Sixth Time: Sam's Turn

The loud, sharp sound of ringing didn't even register to Sam the first time he heard it peel through the tense air in his apartment. It cut through the screaming, the waving of Emily's arms as if she was trying to swat away all their "problems". Jesus she was a nuisance these days! He wondered what the point in getting engaged to her even was. And he thought that she liked Quorra! They'd done a ton of stuff together over the months, and never once had Emily complained, but now she was some sort of problem? Sam just didn't understand.

He was just about to let the phone ring out, but decided last minute to pick it up, sauntering out of the room, hoping for the call to clear his head. Anything was better than this.

Anything except the voice on the other end of the line.

The words "car crash" and "hospital" and "fatal injuries" poured over him like waves of ice water, as if someone had opened the windows and let the storm in. He couldn't breathe; his lungs were paralyzed, as if a single movement would shatter his entire being, his tenuous and wavering composure. His mind was buzzing, sparking on overdrive as he tried to comprehend exactly what he was hearing, the truth of the matter too horribly unbelievable.

Quorra was dying.

And he could only blame himself. How could he have been so stupid?! She was so quiet; he had assumed that she had gone to sleep on the couch or something like she usually did when this was happening. She hated the fighting more than he did, but he never in a million years would've thought…

He chanced a glance around the apartment and noticed things missing. His helmet, the keys, her jacket, all gone, all overlooked by his carelessness. He though back to what the paramedic had said on the phone: cracked helmet was the only thing keeping her head from being split wide open, bike was totaled, hit by a tow truck, lots of blood…he cringed, shaking away images of her lying lifelessly on the pavement. It was bad enough when he thought she had derezzed on the Grid, her arm shattering into crystallized pieces. He couldn't stomach that again. He couldn't lose her, not like this, not after he had just lost his dad.

Before he knew it, he was fumbling for his spare pair of keys. He kept his Jag somewhere in the garage; now would be a good time to go find it. He didn't care what he was dressed in (a pair of athletic shorts and a white cotton tee) and he didn't care how he looked. He needed to go. He had to. It was like a force of nature was pulling him to Quorra. She needed him and he let her down. He failed to protect her. He had broken his promise to his father, and if she died because of it, then he wouldn't know how to live with himself. He could barely tolerate his actions so far.

He was just about half way out the door when Emily's clipped voice called out behind him, gluing him in place.

"Where are you going?" she demanded, her arms crossed over her chest.

"To the hospital. Quorra's been in an accident," he explained through controlled breaths, both because he was still nervous about Quorra's situation and because he was afraid of going off on Emily. A deep detest coursed through his body at the sound of her voice. She was just as responsible for this as he was, and the realization made his blood boil.

"You're not going," she stated firmly, leaning against the doorway.

He turned on her, incredulous. "Yes, I am. How could you even say that? I'm her friend. She needs me."

"If you walk out that door Sam, I won't be here when you come back," she claimed forcefully, her eyes wide to see how he would react to her ultimatum. "Do you hear me Sam? If you go to Quorra, we're done."

And he did react. His muscles tensed as if he were seriously considering staying, his hand still clenched but unmoving on the doorknob. He gritted his teeth, knowing what he had to do and what he needed to do. His whole heart was screaming "go to Quorra!", and he knew that she was more important than any relationship at the moment. Immediately, he knew the answer, and he was strangely at peace with the fallout.

He turned the knob and grabbed a raincoat from the rack, pulling it on as he reached behind to shut it closed.

"You can show yourself out," he snapped bitterly, not even bothering to relish in the complete shock he must've left Emily in as he slammed the door shut behind him loud enough for the whole complex to hear. He ground his teeth and bit down hard on his cheek, refusing to yield for the first time in forever. He placed one foot in front of the other, trying his best not to lose all control and run to the car.

And in her dramatic fashion (she was a model after all) Emily ran into the hallway after him, screaming and yelling threats and apologies all in one. They all sounded like a jumbled mess strewn together with tears and piercing shrieks of frustration. The neighbor opened his door and threatened to call the police, but that didn't stop her.

