, Harrison St James, runs a frustrated hand over his face, shaking his head at his father.
"That would be me, sir," Sam replies, stepping forward to shake George St James's hand.
George smiles wide and bright, taking Sam's hand in a crushing grip. "Sam, great to finally meet you," he says, slapping a firm hand on Sam's shoulder. "My son seems to think you're a political genius."
Harrison gives Sam a plaintive look. "Dad," he says exasperatedly, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"What?" George asks, finally letting go of Sam's hand. He doesn't notice the way Sam rubs at his palm.
"Sam, allow me to apologize for my father," Harrison says. "His mouth works faster than his brain."
Sam bites back a laugh as George scowls at Harrison. "That's quite all right. It was, after all, his frank speech and affection for the truth that won him this rather historic election."
George laughs a deep loud sound that resonates in the nearly empty office space. "I've got a proposition for you, Sammy - can I call you Sammy?"
"I'd rather you didn't," Sam says quietly, but the president-elect seems to have no intention of listening for the moment.
"You see," George continues, "I find myself in a rather interesting position. Somehow I've gotten myself elected the president of one of only four remaining national governments in the world. According to my son here, you apparently share some of the blame for that."
Sam raises an eyebrow in Harrison's direction, smiling as the younger St James holds up his hands in abdication. "I really didn't do much, Mr. President, it was a team -"
"Nonsense!" George exclaims, stretching his arm around Sam's shoulders and steering him towards the large front window. "I know the idea for that speech I gave at Harvard was yours, and there's nothing wrong with taking credit when it's due."
"Thank you sir, but really I -," Sam starts to say, before finding himself interrupted for a second time.
"I need advice, Sam," George explains, stopping in front of the window and just staring out at the line of official vehicles parked along the curb. "And I need it from people who are smarter than me and who won't just tell me what I want to hear. I think you're one of those people."
Sam looks from the window view to George and frowns. "I'm flattered, but I'm not sure I'm qualified for such a job."
George laughs. "I'm not exactly qualified to be president either, but they elected me anyway." He glances at Sam and smiles. "The world is a mess, Sammy, and in order to fix it I need to surround myself with people I can trust. People like my son, like you, and like Nathan."
"Nathan?" Sam asks.
"Another friend of Harrison's," George answers. "Nathan Gates was one of our campaign managers. He's also a lawyer. I'm gonna make him my general counsel. You'd like him; he's a Brit."
Sam chuckles and shakes his head. "I don't know what to say."
"Just say yes," Harrison says stepping up on Sam's other side.
Sam looks from Harrison to George to the view of Boston through the office window. The city, like most other major metropolitan areas in the world, is half of what it used to be. Filled with abandoned buildings and refugees from other states and countries, it is a somber reminder of the reality they live in. He thinks if he could do something to help fix that, then maybe his parents, and Audrey, and all those men and women who fell on the battle field beside him, won't have died in vain.
"Yes," he answers quietly.
"Good man," George replies equally as quiet.
Seven short years later, Sam finds himself in a hospital room, standing beside George St James's bed, watching as his friend sleeps fitfully. George's face is drawn in a slight grimace, no doubt from the pain caused by the bullet wound in his right shoulder. A wide white bandage wraps around his arm, and Sam frowns at the brownish red stain that seeps through, a stark reminder of just how tragic this day could have been.
George's eyes flutter open, squinting in the glare of the florescent lighting. "Sam?" he rasps.
Sam reaches for the cup of water on the bed table and holds it so George can sip through the thin straw. "Don't try to talk too much, George. Your body's been through a lot in the last twelve hours."
George wrinkles his nose at the flat, warm taste of the water. "What hap -?"
"You got shot," Sam interrupts with a smirk. "Some nutter snuck into the auditorium with a gun and hid backstage. That new agent, Keller I think his name is, took one in the shoulder for you." George raises his eyebrows and looks over at the wound on his arm.
"Unfortunately, "Sam continues, "the bullet went through Agent Keller's shoulder and winged you on its way by."
"Jesus," George breathes, shaking his head. "And Harris -" He doesn't get the rest out as a coughing fit overwhelms him.
