#love when hunter makes casual references to his questionable and Really Pretty Sad past its one of my favorite parts of writing him

[befuddled-calico-whump]

Total $hit$how: Roses for the Knuckles

in which Hunter doesn't always listen

cw: referenced violence, adult language, implied abuse

previous /// masterlist /// next

×~×~×

“You'll each get one hour. Nowhere near enough time for anything real, but it should serve its purpose.”

Everyone was in the room with the mats, where they should've been running through their morning training. Obstacle courses or fighting or some shit, but instead of doing what they were supposed to, Sahota was following muscle girl's dumb idea.

Hunter knew what its 'purpose' was. Proving them all wrong, demonstrating that he was better than them for the hundredth time. Why was he even gonna bother? Why not just tell them no and be done with it? Why not just do what Vic wanted?

He didn't know what the big deal was anyway. Muscle girl had been in the army or some shit, so hadn't she already killed people? And fucking Manak didn't seem like he gave a shit about anyone else, so why did he care? Hunter didn't care. It wasn't like he knew Finley anyway, and he could just forget about the whole matter after she was dead and they had what they wanted.

If he would’ve told Vic about this last night during their training session, maybe he could’ve put a stop to this bullshit, but the ancient law of snitches get stitches kept his mouth shut. It wasn’t that big a deal anyway. Just a waste of time.

Hunter slouched as Sahota droned on and on about the rules, body and face rigid as he addressed the group. Like a fucking statue.

“I want each of you to come up with some arbitrary information that you want from me, and then I want you to try to extract it. You are permitted to do anything, so long as I can recover from it by tomorrow.”

Whatever that meant. It had been two days since he'd got his face beat in, and he already seemed just fine.

Muscle girl raised her hand. “What's the point?”

“I’ve been in the business for a while,” Sahota replied. “I know a good technique when I see one. If you manage to impress me, you win. I'll let you do it your way.” He thumbed at the scabbed-over cut running through his lip. “But don’t count on it.”

Some of the rest threw in their own questions, but Hunter tuned them out, pinching the skin of a knuckle between two fingernails until flowers started blooming there. No one would want to hear his side of the argument, his ‘we should listen to Vic, not Sahota’. If they didn't hate him already, he'd bet they definitely hated him after the video, after he was the only one who didn't want to go save their asshole trainer. But he'd been right, Vic had been right. Sahota got back just fine, not the slightest shift in his stupid slate-gray color unless you counted the bruises on his face.

He was right, but it seemed like no one wanted to look at him anymore. Not that they had in the first place, but it seemed more on-purpose now. Manak had been just as icy as ever when they'd worked together on the list, a task mostly completed in bitter silence. Hunter hadn't helped much, just kinda leaned back in his chair and looked for new patterns, distracting himself from the red ribbon of irritation that started coiling around the other man as soon as Sahota told them to work together.

And whatever, he didn't care. He didn't need Manak to like him, or Sahota, or muscle girl, or even… even the big guy. No, he didn't need them, not when he had Vic on his side, not when Vic wanted him to stay.

“Cavan, why don't you start us off?” Sahota said, and muscle girl straightened, her neutral blue brightening.

Cavan. Cavan, Cavan, Cavan, he’d try to remember it, but sometimes names were hard.

“I want the rest of you training. Spar for the first hour, then branch off into individual skills.” He gave Cavan a curt nod, and she followed him out, leaving a fading trail of blue behind. Hunter couldn’t tell if she was excited or nervous, and didn’t really care.

Beside him, the big guy let out a heavy sigh. “So… sparring?”

“Dibs on Jericho,” makeup guy said quickly, sidestepping towards the big guy and slipping an arm through the crook of his elbow.

Jericho, Jericho.

That left him with Manak. Whatever. Smug little richboy wasn’t that great with his fists, and Hunter wouldn’t mind breaking his stupid snobby nose. The big guy—Jericho—seemed to catch a whiff of Hunter’s plan though, a brighter flash that was probably alarm arcing through his purple.

“Actually, I think I’ll fight Harbor,” he said, shaking himself free of makeup guy, who put on a pouty expression. Hunter scowled up at him, squaring his shoulders.

“Yeah? What if I don’t wanna fight you?” he challenged, scanning the big guy’s—Jericho, it’s Jericho, fucking dumbass—silhouette for a shift in his color. The purple didn’t change.

“Do you not want to?” A little smile crossed his face. “You’re pretty good. I just want to see what you’ve got.”

