Chapter Fifteen: Dig Them Up

You have always worn your flaws upon your sleeve,
And I have always buried them deep beneath the ground.
Dig them up; let's finish what we've started.

There's a certain strangeness he feels as he unloads the cardboard boxes from his car and carries them into his new abode. In many ways, there's a lot wrong with this situation. After all, they're all in an impossible situation. Following lengthy discussions with Dina and Quinn (separately, of course) it had been decided that it's best for Brooke if Sam moves in, if only for a while. There isn't really a spare room, so he leaves his things in Quinn's room where she has cleared some of the wardrobe and a drawer, and sleeps on the couch in the night. They've discussed getting a futon but have yet to actually purchase one.

In any case, he can't shake the small feeling of unease. He's leaving his home with fiancée to live with his ex-girlfriend and their – their what? He can't say child, but responsibility seems so crass to call Brooke. Dina isn't pleased, but he can't find it in him to care too much, which says it all. Dismissing these thoughts, he smiles as Brooke bounds over to him at the door.

"Can I help you with this box, too, Sammy?" She asks eagerly, her face the epitome of innocence and everything that makes a child. He's starting to see his Brooke again, not the dark shadow she had been for some time. The implications of this may be startling, but even if it does mean she's getting past her parents – and it hurts – he can't help but feel relieved that she's not deeply unhappy.

Maybe that's selfish. Maybe it's unselfish. He isn't able to work it out.

"Of course you can, will you help me put the books into the spare shelf in the living room?"

Brooke wrinkles her little nose, "That doesn't sound very fun. Can't I put your toilet stuff in the bathroom?"

He laughs, "And spray it everywhere? I don't think so, Cookie. I would really like some help with these books though." After a moment more of frowning, Brooke nods dutifully and begins to unpack the box. "Hey, B, where's Quinn?"

"She's on the phone to Santa."

"She—she's what?" He asks, looking at the girl curiously. She's deeply engrossed in her all-important task of unpacking though.

"Santa! It's her birthday soon and she's having a big party and she said I could come. Quinn said she'd buy me a new dress for it – a pink one with ruffles and I'll look like a princess like that movie we watched the other night and everyone will say I'm pretty."

"Will they now?" He asks, crouching down to her level. "How can this be though? You're always our princess, remember?"

"Yeah, but I was always Mommy and Daddy's princess, too." She says, not looking at Sam but effectively knocking the wind out of his sails. It's then that Quinn enters the room with a smile, amused by the boxes littering her living room. He's surprised by how well she's taking the invasion. Part of him wonders how lonely she's been these past few years, but Quinn has always insisted on grieving alone.

There's a chance she has realised that's not the only way to grieve.

Sam, in all his naivety, has always believed he could 'fix' Quinn. This time, though, he's pretty sure it's the other way around. What should have been a time for him leaning on Dina, Quinn completely took her place. He doesn't know if his fiancée knows, but can't help but think she's in denial if she hasn't noticed.

Quinn reaches around him for a book sitting on the top of the box, "I didn't know you read so much, Evans."

"Hey, I'll have you know I'm an avid literature fan!" He replies good-naturedly, but in jest. He hasn't read half the books in his house, but isn't that always the way?

"My teacher says that reading is very important and opens loads of doors in life and I can't wait to read because then at night time I can tell you a story!" Brooke cuts in happily, having taken to looking at pictures in a geography book Sam has for reasons beyond his knowledge.

"That will be lovely, Brooke." Quinn responds, flicking through a book herself. She's sitting on the arm of the couch as she does this, her hair falling over her left shoulder while her hazel eyes scan rapidly over the famed words. Sam has the unsettling urge to run his hand through those golden locks – and yet, it's not unsettling, but so familiar it hurts.

Quinn clears her throat and he realises she's now looking at him, "Are you okay?" He nods, unwilling to answer verbally.

