|The offscreen catalyst, like (ladymacbeth) wrote in rooms,|
@ 2015-11-04 11:28:00
|Entry tags:||!marvel comics, *narrative, sam alexander|
Who: Sam (& Meredith mentions)
What: Narrative: Bailing (like an idiot)
Where: New York → Elsewhere
When: During this
Warnings/Rating: Language, mentions of the regular Sam stuff
Cris was only gone a few minutes, and then it started.
The house was quiet, and Sam talked to Lou for a while, and then she went to find some Aspirin for her head. It was bad, yeah? The slam of pain that began behind her ear and starburst upward. It was bad enough that it brought her to her knees, and she crawled to the bathroom, making it there and not getting sick all over Cris' bedroom. But it just got worse and worse, and her stomach turned on itself, even when there was nothing in it anymore.
She knew she had to go get looked at or something, yeah? Because this wasn't normal, and she was scared. Panicked, and tears down her face, and she couldn't call Cris and distract him, not right NOW. Not when he was with Elliott and Cerise, and that was dangerous enough without a text saying to go to the hospital or something. So, Sam called a taxi, not knowing if the PD would inform Cris if an ambulance was called to his place or something.
She had no fucking clue how she was going to pay, but she'd figure it out, yeah? All she cared about was her head, the pain there making her sob outright as she sat on the steps and waited. Hoodie, denim, and it ended up that she didn't need to worry about paying the fucking cabbie. She got sick all over the backseat, and the fucker couldn't wait to get her gone.
They rushed her into the ER, and it was the first time she didn't have to wait at a hospital, at least that she was this alert for. They asked if she could be knocked up, and maybe she thought too long or something, because they insisted on a test before sending her off for a CT Scan. And maybe it should've worried her or something, but it didn't. She'd been with Al for years, and she'd never gotten knocked up. And she was on the pill most of the time. Ok, so not recently, but that was because she was out of all her meds. Anyway, she wasn't concerned, and they did a low-something-or-other MRI instead, along with the piss test.
She was talking to a neurologist about inflammation in the tissue surrounding that not-so-old bullet wound, and they were talking about gross stuff, like draining pressure, so the brain didn't get fucked up, and THEN the ER doctor came in, accompanied by another fucking doctor, and Sam was really sorry she'd come alone. Because they were going to tell her she was dying, yeah? Why else would they walk in looking so fucking somber?
But she found out quick, and her shock lasted all the way through the ultrasound, through the stupid fucking draining procedure, through the explanations of how fucking far along she was, how she couldn't take the meds they would normally send her home with. All that shit, and she only heard a quarter of the words. Like the date, yeah? The conception range, which they based on the ultrasound or something? She got that. She got that, and she freaked. Panicked. No, no, no, and what the fuck was she going to do?
Did she have a way home?, they asked, and maybe they could see the sheer fucking panic on her face. Or maybe it was her uneven gait, or the fucking drain, and maybe she wasn't paying enough attention to the neurological stuff, but she just wanted a fucking hit, and she didn't know what to do, and she wanted to just GO.
So, she let them send her home in a non-emergency vehicle.
HOME. Cris,' and she knew this shit would gut him. He was out there, maybe dying, all because of HER shit, and she didn't know what to do. No. No, she couldn't do THIS. It was as easy as that. She couldn't fucking do this. She COULDN'T do this. Money, yeah? She just needed money. Money, and she remembered how Cris was the day after Neil and the pool, and she couldn't bring that all to life on his face again. She fucking couldn't.
That was what the note she left on the bed said. It was scrawled messy, paper damp, and she grabbed a few fucking things and shoved them in a bag. Some clothes, but mostly shit around the place that she could sell. He didn't have anything expensive around, yeah? So it was just bullshit stuff. His electric razor, the fucking toaster, and then she remembered T's piggy bank.
She stared at it for like fifteen minutes, and THEN she busted it. He would think she was on drugs, yeah? He'd think that was what this was about, but maybe that was for the best, and maybe it would hurt less. Dumb fucking Sam, off to score, and she cried all over that fucking pink pig.
Maybe it was just the deluge of guilt drowning her, but she stopped by Meredith's, and she took the redhead with her. She'd promised, and maybe she wanted to keep at least ONE of her promises.
She used the money for two bus tickets, cheap fucking fare, and the bus smelled awful, which was probably fitting or something. Sam was sick all over herself before they even left the city. When she wasn't sick, she was sobbing, and she kept checking her pockets, forgetting she'd left her phone behind. It would be too tempting, yeah? Picking up, calling Cris, and so she'd left it with the note.
Every few minutes, she convinced herself he was dead. That Cerise had betrayed him, that Elliot had killed him, that he was dead.
The shakes hit fast and, gait still unbelievably unsteady, she scored at the first bus stop. Later, the bus rocking side-to-side again, she banged her forehead against the window, over and over, tap and tap and tap. Eventually, Meredith beside her, she closed her eyes and slept, fitfully and rocking and muttering in her sleep.