Sam didn't look back. He didn't reply. He kept walking, knowing that each step would bring him closer to Quorra. Closer to peace.

…

Time passed in a blur. Colors, murals of light bleeding together until they were all the same. Indistinguishable. Muddled by unseeing eyes.

Fast wasn't fast enough. He drove too slow, always too slow.

Quorra was driving too fast, he thought.

But Quorra was going to die if he wasn't fast enough.

Could she feel pain on the Grid? Could she feel pain now?

He pushed further, foot flat on the floor. He could feel his tires skid.

Was he flying too?

No, there was too much noise. Too much silence to be noise. His heart beat too loudly. Too fast. No such thing as too fast.

Flying was supposed to be peaceful.

Was Quorra at peace?

He pushed the thought out of his mind as he swerved and dodged and weaved through the tunnels of color.

Too slow.

…

He must've missed the ambulance. She wasn't there when he ran in, stumbling through the front lobby of the hospital. He caused quite a scene, stammering with wide eyes about a car crash. Even the nurses were wary of him.

Until he told them her name.

They gave him the most pathetic, pitying glances. He hated them. But he needed to know what they meant. Was she alright? Was she going to make it? Would she be okay?

Is she even alive?

But all they did was smile. They smiled and patted his shoulder, telling him to be patient as they called the doctor about her. He didn't want to be patient. He didn't want to wait around for a call to tell him whether or not the most important person in his life was still breathing.

It was an intense paranoia that gripped at his heart, squeezing it until he felt as if he would collapse. He realized that he couldn't do it. If she was dead, he didn't know if he could do it, this whole 'living' thing, and the realization shocked him into place. He depended on her so much; she was the one constant, the rock he relied on to always be there even when everything else was shot to hell. What would there be left to live for without that? He'd be loveless and friendless, and that was no life he wanted to be part of.

But the nurses were still all smiles and sunshine as they told him to follow them. He obeyed without hesitation as they led him down what felt like miles worth of halls, the smell of antiseptic nauseating and the white walls illuminated by florescent lights blinding, until finally he was led into the one place he needed to be all along.

But once again, he was at a loss on how to react.

She was breathing. She was alive, and that in itself was enough to make him fall to his knees in thanks. But the woman in front of him was a stranger, a shadow of a shell of the woman he knew, covered in bandages and adorned with a million different probes and sensors and tubes, all beeping and keeping her alive, for now. She was connected, and he supposed that the irony of the situation was something to laugh at, even if it was through locked jaws and stinging eyes.

She was so broken. She looked so fragile and pale. He was frightened to even enter the room out of fear that he may shatter her. But he went, one foot after the other, automatically, not stopping until his shins hit the metal bedpost with a screaming sting.

The nurses called out to him, listing diagnoses like 'severe concussion', 'fractured sternum', 'broken ribs', 'shattered femur', and 'internal bleeding'. It all came in as a jumbled mess. It all felt like being run through with a jagged blade.

His legs failed him. He had to sit, and he stumbled back into a chair, chest heaving, hands running though his hair, fingers threatening to rip it all out in frustration.

This wasn't real. This couldn't be happening, not to her. Anyone but her.

He reached out and took one of her pale hands and clasped it in his own, heart clenching at the coldness of her skin. He lowered his lips to the bridge of her knuckles, avoiding the IV needle placed there, and placed a small kiss. He dropped his head to the side of the bed, trying his best not to completely break down.

"Please," he whispered, so low that he could barely here himself. A prayer. "Please, Quorra. Don't do this. For me, please, just…wake up…"

His hand was still clasped with hers when he finally gave way to sleep.

…

He awoke to blue, a pair of tired yet beautiful blue eyes staring down at him in both awe and happiness. He had to take a double take, leaning back to rub his own eyes to make sure he wasn't imagining anything. But he wasn't. She was sitting up in that bed as composed as she could be, a little smile forming at the corners of her lips as she greeted him silently.