Answering the desire to distract himself, Sam asks her quickly, "Did you clear that drawer for me? I've a few bits and bobs here to throw in."

"Yeah, of course. It's nothing big! There's a chest of drawers in the corner of my room, yours is the second from the bottom," Quinn says this positively, but there's nervousness in her eyes she can't deny. This is dangerous for them. Especially because the way her lips move as she talks, the action of biting her lip in uncertainty at the end, drives him to thoughts he shouldn't have.

He dashes from the room in the most inconspicuous manner possible, reaching the drawer in record time. He stares at the dark wood, frowning deeply. Had she said the second from the bottom or the top? Sam looks at the four drawers for a while longer, almost hoping one of them will just fall open for him. He's nearly sure she said second from the top. After debating this for several more moments, he opens the second drawer and realises almost immediately that this is not the right one.

He hastily tries to close it, but the clumsiness of the action only causes the drawer to get stuck. Sam sighs laboriously; why did everything have to be so difficult? He can't just find a woman attractive, can't just live his life, can't just go on as nor—

Sam's thoughts come to an abrupt half as something in the godforsaken drawer catches his eye. As cliché as it sounds, his heart breaks a little at the sight of it. He drops his belongs carelessly on the ground, and picks up the picture in the drawer. It's a sonogram. It's the sonogram – not of Beth, but of their baby. He would recognise it anywhere.

There's pictures of Beth, too. He can't help but think how littered with hurt Quinn's life has been. Every year of her life seems to be defined by some tragedy, something to try and knock her down and break her spirit. His chest aches at the thought of her taking out this picture, crying over it alone.

Alone. In the end, that was a fact. He hadn't been there.

He holds the picture delicately, emotion bubbling within him as he reaches with his other hand for another picture. Smiling Quinn, glowing vibrantly with pregnancy and caressing her visible bump visibly. He remembers taking that picture so well – they had spent the day at the park with friends, then walked home hand-in-hand, joking about names like "Armani" as they mocked their friends. He promised her he'd love her forever, and she'd promised she'd never let him go.

It isn't hard to predict the outcome of those promises. That's what they're left with everywhere they turn; broken promises. Is that what Dina will be? Or maybe Dina is a broken promise?

"What are you doing?" The steel in her tone is missing, instead replaced with something filled with hope. She's hoping he hasn't seen her pictures, but he can't pretend – this isn't something he can overlook.

Despite that, he can't find the words to reply aptly, "I—I—" He turns around fully, giving her a full view of the photo's in his hands.

"They're private," she says shakily, taking them from his hands roughly and putting them back in the drawer. Like him, she tries to push it closed harshly, only making it more difficult for herself. She wrestles for a minute before it finally happens; Quinn breaks down. Within minutes, she's throwing a vase on top of the chest, and then beating his own chest viciously. "That wasn't your place to go snooping! I didn't let you stay here so you could invade my space and make me feel uneasy!"

"Quinn," he tries, "Quinn, please lower your voice."

"How could you? I trusted you to be here and not cross any lines! I trusted you,"

"Quinn." Sam's voice is forceful this time, "Stop it. Do you want Brooke to see you like this?"

She stills, completely frozen with her fists resting on his chest. Quinn breathes deeply, seemingly collecting herself. After doing this several times, all the while Sam rubbing her back slowly, she whispers harshly, "Don't touch my things again."

Startled, he replies dumbly, "I won't."

She wipes under her eyes swiftly, checking herself in the mirror and fixing her hair. Sam watches from behind, knowing she can see him in the reflection. This is a pivotal moment – he has to say something and it has to be the right thing.

"I'm sorry I broke your trust." Quinn meets his eyes in the mirror, void of feeling. She appears momentarily taken aback, but then straightens herself.

"That's alright."

She walks out of the room then.

He thinks he should have told her the inevitable truth; the past is going to catch up with them.

