a/n: Written at 4:00 am, on a Wednesday, all because I had insomnia and chose to listen to "Civil Wars Radio" on Pandora. The one shot isn't exactly about the song's theme (it's from the reverse perspective). It's just the song I listened to on repeat to help me get into Sam's head space. I suppose it's a mix of both song perspectives.
He finds her standing in his doorway with suitcases at her feet, and her hands in the pockets of her beige trench coat. The way her dark curls framed her delicate face was reminiscent of the mysterious muse so prevalent in film noir; leaving her mark everywhere, and then disappearing in a cloud of smoke.
"I'm going." She says.
He remains still, in his kitchen, clad only his sweatpants and the smell of her soap on his skin. He acted as if he hadn't heard her, and instead chose to investigate the fridge for his carton of eggs. He asked her what she wanted on her omelette.
"I said I'm leaving, Sam," she repeated, her voice cracking on his name.
She knew she was wrong. But Sam forgave her, because it meant falling back into old habits that he often tried to replicate with other women, but couldn't. And every other month, she promised to stay. Because her love for him was more important than her desire to run when his words latched onto her heart in just the right way.
At first it didn't bother him. She had dreams, and so did he. Her dreams required her to travel to cities he's never seen, meeting people who wore labels he couldn't pronounce, while immersed in a world he just couldn't fit into. He tried. It didn't work. And he let it go. He gave her all the space she needed, promising to be there when she was really ready, with open arms.
And the first time she came, she said that she was.
He did want to believe her. But far too often, he'd wake up to find her lipstick print on his chest, and the closet empty of her clothes. His fears made him hold her a little tighter every time she shifted in her sleep. Because he didn't want to wake up alone, again.
And now, a part of him envied the man who slept soundly while his heart packed up and left without hesitance. Refusing to look at her, Sam paced around the kitchen, babbling about going to an art museum or the movies.
Anything to buy more time. Anything to convince her that she needed to stay…that he needed her to stay with him.
"Sam, please," she pleaded, just above a whisper.
"Why are you leaving me? What did I do?" He asks, attempting to keep his voice from shaking.
"I just have to go…" she drifts off, "There's nothing you can do."
There's a pregnant pause between them. Because there was never a reason for her departures anymore. The "finding myself" excuse was exhausted months before, and sooner or later, she found leaving without explanation to be easier.
He says that he can't sleep when she's gone, because all he can think about are the whispered promises of forever in the stillness of the evening that clearly were just words without meaning. And all he could think of was how much he wanted to make her feel all of his love, but it was useless, because she still wouldn't stay.
"I'm still here! I'm still yours," she says, "I'll be back, I promise."
"Why are you so afraid to choose me?"
She says nothing.
"Choosing you is effortless. As easy as breathing."
She says nothing.
"I swear to God, Mercedes. I swear to God. Just choose me for once, and that's all I'll ever fucking need. Please."
He tries to find something behind her eyes. Pity, fear, acceptance. Anything. But he can't read her. And that gave him his answer before it crossed her lips.
The bitterness of resignation burned and he fought the urge to scream at her. Instead, he tugs at his hair and turns away from her. He understands now.
Silence fills the room.
"I'll be back," she says again.
He clenches his jaw and stares at the floor.
"Don't bother."
He hears her heels click across the floor and her hands wrap around his wrist. "Sam, I–"
"Don't…" he responded, coldly, snatching his arm away. "I'm not waiting for you, anymore, Mercedes. I'm tired. If you're gonna go, just go."
After a beat, he heard the tapping of her heels, and then the clicking of the padlocks.
"Mercedes…" Sam said, forcing control over the strength of his voice.
"Yes, Sam?"
"Don't call me anymore."
And she doesn't.