He nearly had a heart attack.

"You're awake," he gasped, letting go of a large, shuddering breath. "Oh, thank God, you're alive."

It was as if some burden was lifted off of his chest, like the lead weight in his stomach had been lessened. Not gone, nowhere close to being gone, but lessened drastically.

Her eyes searched his face, confused and slightly upset. She looked so distressed in the moment, as if she was trying to work through a million things at once and her mind wouldn't let her.

"Sam…" she tried, her voice dry and cracking, "what…where…," but he shushed her. He placed another kiss to her knuckles, pressing so hard that his lips went white. He was trying his best not to break down, but his resolve was slowly weathering away. She was so weak...

His fault. This was his fault.

"Shh, shh it's okay," he told her, somehow more for his sake than for hers, voice trembling. "You're at the hospital. You're fine. You're going to be fine. I promise."

She nodded jerkily as she seemed to take that information in, but she was still confused. He looked up at her with such sadness that it made her even more skeptical. And there was something else in his gaze that she could not identify. Fear? Inquisition? Devotion? There was a long moment of silence and intense staring before Sam spoke.

"Quorra…" he started after much internal debate, "do you remember what…happened last night?"

His voice caught midway through, and he had to recompose himself. He had to stay strong, for her sake. No need to get her more worked up than she already was.

She thought about his question and forced herself to delve deep into her memory, something that was particularly painful at the moment. She gritted her teeth and squeezed her eyes shut as she tried to remember what had happened.

And she did. She remembered everything, every gruesome, painful second in perfect frame-by-frame recognition. It was like watching a horror movie, and her eyes flew open, tears springing up in their wake, burning their way down her cheeks.

She was so mortified, so absolutely ashamed of her behavior. How could Sam sit next to her, stand to touch her or even be around her, after everything she had put him through last night? Even now her cheeks flushed in shame, and she shied away from him, turning her head, not wanting to see the aftermath of her handiwork.

But Sam wasn't having any of that. He refused to let her turn away from him. He had wasted enough time neglecting her, of leaving her alone in her unspoken misery, and he swore to himself that he would never make her feel like that again. She deserved better from him. He wanted her to want better.

"Quorra, please answer me. Do you remember?"

It was almost unbearable, asking a second time, but what really tore his soul to shreds was the look of utter shame and defeat that crossed over her face before she replied. Her voice was barely a whisper.

"Yes."

"Then why-" he had to stop himself from losing control. He could feel his anger rising in his throat, dying to be unleashed, but he couldn't let it go, not for one second. He started again, clearing his voice. "Quorra, why would you be so reckless?"

How could you be so stupid? What the hell were you thinking? Do you have any idea what would happen to me if you just...died?

All the unspoken questions that raged in his mind remained where they were...for now. Now, he just needed to know why.

"I didn't mean to..."

Sam let out a strangled breath, allowing his anger to pulse just a little. But it didn't last long. One look at her face, so broken and so weary, and he crumbled again.

"I know...I know..."

She was on the brink of tears, and he could see her throat bobbing up and down in a vain attempt to swallow the sobs building there.

"I didn't mean to be a burden," she managed, turning away again.

Sam's heart broke as he reached for her, pulling her back in reassurance.

"No, Quorra. How could you even think that?"

"You and Emily fight...all the time...about me...I didn't mean to..." she was speaking in broken fragments, but he guilt in her meaning ate away at his soul. He felt disgusted with himself, for making her think that she was so small, such a horrible person, when it was the furthest thing from the truth.

"I'm so sorry. I'm sorry about everything. I never should've let Emily do those things. I know that. I was just so caught up in work and her...and...God, I don't even know. I was a jerk, a complete ass, and you have every right to hate me. I'm so sorry Quorra. It's my fault, all of it."