Hunter scrunched his nose. He was good, but he knew what was really happening. Just the b–Jericho trying to save Manak’s ass. Whatever. Whatever, a fight was a fight. Training was training and he didn't need to be liked. He didn't need to be chosen for him, not by them.

“Fine.” He lifted his fists. Roses for the knuckles. “Fight me.”

~~~

The first hour went fast. Sparring always went fast, at least for Hunter. Maybe ‘cause it was something he was actually good at. Muscle girl (Cavan) came strolling back in near the end of the matches, and makeup guy (Benny?) took her place. From the dull in her blue, Hunter guessed she hadn't been successful. He coulda told her that.

Jericho spent the next hour looking over the folder with her and Manak, so Hunter spent his time wandering and practicing with patterns.

Find a pen, find a tool, find one of those screws that has an X on top, until makeup guy came back and Manak replaced him and his head was pounding.

He ignored the oncoming migraine.

I want you to come back after.

The next hour passed, the headache dug blunt teeth into his skull, and then it was Hunter's turn.

~~~

Sahota was sitting comfy when he entered, bound in place by ropes that wound around his wrists and the arms of the chair he was planted in. No sign of any blooming colors in his slate-gray, no hint of an expression on his bruise-mottled face.

Like an oil slick, he thought. Guess it's your turn to wear it.

The three who'd gone before him hadn't done shit by the looks of it. If anything, Sahota looked bored. Hunter could change that.

“So what,” he said, lingering in the doorway with his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets. “Do I just start?”

“What information are you pretending to be after?” Sahota asked, hardly shifting in his seat. Hunter wished he'd slouch, or sneeze, or yawn, or do something a normal human would do. 

“I dunno,” he said, eyes darting away from the stiff slate shape of him, looking for anything shinier. “Your birthday or whatever.”

“Creative bunch.”

Hunter scowled, pulling his hands from his pockets and pinching a fresh cut that cracked through the back of his hand like a line in a broken plate. A little shower of rose petals started pouring from it in reply. “Can I hit you?”

“Do it.” Sahota rolled his neck, shrugging his shoulders like he was prepping himself for the first blow. “Is that your plan for Finley?”

“I don't have a plan for Finley,” Hunter said. “I didn’t ask to do this. You can just kill her for all I care.” That's what Vic had said to do. Why was Sahota of all people trying something different? He was in the spy shit too, shouldn’t he know better? Didn't he want to follow Vic?

The trainer’s gray sat plain and stony as Hunter talked, not the slightest flash of surprise, or approval, or even just being pissed off that he didn’t want to play along popping up.

“Are you going to participate?” he asked in a flat voice. “Or should I have you send for Davis?”

He'd like that, wouldn't he? Hunter leaving, giving up, going away. What would he think, if he knew that Vic wanted him here, if he knew that maybe, maybe Vic liked him better?

“I’ll play the stupid game,” Hunter said, rubbing his knuckles. “Just wanted you to know that it’s stupid.” A pattern had begun to swirl around them, starting out small and starry and distorting into silvery splatters. They might’ve been a warning, but Hunter didn’t know for what. That Sahota would get pissed and try to beat him up? That he’d try and kick him off the team? Fat chance, not when Vic was here to say otherwise.

“What’s your birthday?” he muttered. Sahota replied with a silent stare, his stupid gray color unchanging, his stupid expression stony and blank. Fuckin' statue.

Hunter hit him. Not hard, or anything. A little backhanded stroke across the face that didn't draw the slightest ripple through Sahota's gray. The back of his hand stung with the blow. Roses.

Sahota planted the even stare on him again, like he was challenging him, saying, ‘is that all you got?’

Hunter’s upper lip pulled back into a snarl. “When’s your birthday?” he said again, practically spitting the words out. The splattering silver whirled around him like a tornado. He tried not to look at it. He didn’t need his headache getting any worse.

Sahota still didn’t answer, so Hunter popped him across the other cheek.

“Do you really think this will get you anywhere?”

“You think I’d fucking know that?” Hunter snapped. “I’m not a psycho like you. I never tortured anyone.”

That seemed to have an effect, the gray getting a few shades darker in the middle of Sahota’s chest. Hunter’s mouth tipped up in a grin.

“S’wrong?” he said, circling the chair in an unhurried stride. “Don't like being called out on it?”

But just as fast, the gray was gone, and Sahota was quiet again. Of fucking course.

