AN: Here's a little something to tie everyone over while I update my other stories lol enjoy.
xox
Twelve-thousand nine-hundred and thirty-two hours.
That's how long it's been since Sam last heard Mercedes' voice. All of the other men on the rickety van count the time in days, months, even years, but Sam feels the moments tick by one at a time, each more painful than the last. He can hear the blood rushing through his veins as he sits and stares out the window. He's wearing earphones, but nothing's playing. The screen of Sam's throw-away phone illuminates his sunken face with a harsh glow. The envelope icon on the screen is flashing. Twenty-seven new messages. The other men in the car had all called their loved ones as soon as the plane landed in New York, but even after two more flights and a long drive, Sam is still terrified of the thought of hearing a familiar voice; his body might be bumping back and forth on the hard, mud-colored seat, but his mind is still miles away, traversing the harsh, wind whipped planes of the desert.
Sam wants nothing more than to hear that voice once again, to sink into its comforting tone, but a churning terror deep in his gut holds him back. With all that's happened, all that he's seen, how can things just go back to normal? Twelve-thousand nine-hundred and thirty-two hours changed Sam more than he ever imagined could be possible. What's to say it hasn't changed Mercedes as well? Sam bites down on his tongue, a nervous habit he developed during his stay in Afghanistan. The screen flashes blue again.
Sam's colonel had been in charge of making sure every soldier had someone to meet them, to hug and kiss them, and to take them home. He'd passed around a big list with all 180 of their names on it, and told the battalion to write the names and numbers of their loved ones next to their own name. Sam had left his space blank, but judging by the number of messages on his phone, the colonel must have found someone to tell.
It's eight pm.
The van is supposed to arrive in Cleveland at eight thirty before going on to Lima. Sam wonders if Mercedes will be there. His heart leaps at the idea, but he chokes it back. Even after all these hours, he can't shake the idea that the kiss they'd shared on the day he left was one of pity rather than love. And even if it wasn't, even if Mercedes had meant every sweet, loving word she'd said, it's not fair of Sam to expect Mercedes to have put her whole life on hold just for him.
There's a deep scar on Sam's right shoulder. Sam plays at the deep indent with his index finger. He recalls the debriefing session they'd had the day before leaving Afghanistan. A psychologist told them of what they could expect when they got home. Confusion, disorientation, lack of interest, recurring nightmares, detachment– all of these things sat heavily on Sam's conscience. Even if Mercedes had loved him, no one could ever love the wreck he is now.
Sam hasn't even looked at who the messages are from, never mind replied to them. Instead, he longingly imagines Mercedes sitting in his bed in his cramped apartment, the room completely dark save for the glowing LED screen she's staring so intently at. He pictures Mercedes' warm fingers dancing across the cold, cracked screen of his iPod. The image fades; now Mercedes is in a parked car, taping the back of her phone impatiently on the dashboard. Her face is a mixture of relief and worry. She glances expectantly at the little machine, hoping it will make a noise. Sam shakes the daydream from his drooping eyes.
For the last twelve-thousand nine-hundred and thirty-two hours, Sam had imagined a Mercedes that was waiting anxiously for his return, a Mercedes that couldn't bear life without him, and a Mercedes that felt the same way for Sam that Sam felt for her. And now, that perfect little story that Sam had told himself a million times over is about to come crashing down. Sam feels sick. A year and a half of dodging bullets and fearing for his life could not compare to the haunting idea that the love that kept him going for so many months will end up ruining him.
It's eight twenty.
Sam shifts in his seat. The cold air in the van sends a shiver down the length of his body. His heart and mind ache to have someone to hold him tight and protect him from the cold. He'd been brave for too long, now he just wants to curl up in someone's arms and feel safe for the first time since he left. No. Not just in "someone's" arms – Mercedes' arms. Sam glances at the sliding phone, but it remains dark. Outside, buildings are dotting the road. Sam stares as he recognizes restaurants and bars he'd once known so well. They seem so foreign and distant now. Will everything feel this strange and unfamiliar? Sam's head leans against the sticky, fake-leather seat. He wonders if he looks as different as these buildings do.
Eight twenty-five.
Time is slowing down. Sam's mind swims with apprehension, anxiety and longing. He knows no will be there to greet him, but he can't help but hope to be proven wrong. There's a glowing sign at the end of the road. Sam sees a small crowd standing on the illuminated ground beneath it. One of the dark silhouettes gestures towards the van, and the whole mass begins bobbing and waving. Sam cranes his neck to see them better.
The bus pulls in.
The doors open.
Sam scoops his bag into his arms and shuffles down the aisle. He stands on the top step and looks out over the exhausted faces. Sam steps down slowly, still searching in vain for the one face he desperately needs to see. One foot, then the other lifts, moving all on their own as Sam drifts forward without seeing. He can feel his lonely heart writhing in his chest as he pulls his hand to his ear and dials the number for a cab. He greets the dial tone with a deep sigh. Sounds of reunion swell up from behind his while the tears of others' happiness fall silently to the ground. The tears that are blurring Sam's vision, however, are those of heartbreak and loneliness.
Suddenly, a hand pulls the phone away from his tear-streaked cheek. Fingers lace between his and the phone falls to the hard ground with a wet smack.
"Who could you be calling at this time of night?" Mercedes whispers softly. Sam spins around to find himself staring into deep, chocolate brown irises. A soft, teasing smile is playing at Mercedes' lips, but her eyes are as glassy and red as Sam's.
"I'm so glad you're home."
Mercedes presses her mouth to Sam's and pulls him down. Two quivering hands run through Sam's rain-damp hair and grasp his head tightly. Sam's own hands tremble uselessly by his side. Mercedes pulls back for a moment and takes Sam's shaking palms in her own.
"I missed you," she breathes, "Promise me you'll never leave me again."
"I promise," Sam chokes through salty tears. Mercedes leans in again pulling him down and standing on her toes she kisses Sam's cheeks, then his nose, then his forehead. She pauses, closing the space between them to rest her forehead against Sam's chest.
"I love you. I always have and I always will. Never forget that."