"Harrison is fine," Sam answers. "He went back to the White House with Nathan."
George sips a bit more of the lukewarm water, trying to wet his throat enough to speak properly. "Sam, I need you to promise me something. And don't promise unless you're sure."
Sam frowns and steps closer to the bed. "Anything, George, you know that."
George nods and fiddles with his straw. "I'm not going to be here much longer." Sam opens his mouth to object but George raises a hand to silence him. "We both know either some lunatic or fifty years of bad eating habits is going to catch up with me sooner or later, and I'm okay with that."
"George," Sam begins, but once again, George interrupts him.
"Now, Sammy, just listen. I need to know you'll be there for Harrison, the same way you've been there for me. I need to know you'll keep his mouth from running away with his head."
Sam frowns again, but nods in agreement.
"He's more like me than he thinks," George says. "And I know he trusts you as much as I do. He'll listen to you. Can you do that for me?"
Sam laughs and leans on the bed railing. "Yes," he replies, smiling down at his friend. "You should know by now my answer's always going to be yes."
It seems fitting that she is the first one he comes to.
He watches for a moment as April leans against the wall of the hallway. Her head is tilted back, her eyes closed, chest rising and falling slowly as she breathes. He can tell she's trying to keep herself together and wishes she would just stop trying to be so strong all the time. But then she was always very much like him in that regard. Perhaps that's why he was so drawn to her, a bit of kindred spirit.
She straightens and starts pacing in the small corridor, alternating between wringing her hands and fidgeting with her necklace. Her blouse is stained with streaks of dirt and a fine layer of grey dust, ash or concrete maybe, dulls her hair.
He moves towards her, coming to stand by her side as she faces the wall, gripping the railing until her knuckles turn white. Her forehead settles against the bland light green paint and the first tear falls. He reaches for her, without thought or consideration for the strange state in which he finds himself. His palm settles on her shoulder, fingers curling over the silk of her blouse and then through as his hand falls back to his side.
He feels the tight pain in his chest again, though consciously he knows there is nothing left of him to feel.
Helplessly he stares, her body shaking with silent sobs. His hand reaches for her again, desperate to comfort her, to take her in his arms and tell her it really is going to be all right, but he knows she would only slip through his grasp like sand. He has a knack for finding her in the moments where she needs a friend the most.
It's one of his greatest regrets that it is all she will ever be to him.
A moment later, Sam finds himself in the doorway to a waiting room.
Nathan sits pensively in the first chair, sliding his tie through one hand and then the other, staring blankly at the simple striped pattern. A commotion grabs his attention, and then he's springing out of the chair and through the door as Whitman carries an unconscious April past the room.
Sam shivers as his friend steps through him.
Over his shoulder a white light flickers.
Sam remains stoic and unreadable as the young reporter steps into the presidential office of Air Force One. She's pretty and pleasant, very eager, but so young for this kind of job. He wonders what Harrison's thinking choosing her for such an important job as Press Secretary.
She greets Harrison enthusiastically and then turns her gaze to Sam, extending her hand to shake. "Mr. Vice President," she says. "It's an honor, sir."
"Likewise," Sam replies, his voice steady and authoritative, "Miss Newcastle."
As he grasps her slim hand, he catches a flash of shock in her eyes and grins inwardly. He's known for being quite intimidating when he wants to be, and he finds himself a bit pleased at the way her mouth works to form a sentence.
Her hand slides free of his, and he steps around her to the door of the office. As he exits he muses to himself that maybe this will show Harrison that he needs to find someone more seasoned for the job.
A year later, Sam is quite pleased to be wrong. He follows April through the door of the briefing room to the back hallway, hurrying to keep up with her frantic pace. He finally catches up to her at the elevator, stopping a short distance behind her, watching as she holds a thick binder and several file folders with one hand while trying to smooth the skirt of her dress with the other. He tilts his head and tries to remember if he's ever seen her wear a dress before. He's very certain he'd recall if she did, given how attractive she looks in this one.
He is shaken from his contemplation by the sound of her voice, sharpened with anger.