Today, Sam has a hectic schedule. Including, but not limited to, a deadline in work, a child to be collected at two, a dinner to be cooked and a birthday to attend. Come to think of it, he probably has to get a present for the damn party, too. He should ask Quinn about that, but it's the last thing on his mind right now, and instead he's going to just assume she got it and blame miscommunication if she hasn't.

Collecting Brooke from school is usually a joy, as every time, she reacts the same way. She races out past her teacher, searching immediately for either Sam or Quinn and then her face lights up with a radiant smile. She hugs him ferociously upon finding him, squeezing the life out of him. Sam is always amazed by the love a child has to give, and how freely Brooke gives it. Today, she does the same thing when Sam collects her. As he puts her down from their bear hug, Brooke instantly launches into a story about her day and her classmates.

Janet Bigley isn't in her class, but of course, there are Janet Bigley's in every class by a different name.

He listens intently to her stories, finding amusement in the words and jokes. This time, something is different, and he senses it from the moment Brooke peers up at him through those big, brown eyes. Her brow is crinkled, indicating something bothering her, and he picks up on it easily.

"Brooke?"

"Today, in class –"

"Mr. Evans, may I have a word with you?" A voice interrupts, and though his initial reaction is annoyance, Sam quickly puts this away and nods to the teacher. Brooke follows him closely, snuggling herself into his leg in a way that is so unlike her.

He gestures to her, unseen by Brooke, and silently asks the teacher what happened. She nods, "Poor thing. I thought I'd let you know of a disturbance we had in class today. Brooke got into a fight with a boy in her class – both are fine, I can assure you."

"Brooke? In a fist fight?"

She smiles a little, "Well, you could hardly call it a fist fight. Merely a few slaps, but a concerning development nonetheless." Ms. Morrissey pauses, and he knows the next words are the real crux of the problem. To support this theory, she also lowers her voice as she speaks, "The boy's name was Ryder, and he didn't believe that Brooke's parents had passed." She spares the girl a glance here, but Brooke's not paying attention.

An irrational and swift ire rises in Sam, "Excuse me?"

"You must understand, he's just a boy and to children his age, it's an unfathomable thought. In any case, Brooke got into an argument with him. One that inevitably led to violence, started by your dau—by Brooke."

He notices her slip-up, but it barely registers with him in light of everything else. It physically hurts him that someone would call Brooke a liar; to make a mockery of one of the saddest tragedies that can befall a child. Indignation, fury and protectiveness swirl around in him, causing a general unease.

"Well, I hope you corrected him." Is Sam's prompt reply.

The teacher, with whom Quinn and Sam have had deep conversations regarding their situation to ensure maximum sensitivity around Brooke, only nods. She's a very young woman, he'd wager younger than he and Quinn, with short blonde hair to her shoulders. She has a warmth in her eyes that he feels all teachers should have; a compassion that the job should require in all teachers.

"I know this is a difficult topic. I just wanted to let you know because Brooke has been feeling a little down ever since, and wanted to see you and Quinn. It happened not an hour before the end of class during recess, so I didn't call either of you." She lets this sink in for a moment, "If I can do anything, please let me know… I recommend you and Quinn talk to Brooke about the incident, but of course, that's up to you."

He can't find any more words, "Alright, thank you."

She bends down in front of Brooke, a kind smile greeting the young girl, "I'll see you tomorrow, okay, Brooke? No more beating up boys okay? We all know girls rule already," She winks at her, and Brooke releases a small giggle.

"Girls always rule!"

"Hey, what about me?" Sam asks, feigning offence.

Brooke mulls this over, "You don't count. You're not a boy!"

He puffs his chest out jokingly, "I'm a man." She nods in response, and they say goodbye to Ms. Morrissey. He laughs and plays with Brooke as they walk away, but the unsettling feeling in his chest and the knowledge of the conversation coming won't leave him.

