Fanfiction: Stubborn
Title: Stubborn
Author: Cryspeaches
Archive: if desired
Warnings: none. Which is surprising, it being me and all.
Spoilers: There is nothing here that the trailer for legacy doesn't tell you.
Rating: G
Summary: Alan is Alan, and Sam is a stubborn kid missing his dad.
May be continued, at some point.
Sam is seven, and his father has left him.
His father lied, and never came to take him to the arcade, missed dinner, didn't even come to tuck him in.
Sam is seven, and he is bicycling down the street, not caring about cars, or the rain, or the mud that has ground itself into the spaces in the tread on his tires. He doesn't care that his heart is splitting in half and that his teeth are chattering and his hair is slicked into his eyes.
It takes him almost an hour, and he gets lost twice, but he makes it to the arcade. It's the furthest from home he's ever gone by himself, and he tries not to notice when the strangers stare, pretends it doesn't scare him a little.
It's closed for the night, the kids who run it in his dad's absence, when he's at Encom, long since gone home, the lights off and the door locked.
He tries, anyway, tries to get in, then resorts to pounding on the glass, his own reflection and angry faces the only answer to his screaming.
At some point, tears mix in with the rain. He doesn't notice.
Alan Bradley finds him, back against the glass door, a wet skidmark above him showing how he must have slumped down, like a cartoon character. His scraggly, wet hair is resting on his dark blue jeans, so saturated they look almost black. His hands are clutched to his chest in a protective hug, and his bike lays a few feet away, likely thrown there in a fit.
Alan doesn't know exactly what to say. Inside, he's just like this boy, crying to himself alone in the rain, lost and unsure what he's supposed to be doing.
Outside, he's a grown man, holding an umbrella and watching a suffering child get even more wet.
"Sam." He says softly, and the kid looks up, the naked hope in his eyes probably the most amazing thing he's ever seen. For a moment, Alan thinks it's for him, thinks maybe the kid has just been hoping he'd come along and say it was okay. But as he watches, Sam's eyes flick down his form, taking in the umbrella, the glasses, the button down and tie, the trench coat, the shined shoes.
Definitely not jeans and a leather jacket.
Watching the hope in Sam's eyes die while he looks at him is the most painful thing Alan's ever had to see. He feels suddenly awkward, standing there, so he gets closer to the boy, crouches down, the inside of the back of his coat getting wet, but he ignores it. From here,
he can see that part of the darkness on the jeans is mud splatter, and that Sam has it on his face and hands as well.
He holds the umbrella out over sam's head, and Sam bats it away, sending it flying closer to the bike, and sending a spray of frigid drops into Alan's face.
He doesn't bother to wipe them off.
"Sam, let's get you home. Your grandma is worried sick."
"No she's not." Little boy stubbornness tints his statement, and Alan almost smiles.
"She is, though. When she called me she was in tears, worried about you."
Sam searched his face for signs that he might be lying, then looked a little guilty.
"Call her and tell her I'm waiting for my dad at the arcade." Sam set his jaw, expecting the argument that he knew was coming.
Alan was silent for a little bit, then nodded.
"Okay. I'll be right back. but only if you take the umbrella."
Sam looks skeptical, but took it when Alan handed it to him.
When Alan returns, he brings with him a convienance store umbrealla and two warm cups, the lids keeping the heat in and the rain out.
He hands one of them to Sam, and sits down next to him, deciding not to comment on the mud and rubber streaks on the glass, where sam had apparently tried to use the bicycle as a battering ram.
Sam doesn't drink, but his fingers are wrapped around the cup, so Alan figures that's a good start.
"This sure isn't the most comfortable waiting area ever." He remarks casually, the edge of his umbrella bumping against Sam's. Sam scowls.
"I don't care. He IS coming back, and I'm waiting for him until he does."
"I believe you. I'm just curious-- what about dinner?"
Sam's stomach growls, and he remembers that he refused to eat breakfast. And lunch.
"'m not hungry." He says, though he has a waver in his voice now, just a little bit of doubt.
"Alright, that's fine. Drink your cocoa before it gets cold." Alan takes a sip of his own.
He'd forgotten how crappy gas station cocoa tastes, like chocolate flavored liquid cardboard, but Sam doesn't seem to mind. As he watches, Sam removes the lid and gulps down the dark chocolate grit at the bottom of the cup. It sticks to the sides of his mouth, blending in with the mud there and making Alan's lips twitch a little, something like a smile, even though with Flynn gone, he doesn't think he will ever smile again.
"Man, your dad's gonna kick my butt when he gets back." Alan says some time later. Sam laughs, surprised.
"Nuh uh. Why would he want to kick your butt?"
"Well," Alan starts, holding up fingers. "You and I wasted a whole day instead of doing our homework." Sam blows a rasberry, and Alan puts up a second finger. "We're gonna get sick from the cold water." Sam shrugs. "And then, when he goes to hug us, he's gonna get all wet and dirty."
Sam looks consideringly at his clothes. He seems to ponder this point for a very long time, longer than actually makes sense. After all, this was Flynn. If he showed up right now, he'd hug them both, wrinkle his nose, and just complain a bt about the moisture.
But Sam must have another idea about it, because he asks,
"Do you think my dad would know to look at your house for us?"
"I can call and let your grandma know where we are. You wanna use my shower?"
"Can we get a hamburger on the way? I don't want dad to yell at me for not eating. Gran's gonna tell him, when he gets back."
Alan feels a pang of guilt, but at least the kid is excited again, and willing to try taking care of himself.
Kevin, he thinks, You better hurry back.
He doesn't know how long it will be until Sam's next explosion of anger, but for now, he gets the shivering bundle of soggy boy into his car, turns the heater on, and hopes Lora's got some old pants that will fit him.