"I cannot -," she starts to say, then pauses to take a deep breath and run a hand through her hair. "I cannot believe he almost did that. I spent hours drafting that speech and he was going to -" She presses a hand to her forehead and turns away from Sam, impatiently jabbing her finger at the elevator button a second time.
"It's all right, April," he says. "Just calm down. If you go out to that podium visibly stressed, they'll know something is up and -"
"I know that," she hisses, throwing a glare over her shoulder. "Look, I know you don't think I know what I'm doing but I think in the last year I've proven I can do this job."
Sam would laugh if it weren't for the fiery look in her eyes and the angry red flush to her skin. He knows he hasn't always been easy on April, but she has indeed proven herself more than capable. "April -"
April whirls around and interrupts him, ignoring the elevator doors opening behind her. "I just can't have my own boss undermining the plans he insists I come up with. It's -"
Sam holds up a hand and steps towards her. "I know," he says, softening his tone. "I was going to say that you handled that expertly and defused a potentially volatile situation caused entirely by our over anxious boss."
He smiles and leans around April to push the button for the elevator again, as she stands there with her mouth hanging open, blinking at him in astonishment. As the lift dings and the doors slide open, he bends close to her ear and says quietly, "And you look lovely in that dress."
With that he steps around her and into the elevator. She turns and flashes him a bright, wide smile just as the doors slip closed.
He really hates these things.
So much wasted time, milling around a room, eating half stale snacks and sipping punch; hands shaken between people who on any other occasion wouldn't have two civil words to say to each other. And it's all because of him.
He sighs and catches himself before he can slump against the wall. He's already made that mistake once and has no desire to pick his ghostly arse up off the floor again. He watches Harrison nod to Simon and then leave the room, knowing as well as Harrison does where to find April.
His office is exactly as he left it that afternoon, minus the fine layer of dust across his desk and the slim blonde occupying the leather sofa. He swallows the lump in his throat, even as he reminds himself that it, like him, doesn't exist. It takes him a moment to notice the open bottle on the coffee table and the glass in her hand.
It's another moment before he sees the second glass.
Her hand is shaking as she lifts the glass to her lips, eyelids slipping closed when she swallows. She leans back and sighs, brushing away an unshed tear. He makes his way across the office and takes his customary seat beside her, surprised when he can feel the gentle give of the leather under him.
April's head rolls to the side, and he can swear she's looking right at him, her warm brown eyes dulled with sadness. Her body sags, sliding down in her seat and leaning to the side. He freezes as she brushes against his arm, shocked at how solid even that brief contact feels. She tips a little further and her cheek comes to rest on his shoulder.
"Oh, Sam," she whispers, closing her eyes as a single tear runs down her face and over the edge of her jaw.
He can feel the heat and weight of her body, and if he wasn't already dead, he's fairly certain the grief straining her voice would kill him. He kisses her forehead, lips lingering over her soft skin, smelling the light scent of her perfume, and he thanks whatever god might be waiting on the other side for this one last moment.
He looks through the open door, down the long corridor to the doors to Oval Office, and catches the faintest flicker of light.
"Do you think eventually we won't find these little affairs fun anymore?" Nathan asks, swirling the ice in his empty glass.
Sam chuckles. "I don't know that I ever found them fun."
"Yeah, you've never been one for small talk." Nathan shakes his head and claps Sam on the shoulder. "But you're way better at being civil than me." He shoots a glare in the direction of the New York governor and snaps, "Bloody tosser."
"Nathan," Sam admonishes, still smiling as he sips his drink.
A short while later, the two friends find themselves engrossed in a very serious discussion of domestic commerce policy as it relates to the production and import of fine liquor. Emily Gates glides over to her husband and rests a delicate hand on his shoulder.
"May I interrupt this highly important conversation to request a dance with my favorite politician?" She angles her head towards Nathan and smiles sweetly.
Nathan grins and replies, "Of course. Sam, would you excuse -"
"Thanks!" Emily says with a wave and a backwards glance at her husband, as she leads Sam out onto the middle of the ballroom.
Nathan Gates' hand clenches at his side as he stares at the decanter sitting in the middle of the counter. He leans on the edge of the granite, illuminated by the dim light above the stove. Next to the bottle sits a cut crystal glass with three ice cubes.