“When's your birthday?” Hunter said, this time leaning over the trainer's shoulder to hiss it into his ear.

“You’re sloppy,” Sahota replied, not seeming to care when Hunter popped him in the jaw. Barely even a grimace.

Sloppy. Just like he'd said when they fought the first time. Well who was the one getting hit? Sahota was sloppy, for letting the rest of the team have their way when an easier solution was right in front of them.

“When's your birthday?”

“Is that all you have to say? Does your entire plan revolve around asking the same question on repeat?”

“I told you, I don't have a fucking plan,” Hunter snapped, hitting him a little harder than he'd meant to. Closed fist tangling with the bruises on his cheek, reopening the cut that cracked his knuckles, rose petals.

That got a little gasp from Sahota. A blinking wince that made Hunter hesitate, his fist dropping to swing at his side.

I'm sorry. He wasn't. Sahota asked to do this, Sahota said he could hit him. He could take punches, they could both take punches, it was no big deal.

“I want to listen to Vic,” he said in a small voice. “I want to just… just kill her. If that's the easy way.”

Sahota's eyes narrowed. “You've never killed anyone.”

“Don't pretend you know me,” Hunter said, his voice rising again. “You don't know shit.”

He had, probably. He'd never actually watched them die, but he'd been in enough gunfights and brawls and shit that he'd probably killed someone. “I don't care, anyway,” he said, taking a half step backwards. The silver-spatter pattern swirled faster now, dizzy and bright. “Vic knows best, so if he says that's what we should do…”

“Vic doesn't always know best,” Sahota said. “Not for you.”

There it was. Hunter scowled, scanning the trainer's shape, seeing no sign of the jealous black cracks that had come crawling out of his throat before. Not like that meant shit. Maybe they weren't jealousy. He didn't know fuckall about what they could be because he didn't know fuckall about Sahota.

“What do you know about what's best?” he grumbled. Maybe he should've gone to Vic about this bright idea after all. Maybe this had all been a ploy to trick Hunter into going against Vic’s idea, to highlight him as a problem, to make him another outsider.

“I know this isn't the life you want," Sahota replied. "Finish this job and get out, or you'll end up wishing you had.”

Had Vic told him about the plan? About letting him stay? Was he just spouting this bullshit because he couldn't stand the thought of Hunter sticking around?

“You don't know what I want,” Hunter spat. “There’s nothing else for me. There's nothing else to want.”

Sahota grimaced. His gray was starting to darken at the center again, spreading like black clouds. “Harbor—”

“You want me to get out?” Hunter cut him off. “Fucking fine, I'll get out. Already said this was stupid.”

The green, the burning of chlorine in his nose hit him before he could turn around. Vic.

“Done already?” the handler asked in a voice that was danger-quiet. Like if Hunter answered wrong there'd be trouble. He'd heard it before. With teachers at school, with his dad at home, with Rex and the syndicate. 

He froze. Sometimes the best answer was silence.

“I heard you're running them through an impromptu training exercise, Sahota,” Vic said, and Hunter realized the tone wasn't for him. He felt the tension seep away from his shoulders; vines unwinding and hanging there like deadweight limbs.

“Quite an interesting lesson plan today.”

“It's a demonstration, sir.” Sahota’s eyes dropped. “Proof that interrogation doesn't work the way they think.”

“Oh? Do you not think my word is proof enough for them?”

“I didn't mean that.”

Vic clicked his tongue. “I was under the impression that today's training was meant to be a little more standardized. Was that a lie?”

“No, I… it seemed like something too small to bother you with. Once they failed, we'd move on. Nothing would change.”

“So you'd rather keep it from me.”

“No, sir.”

Vic let out a little hm, letting silence sit prickly in the room for what was probably a full minute before he spoke again. “I do apologize for interrupting.”

Sahota didn't lift his gaze. Or even say anything.

“It's fine,” Hunter put in. “This is a waste of time anyway. Right? We should just—”

“No no, it's not my place to swoop in and change the curriculum for the day,” Vic said, letting out a small sigh. “I'm sure it's exactly as beneficial as you say, Sahota.”

Hunter didn't know why the change in his tone wasn't letting him relax, why the splatters in the air were turning razored at the edges, why some anxious color was starting to squeeze him again.

“In fact, why don't I watch the rest of the lesson? It's interrogation, right? You're letting them ask you questions?”

“Yes, sir,” Sahota said in a flat voice. 