Author: Cryspeaches
Archive: if desired
Warnings: none. Which is surprising, it being me and all.
Spoilers: There is nothing here that the trailer for legacy doesn't tell you.
Rating: G
Summary: Alan is Alan, and Sam is a stubborn kid missing his dad.
May be continued, at some point.
Sam is seven, and his father has left him.
His father lied, and never came to take him to the arcade, missed dinner, didn't even come to tuck him in.
Sam is seven, and he is bicycling down the street, not caring about cars, or the rain, or the mud that has ground itself into the spaces in the tread on his tires. He doesn't care that his heart is splitting in half and that his teeth are chattering and his hair is slicked into his eyes.
It takes him almost an hour, and he gets lost twice, but he makes it to the arcade. It's the furthest from home he's ever gone by himself, and he tries not to notice when the strangers stare, pretends it doesn't scare him a little.
It's closed for the night, the kids who run it in his dad's absence, when he's at Encom, long since gone home, the lights off and the door locked.
He tries, anyway, tries to get in, then resorts to pounding on the glass, his own reflection and angry faces the only answer to his screaming.
At some point, tears mix in with the rain. He doesn't notice.
Alan Bradley finds him, back against the glass door, a wet skidmark above him showing how he must have slumped down, like a cartoon character. His scraggly, wet hair is resting on his dark blue jeans, so saturated they look almost black. His hands are clutched to his chest in a protective hug, and his bike lays a few feet away, likely thrown there in a fit.
Alan doesn't know exactly what to say. Inside, he's just like this boy, crying to himself alone in the rain, lost and unsure what he's supposed to be doing.
Outside, he's a grown man, holding an umbrella and watching a suffering child get even more wet.
"Sam." He says softly, and the kid looks up, the naked hope in his eyes probably the most amazing thing he's ever seen. For a moment, Alan thinks it's for him, thinks maybe the kid has just been hoping he'd come along and say it was okay. But as he watches, Sam's eyes flick down his form, taking in the umbrella, the glasses, the button down and tie, the trench coat, the shined shoes.
Definitely not jeans and a leather jacket.
Watching the hope in Sam's eyes die while he looks at him is the most painful thing Alan's ever had to see. He feels suddenly awkward, standing there, so he gets closer to the boy, crouches down, the inside of the back of his coat getting wet, but he ignores it. From here,
he can see that part of the darkness on the jeans is mud splatter, and that Sam has it on his face and hands as well.
He holds the umbrella out over sam's head, and Sam bats it away, sending it flying closer to the bike, and sending a spray of frigid drops into Alan's face.
He doesn't bother to wipe them off.
"Sam, let's get you home. Your grandma is worried sick."
"No she's not." Little boy stubbornness tints his statement, and Alan almost smiles.
"She is, though. When she called me she was in tears, worried about you."
Sam searched his face for signs that he might be lying, then looked a little guilty.
"Call her and tell her I'm waiting for my dad at the arcade." Sam set his jaw, expecting the argument that he knew was coming.
Alan was silent for a little bit, then nodded.
"Okay. I'll be right back. but only if you take the umbrella."
Sam looks skeptical, but took it when Alan handed it to him.
When Alan returns, he brings with him a convienance store umbrealla and two warm cups, the lids keeping the heat in and the rain out.
He hands one of them to Sam, and sits down next to him, deciding not to comment on the mud and rubber streaks on the glass, where sam had apparently tried to use the bicycle as a battering ram.
Sam doesn't drink, but his fingers are wrapped around the cup, so Alan figures that's a good start.
"This sure isn't the most comfortable waiting area ever." He remarks casually, the edge of his umbrella bumping against Sam's. Sam scowls.
"I don't care. He IS coming back, and I'm waiting for him until he does."
"I believe you. I'm just curious-- what about dinner?"
Sam's stomach growls, and he remembers that he refused to eat breakfast. And lunch.
"'m not hungry." He says, though he has a waver in his voice now, just a little bit of doubt.
"Alright, that's fine. Drink your cocoa before it gets cold." Alan takes a sip of his own.
He'd forgotten how crappy gas station cocoa tastes, like chocolate flavored liquid cardboard, but Sam doesn't seem to mind. As he watches, Sam removes the lid and gulps down the dark chocolate grit at the bottom of the cup. It sticks to the sides of his mouth, blending in with the mud there and making Alan's lips twitch a little, something like a smile, even though with Flynn gone, he doesn't think he will ever smile again.
"Man, your dad's gonna kick my butt when he gets back." Alan says some time later. Sam laughs, surprised.
"Nuh uh. Why would he want to kick your butt?"
"Well," Alan starts, holding up fingers. "You and I wasted a whole day instead of doing our homework." Sam blows a rasberry, and Alan puts up a second finger. "We're gonna get sick from the cold water." Sam shrugs. "And then, when he goes to hug us, he's gonna get all wet and dirty."
Sam looks consideringly at his clothes. He seems to ponder this point for a very long time, longer than actually makes sense. After all, this was Flynn. If he showed up right now, he'd hug them both, wrinkle his nose, and just complain a bt about the moisture.
But Sam must have another idea about it, because he asks,
"Do you think my dad would know to look at your house for us?"
"I can call and let your grandma know where we are. You wanna use my shower?"
"Can we get a hamburger on the way? I don't want dad to yell at me for not eating. Gran's gonna tell him, when he gets back."
Alan feels a pang of guilt, but at least the kid is excited again, and willing to try taking care of himself.
Kevin, he thinks, You better hurry back.
He doesn't know how long it will be until Sam's next explosion of anger, but for now, he gets the shivering bundle of soggy boy into his car, turns the heater on, and hopes Lora's got some old pants that will fit him.