She managed a small nod, closing her eyes, squeezing out the beads of liquid pooling in the corners there. He held her as close as he could, his hand on hers, the other brushing softly through her hair, pulling her in so that their foreheads almost touched. She didn't touch him back though. She was cautiously still, her whole body tensed, and he knew that if he let go, she'd immediately pull away. That stung worse than he thought it would, even though he knew that she was justified in never wanting him near her again.

Slowly, she did pull away and he let her, her head turning to the window.

"I want to go home," she whispered pathetically, like a homesick child.

"As soon as the doctors give the OK, we can go back to the apartment. I'm sure that Alan would love-"

"No. I want to go home. To the Grid."

Sam took one look at her and knew she meant what she had said. She looked at him with wide eyes, practically pleading with him to accept what she was saying. And there was fear too, fear over something he did not know. And then it clicked. Fear of living. She didn't feel safe here anymore. He had broken her faith in him.

"Quorra, you don't know what it's like there anymore. It could be dangerous. You don't know-"

"Yes, I do."

He stared at her for a few moments, like finally something about all her time spent away from him was making sense. He looked at her and realized that, for the first time, that she hadn't been completely honest with him either.

"And how do you know that Quorra?"

It was a test plain and simple, and Quorra knew it. But she was too weary to care.

"I've been rebuilding it, with Alan."

She didn't say anything more than that. She didn't have to. Sam could fill in the blanks.

"So, all that time you've been spending together, you've been going behind my back and going into the Grid? Even after knowing what it had done to you and my dad? How dangerous it can be?"

He was starting to fume, even though he knew that this was the worst time to start a fight. Quorra seemed to ruffle at his words, injecting venom into her voice.

"In case you've forgotten, this world is not mine. You and Flynn dragged me here. I've lived on the Grid my entire life. I was created there. I think I know how to handle myself."

"Yeah, obviously," Sam spat, gesturing to all of Quorra and her now broken state. She ruffled more, but didn't say anything.

He let his rage boil down, knowing that fighting her would get him nowhere. And really, he wasn't too upset at her for going into the Grid. Hell, he would've been surprised if she hadn't tried to do anything stupid like that at some point. It was the fact that she lied to him. The fact that she didn't trust him enough to tell him what she was doing.

"Quorra, why didn't you tell me? I...I could've helped."

"You were a little preoccupied at the time," she spat, though there was less and less venom with each word, hurt replacing it over time.

And fresh waves of guilt crashed over him. Was he really so much of a self-absorbed jerk that he had missed so much of Quorra's life because of Emily. He knew that he had lost more time with her, but he didn't really know that he had let so much fade away. It was almost as if he were talking to a stranger whose life he knew nothing about - like they were starting over - and the thought made his stomach roil with regret.

He didn't want her to go. Not now that he had so much to mend. He didn't want her to go back to the Grid, never to return. The thought of her walking away forever, her back to him and to the life they had, paralyzed him. He didn't want her to leave him. He couldn't let her leave him.

"Quorra," he started, trying to steady his breathing. "you don't have to make this decision now. At least think about it."

"I've made up my mind."

"And you're sure? You really want to leave..." he couldn't stop himself from feeling crushed. He wondered if she could feel it too.

"Why do you care so much Sam? I thought you'd be happy. Now you and Emily can be together, alone, just like you wanted."

"Is that what you think? That I'll be happier without you?"

He was genuinely hurt at her ignorance, and cursed himself for ever letting her think that she wasn't worth having around. His list of regrets seemed to go on for miles, all of them under the name of 'Quorra'.

"Isn't it?" she asked, her voice small, but not in the least accusatory.

"No, God no Quorra. If you leave, I'll be the most unhappy person in the whole damned world."

"But...Emily...the fighting..."