"I had to hit him!" Brooke's indignant reply meets Quinn and Sam's beginning to the conversation. Neither of them wanted to reprimand her for what, honestly, they would have done themselves. Quinn's reaction was more visible than his, she even shed a few tears, but she is adamant they talk to Brooke about the futility of violence.

They could only imagine the frustration the poor little four-year old girl would feel in that position. She has this awful life experience to carry around with her, and then people deny her the right to speak of it or at least freely reference it. Calling her a liar is not acceptable and, though irrational, he knows neither of them will ever be comfortable with that Ryder kid.

"No, B, you didn't have to hit him," Quinn's gentle voice soothes both of them, swooping over Brooke's in one go. "There's no need to resort to violence. You should have called over your teacher and told her what was happening instead. Always ask an adult or teacher, do not begin hitting."

"You know why?" Sam asks, and Brooke shrugs in annoyance. "Because then you won't get in any trouble."

Brooke laughs, and Quinn sends him a chiding glance. "And because the teacher can correct it responsibly." She hesitates, "Brooke, hitting Ryder wasn't going to make him believe you."

"I know," She cries, tears springing out of nowhere, "But I was so angry! It wasn't fair!"

Quinn brings her into a hug, holding the child closely and stroking her hair. "You're right, it wasn't. It wasn't at all."

The affirmation of Brooke's thoughts makes her cry harder, causing Sam to jump into action and join the hug. Together, they whisper words of comfort before joking and trying to make her laugh as hard as possible.

His dream was an odd one, one of the rare ones that seem to feature everyone in his life. They were at a fairground, and in it, Quinn wasn't pregnant anymore. They were giggling like teenagers on a Ferris wheel, then sitting at a picnic with friends in the next moment. A montage of what his life was and what it wouldn't be – but even though Quinn wasn't pregnant, there was an acknowledgement in his mind that their child was at home. Safe and sound.

What happened next, was some harrowing ironic twist. He was wrenched from his pleasant dream by a harsh slap to his shoulder, almost pushing him out of the bed.

"Sam! Sam, for gods sake, wake up!" She told him frantically, a panic in her voice that he didn't often hear. Quicker than he ever had, Sam jumped into sitting position, ready to listen to whatever she was saying.

His thoughts were muddled and confused, his dream and reality blending and fusing in his brain. Sam shook his head, eyes focused on Quinn, "What's going on, Q?"

"Sam—Sam, there's blood," her tone was tearful now. She was shaking, waking him up considerably. He leapt from the bed and immediately started picking up her things and helping her downstairs and into the car. Neither of them had changed, he had only thrown a t-shirt and tracksuit bottoms on, she still in her oversized pyjamas.

Now, as they sat in the harsh and unguarded light of the hospital room, he could see the bloodstains on her legs. She hadn't spoken a word since they arrived, numbly allowing the doctors to survey and examine her without any protest or question. From that moment, he knew what the end would be. Because she knew.

It didn't make it any easier. The doctor returned, and he only had to take one glance at his face and then Quinn's to understand perfectly. Despite being so stoic minutes before, Quinn didn't even hear a word before sobs came hard and fast, wracking her fragile frame mercilessly with their angst.

"My baby," she whispered brokenly, her voice barely audible.

He held her softly, trying to convey some measure of comfort, but he received nothing back. She didn't wrap her arms around him, didn't reply to his tender confessions of love, she didn't meet his calming gaze.

Truth be told, it would be a long time before she did any of that again.

A/N: Heeey, so sorry for a bit of a downer chapter. But there is so much good to be taken from this! For example, the progression in Sam's character: previously, he was watching Quinn comfort Brooke, but now he's able for so much more. His heart doesn't hurt as much, and that's seen in every interaction with Brooke.

Plus, a teeny bit of Quam progression. Also, you see the a glimpse more into their past.

Anyway, sorry for the delay. I hope you review, because it would really help me! Disclaimer: No ownio Friends or "Flaws" by Bastille.

Thank you for reading,

CN.