“Wonderful. Hunter?”

“Yeah?”

“Carry on.”

Hunter shook his hands loose, nervous energy bundling up in his fingers, tiny vines tangling between them like thread. Sticky and annoying. Vic wanted to watch? But what if he fucked it up? What if he wasn't good enough? 

“When's your birthday?” he asked, his tone emptier than it had been before. Sahota didn't answer, just like before. Hunter hit him, not like before. This time he was careful to aim for even, unbruised color, to pull back on the blow.

He turned back to face Vic, feet shuffling him away from the man in the chair. “That's what I've been doing, Vi—sir. Pretty much just that.” Nothing to see here, no reason to watch, to find faults.

Vic chuckled. “And this is your idea of an interrogation?”

Hunter shrugged, letting out a quiet, “guess so.” Vic couldn't blame him for being bad at it, right? He'd never done this before, so it wasn't his fault, right? All he had to go off of was movies and the bloodied remains of Rex’s discarded rivals, and at the time he was too busy hoping it would never be him dead on the cement to memorize the fucking injuries.

“Here.” His handler stood, laying a hand on his shoulder, gently guiding him so he was standing in front of Sahota again.

Silent, stony, Sahota.

“Let me help you out.” Vic pressed something into his hand. Cold metal, warmed by fingerprints. He didn't want to glance down, but it was from Vic, so he made himself look, eyes confirming the shape that he held. Brass knuckles.

A thought sped through his mind as he looked at them, wondering whether Vic just always had the weapon with him, or if he'd packed it for the occasion, if he knew this would be the outcome before he'd even stepped into the room.

“Try them on.”

Metal slipped past his fingertips to circle his knuckles, the shiny brown quickly choked out by dull green vines. Vic patted him on the shoulder.

“Looks good on you.”

Something pleasant zipped through Hunter at the words, but it felt wrong, out of place

“Go on, Hunter. Hit him again. And this time, don't hold back.” Vic squeezed his shoulder. “Let's show you what a real interrogation can look like.”

Hunter clenched his fist around the metal that enclosed them, letting it pinch the skin on the inside of his fingers. Hit him again, hit him with a weapon, hurt him, why did Vic want him to hurt him? Weren't he and Sahota partners?

“Vic…”

“What are you waiting for?” The handler leaned in, hands on his shoulders, lips on his ear. “Show me you can handle this much. Show me you belong here.”

Hunter tried to steady himself with an inhale, but the chlorine smell was choking him and the room was all dizzy from the spinning silver. He kept upright, locking his gaze on the man in the chair who sat stiff-backed. Unflinching.

He didn't want to hit him, he didn't want to hit him again, he hadn't even wanted to watch him get hit on the video two days ago but it was what Vic wanted.

The black cracks were back, branching out from the pit of Sahota's throat as they met eyes, and Hunter knew then that it wasn't hatred. It wasn't annoyance, or even jealousy.