"Emily is a jealous bitch. I should've left her a long time ago. I just didn't realize it because I've had my head so far up my ass that I couldn't think straight. And I cannot express how much I regret letting my mistakes hurt you," he took Quorra's hand in his and stared at them, because at the moment, he just couldn't stand to look in her eyes and see what emotion lied there. "I've taken advantage of you time and time again. I'd always thought that you'd be there, no matter what, and I see now that I've been wrong about that too. But you have to know that - that I'd choose you over anyone else in this whole damned world. Every time. My life would be pointless without you.

"I know a long time ago I said that you didn't love me. And at the time, I thought that was true. I was grieving my dad and I was still terrified about what had happened on the Grid. I didn't know what was going on, and I just wanted something normal. So, when you said that, I just shut down. I didn't want to confront anything, didn't even want to think about messing something else up. I had just found you, and I was so terrified about losing you, the one good thing that came out of that horrible nightmare. But, I did love you Quorra. I really did...and I still do. I was just so scared, and I was sure that you didn't feel the same - placing me in the same category as apples - so I moved on, or I tried. But I know now that that was stupid, because the whole way here, all I could think about was you, how lost I'd be without you. You are everything to me."

He chanced a glance upward, fully prepared for rejection or hatred, but instead was faced with more tears. Quorra was crying, but in a whole other way this time. There was relief in those tears, joy in those tears, love in those tears. A year's worth of unshed emotion left her body, making her feel light and happy because, after all this time, Sam Flynn loved her too. And that overwhelming notion left her feeble heart exhausted.

She fell forward, leaning into Sam's opened embrace ready to catch her teetering frame. He could feel her breath slow and steady and oh so alive on his neck. He buried his nose into her hair regardless of how greasy it was, of the fact that he could still smell the asphalt smoke, but beneath all that was a layer that was so very Quorra, and it locked in his throat. Just the thought of being without that scent was enough to break him.

"Sam…" she purred into his chest, the vibrations sending small shivers down his spine.

"Hmm?" he asked, not able to form coherent thoughts after that large speech. The fact hit him that Quorra had yet to voice her opinion on the matter, and the possibility of the next words being her rejection disrupted all previous thoughts of love and peace.

But he didn't have to worry for long. The next words made him the luckiest man on the planet.

"I don't want to go…don't make me..." she mumbled, nearing unconsciousness once more. "I want to stay…with you…"

"Of course," he assured her, rubbing small circles on her back as he felt her nodding off. "I want that too."

She was so close to sleep that it was practically adorable the way her warrior senses were fighting her still-newfound biology for control. She wanted to stay awake so badly, he could tell, if not to revel in the moment then to assure herself that she was not lucid dreaming. She could not have this be another dream, and the realization of this made Sam only hold her tighter.

He was never letting her go ever again.

"I love you," he murmured into her ear, soft as a whisper, meant only for her to hear.

She placed her hand briefly over his heart before she let her mind shut down, her limbs becoming detached and limp. He guided her back on the bed, her head landing softly on the pillows. He was staring at her with such affection that she couldn't help the warm fuzzy feeling from returning to her stomach, sending her waves of euphoria that dulled the sharp pain emanating from everywhere else.

Curiousity getting the better of her, she raised a hand to his face, her drunken fingers tracing daftly along his jaw line, feeling the coarse texture of the stubble that lined the edges of his mouth.

Unshaved, she remarked to herself. Not enough time to raze, something was too urgent...He was worried about her.

Her eyes lazily studied his.

Sparkling and red-rimmed, she noted. He had cried for her.

He would've missed her. He always would've, and she was a fool not to realize it sooner. He had always loved her, and how much time she had wasted in believing his lies from the start. How much time they had wasted!

How much time they still had left…

She was alive for a reason, after all.

"I love you too…"

A ghost of a phrase muttered from hazy lips met ears that were eager and ringing.

The last thing she saw before she fell into blackness was the smile that lit Sam's face from ear to ear, like the sun was shining from within him, breaking the cold of insecurity and warming him. She felt that warmth all around her, on her hand as she felt it grasp at her, her fingers entwining with the sun itself.

And it was perfect.