Sam stands at the opposite end of the kitchen, hands clenched at his sides, silently begging Nathan to walk away. He can see the layer of dust that dulls the sparkle of the bottle and the places where Nathan's fingers smudged the dirt over its surface.
Why Nathan kept it, Sam doesn't know. Maybe the knowledge that it was there and being resisted meant something. He watches as Nathan turns and shrugs off his suit jacket, laying it over one of the stools sitting around the island. He strides forward, futilely putting himself between his friend and temptation.
"No," Sam whispers desperately, watching as Nathan steps forward, passing through him without so much as a hesitation. He shuts his eyes, listening as the bottle rattles against the countertop and the stopper is pulled free with a muted pop.
A moment later there is the sound of splashing liquid and Sam opens his eyes to see the amber liquid spilling down the drain. Nathan frowns at the bottle, shaking the last few drops free, before turning on the faucet and washing the remains away. Sam sighs in relief and runs a hand over his face, feeling a rush of pride for how strong Nathan has become. There's another rattling sound, more metallic than glass and when he glances down he sees a shiny gold coin sitting in the middle of the counter.
Nathan pulls out a stool and sits down, a mug of coffee in his right hand. He looks at the coin intently, tracing the edge with his thumb and then spinning it under his index finger. Then he looks up, staring straight across the island.
Sam can feel Nathan's gaze settle into the space where his body would be, if he were still real and solid and actually able to stand here. To his left there is a glow, warming the side of his face, and he knows he doesn't have long.
Nathan lifts his mug and smiles. "Here's to you, Sam."
Harrison looks over his shoulder, smiling slightly as Sam steps through the French doors into the small sitting area of the Rose Garden.
"Your daughter is looking for you," Sam says. He shuts the doors quietly behind him and moves to stand next to Harrison, slipping his hands into his pockets. "I think it's against etiquette to hide from your own inauguration banquet."
Harrison sighs and looks down at his shoes, black and so shiny he can see his reflection in them. "Tell her I'll be back inside in a minute. I just needed some air."
Sam nods, but makes no move to leave. He simply waits until Harrison speaks again.
It looks like rain and somehow, Sam thinks, it's appropriate for the occasion. He leans against a tree, just down the small hill from where his friends are gathered, watching the procession.
April's hand must be shaking because she almost drops her rose and he feels a pang in a heart he shouldn't have. Simon puts his arm around her, pulling her close and kissing her temple as they wait for Nathan. The three of them walk down the aisle, April in the middle with arms linked with both Simon and Nathan, and Sam knows he needn't worry. She has two of the best men he's ever known to love and support her. He thinks if he was ever lucky enough to have a daughter, he'd want her to be just like April.
There's a gasping sob and he turns to see Penny, leaning heavily against Evan, her face buried in a white handkerchief. She's not even showing yet, but he's certain half the eyes present are glancing at her stomach and wondering. He doesn't know how he knows, but he knows in some certain way that everything will be okay.
It finally starts raining as the last of the attendees files out, and it's then that Sam notices Harrison is still there, hand pressed against the lid of the coffin, head bent low. Harrison straightens and starts to leave, flanked by his usual retinue of agents, one of whom is attempting to hold an umbrella steady over his head.
Sam sighs when he sees Harrison's gaze fixed on his shoes, and he is reminded of that first inauguration day, when they stood in the garden together.
"You know," Harrison begins, "there's a lot of people in there who think that you should have been sworn in today as president. They think you would have done a better job than Dad, and they know you'd do a better job than me."
Sam nods and gives Harrison a small smile. "And they're wrong."
"They're still wrong, my friend," he whispers, and it's then that Harrison stops and looks up.
Their eyes meet across the open grass, and for the first time since that strange moment in the hospital, Sam knows he's truly seen. He grins and nods, trying not to laugh at the look of astonishment on Harrison's face.
Then he feels something warm and bright, like sunshine, on his back. He sighs and turns towards the glow, finding that even though it should be blinding, he doesn't need to squint or cover his eyes.
A voice soft, and almost musical, calls to him. "Samuel!"
He smiles and steps into the light.