It was fear.

~~~

@theonewithallthefixations , @violets-whumperflies , @whump-me , @pirefyrelight , @soheavyaburden , @snakebites-and-ink , @whumpsday , @kixngiggles , @echo-goes-aaa

[satan-chillin]

If I go, I’m going

Also available in Ao3 & FF.net

“So what now?” Sam tries again, keeping his tone casual like he isn’t fishing for a definitive answer. “Are you going back to Hell?”

“The queen has been away for too long,“ she says with a sigh. “Down there, I’ve been away for roughly a decade.“

Sam understands. The demons fear her, but, well, it’s Hell. There are bound to be plotting and scheming when the ruler’s back is turned. Rowena is a new ruler, and while she’s able to keep them straight under her leadership, there’s still instability. Rowena has bigger responsibilities now, and Sam is glad that she’s able to find her purpose after death. It’s kind of poetic, in a way.  

And it also means that Sam won’t be seeing her again for a very long time, and if there’s no dire need for it, probably never in his human life ever again.

He understands, but it doesn’t mean that he likes it.

...

“So what now?“

“A little too young to have an existential question, Samuel.“

“I think I’m entitled to have one after putting away God for good,“ Sam inputs, looking at his glass of scotch like it’s the most delectable thing in the world. He doesn’t often imbibe, and it’s amazing how some things are put into perspective after another world-ending catastrophe, which is hopefully the last.

Rowena snorts delicately. “I suppose you are.”

“So what now?” Sam tries again, keeping his tone casual like he isn’t fishing for a definitive answer. “Are you going back to Hell?”

“The queen has been away for too long,“ she says with a sigh. “Down there, I’ve been away for roughly a decade.“

Sam understands. The demons fear her, but, well, it’s Hell. There are bound to be plotting and scheming when the ruler’s back is turned. Rowena is a new ruler, and while she’s able to keep them straight under her leadership, there’s still instability. Rowena has bigger responsibilities now, and Sam is glad that she’s able to find her purpose after death. It’s kind of poetic, in a way.  

And it also means that Sam won’t be seeing her again for a very long time and if there’s no dire need for it, probably never in his human life ever again.

He understands, but it doesn’t mean that he likes it.

“Do you have to?” Sam asks, unbidden by his tongue loosened by alcohol because fuck it. He won’t get this chance again. “I mean, not so soon, or anything.”

Rowena blinks up at him with mild surprise before she smirks with a quirked-up brow. “Careful, Samuel, or I’ll think that you don’t want me to go.”

“Of course I don’t,“ he says honestly. “You have friends who would rather have you here. I would rather you be here with us.“ With me.

Her expression morphs into a wistful and soft fondness that Sam doesn’t often associate with her. He knows he got her thinking, and for a moment, he thinks she’s reconsidering.

“That’s touching,” she says, meaning it. She never had friends before who cared for someone like her. It’s new to be the receiving end of this kind of affection. “But you know that I can’t. I... no longer have a reason to be here, Samuel. I’m just a damned soul walking about here on earth.”

“You’re not ‘just a damned soul’ to me, Rowena,” Sam says, pleading and with a note of desperation in his tone. “If it’s a reason that you want, I can give you one.” He lets his free hand find hers, and he’s emboldened by more than just the scotch.

“Pretty words, Samuel,” she murmurs, and Rowena stares at their joined fingers with wonder and awe and sadness. She doesn’t break the connection, but she bites her lip, her hesitance clear now. “But I’m not worth it, Sam.” Her eyes flit somewhere past him, to the rest of the others who got it this far. Dean, Cas, Jack, Jody, Donna, Claire, Eileen... “She is.”

Sam knows without looking who Rowena is pertaining to, and he supposes that’s something he should have expected. He’s not above admitting that he entertained the notion of moving on with another person who was there in the flesh, someone who fits in the right places where it matters the most. He had seen himself loving her and being with her for a long time.

But there’s something else that’s missing. There always is, and it took him this long to realize what it is because, for all his intellect, Sam is slow when it comes to the matter of the heart.

“She’s not you,“ he whispers, and he leans down to touch her forehead with his. “No one is like you, Rowena.“

Sam hears her huffing out a small laugh, and her eyes flutter close to savor the moment. The brief time his eyes are closed, she smiles wanly and stares at Sam like she’s memorizing his face.

Rowena thought she already knew all her regrets in life, but it turns out that she missed one particular thing.

“It won’t be easy,“ she tells him.

“Nothing ever is.”

“It'll take time.”

“I’ll wait.“

“It might be impossible.“

Sam thumbs her cheeks tenderly. “Then we have work cut out for us.”

...

Sam wakes alone, the sheets cold and with a piece of paper left out on the other side of the bed.

He reads the elegant penmanship and despite his dismay that he did not wake a little earlier, he smiles to himself either way.

He tucks the paper in his wallet and keeps it with him.

...

Some months later, he explains to Dean the situation. His brother might be a little concerned for him, but Dean’s not surprised. Not really.

Besides, if Sam’s to get a lecture on the waiting game, he’d rather not hear it from Dean who’s unknowingly notorious at it that even an angel with a lesser grasp in humanity wasn’t able to bear all that tension between them and decided one day that if he didn’t make a decision, Dean would never make a move and remain firmly in place.

All’s good between Dean and Cas now, and Sam was one of the people who thought fucking finally.

There’s not much difference in the days that followed after the God incident, and it’s probably a testament that Chuck had abandoned this world for too long that it learned how to exist on its own, God or no God.

Between the hunting and the training of newbies, time pretty much drifts past Sam. Next thing he and his brother know, Claire is a little taller, her face shedding all that baby fats; Jack is more articulate and understands random pop culture references now due to Charlie’s influence and the internet; Donna and Jody are together now, apparently, because it’s a long time coming, they said, and they weren’t planning to be like Dean and Cas who couldn’t get their shit together; Bobby has been frequently around the bunker as well and with him the growing population of future hunters who possess more arsenal in terms of firepower and knowledge.

Sam waits patiently as he watches the legacy he and his brother are building, and he knows that sometimes it seems to Dean that Sam is waiting for something that will never come, or in this case, come back.

Sam knows too that while Dean is supportive of Sam’s choice in his own way, Dean is also threading that line of telling Sam to let it go, let Rowena go, and move on lest Sam missed out in his life.

Sam is patient, and he’s aware that if it’s Dean in his position and it concerns Cas, he’ll be doing the same thing.

Half a year passes, and Sam still waits.

He meets up with Eileen sometimes, and she has this cozy place over the next town that she has been calling home. They catch up, often through texts or skype, and he’s happy that she’s fully acclimated now after her death of two years. She’s a great woman and a great friend, and they understand each other’s experiences in Hell. They are each other’s family and they love each other the same way Sam loves his brother, Cas, Jack, and Sam thinks that it’s as strong as any form of relationship they might have possibly developed before.  

At their Year-End get-together, Eileen brings Gregory with her, and after knowing the guy and seeing him making her laugh and complete each other’s sentences, Sam couldn’t think of anyone else who’s suited for someone like Eileen.

The year passes, and Sam still waits.

He lies awake at night with Rowena in his mind, and he wakes up thinking of her the next day. He often finds himself thumbing that yellowing paper that he never removes from his wallet. He keeps it as a promise of her return, and Sam will keep holding on to it until she comes back.

Sam spends most of his time studying her journals, and while it might seem that Rowena only studied the most vicious of spells and cruel hexes, Sam can read between the lines as well and recognizes her efforts in trying to do good with her magic. Sam will discover an effective but protection spell here, a versatile curing spell there.

Only when he truly settled down on a table to study all her journals did Sam learn the nuances that are Rowena MacLeod: for example, she likes writing on the edges of pages with random words, mostly foreign tongue, but for someone who’s organized and tidy, it’s a fascinating discovery for Sam.

Occasionally, there are small post-it notes that he finds attached to the last couple of pages, often they’re lists of ingredients or grocery items. Heck, Sam even discovers that there’s a potion that can be made with condiments and he remembers chuckling at the thought of Rowena in a supermarket and being mistaken as a woman who likes cooking. Oh, she does, alright, but it won’t be food.

The more Sam discovers the little things about her, the more he misses her. It’ll be easy to give up, convince himself that she never gave a sign that she’ll come back anyway so why bother at all? Besides, she also told him that it would be impossible as if she knew right there and then that it would be hopeless for both of them.

But Sam recalled that night and the time he spent with her before she left. Under the dim light of his room, her eyes never said We aren’t going to make it, are we?

What Sam saw that night was Wait for me, and I’ll come back for you, to you.

It’s enough for Sam to keep going.

...

It’s in the middle of June in Minnesota when Sam finds himself in a rather classy bar after a solo hunt. The place isn’t one he would be caught setting foot on, but he has a good feeling tonight, the kind of pleasant buzz that’s not only from a satisfying win.

He lets the anticipation grow in him. He’s like a child awaiting Christmas to open the presents, and in a way, he’s waiting for the greatest present of all.

She lets her presence be known through the smell of lavender and raspberries. When Sam turns to the seat to his right, she’s right there in a lilac dress that enhances the fire of her hair flowing on her back and makes the green of her eyes prominent.

Rowena is the most beautiful thing he ever laid his eyes on, and Sam’s not embarrassed to let his reverence show.

Her red lips move to a familiar demure smile alight with fondness. “What’s a handsome man like you doing in a place like this?”

“Waiting for someone,“ Sam humors her.

“Och. Terribly rude of that person to leave a lad like you alone.”

“I don’t mind,” Sam says. “What’s an hour to a year and a half of wait?”

Her face softens. “Lucky lass.”

“Nah. I’m luckier because I believe she just gave up her throne for someone like me.“

“Well, you sell yourself short. She must have thought you’re worth a thousand—nay, a million of her subjects and a single uncomfortably hard chair.“

Sam grinned. “If you put it that way, then I don’t blame her.” He reaches out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “I’ve missed you.”

“Me too, Samuel. Me too.“ She leans against his hand, turning her cheek to kiss his palm. “I’ve made it. It took a long time, but I made it.“

“You did,“ Sam agrees. “And I think we’ll make it this time.“

“We will, dear,“ Rowena promises. “We will.“

They’ll make sure of it.

fin