Silent Bridge
Disclaimer: Um…
:: Spoilers for Acceptable Risk. I don't know why I love doing angsty Sam, but I just do. Must be the hair.
Dedicated to Tinkerpanda who loves loves loves Tortured Sam.
His father used to laugh at his jokes.
And sometimes, when he was in a fair mood he would come to his bedroom and sit with him for several minutes. Then he'd ask him about his day and ruffled his hair some more before closing the door behind him. It was nothing more than a rehearsed routine, but he found himself anxiously expecting the occasional visits nevertheless.
It hadn't been easy, being young, no taller than most children, and the only son of some infamous dysfunctional General Bad-Ass. There had been a handful occasions when he watched his old man speaking in television and another handful times when a bunch of reporters crowded the house. Normally, it's because someone, or lots of someone's, were dying.
He wasn't always around. He had grown into a figure of an old friend of his father than his father. Someone that would knock on his door and pay a visit but never stayed long enough.
It was both a relief and a frustration.
Sam hated him and loved him. Respected him more than anyone else.
He was craving for some attention, even more acknowledgement.
Karen was too engrossed with her tutor boyfriend to give a damn but his other sister was another story.
Victoria Braddock. 5 years younger with dark blue eyes and a pert nose like their old man's. If Sam was the black sheep of the family, then she was the golden child, with her bouncing blonde hair, dimples and cheery laughter.
Only his sister could find a way past his steely exterior. Showing Victoria off to his fellow men-in-uniforms wasn't news, and the smile only she could provoke turned him to somebody Sam didn't recognize.
Whenever his father was home, he would keep her in the master bedroom.
When the hearsay reached his ears that Sam had been making one of the soldiers to teach him how to shoot, with real gun nonetheless, he gave him some physical punishment.
And Victoria got the goodnight kiss.
It would have been very easy to resent her, but he never did.
If anything, he loved her to death.
Shouldn't have used that word, Sam.
It was one ridiculously freezing afternoon that Tory asked him to take her to the park, dropping his yesteryear coat and gloves on his lap and bouncing with bubbling excitement. Their nanny was on some sort of errands and Sam was in the middle of finishing his geometry. Sam could never resist her request, whiny and annoying as it was.
They were walking hand in hand, him holding her hand while musing about the postponed homework when she suddenly yanked her hand out of his grasp. When he looked up, she was already a few feet ahead of him, giving chase to a multicolored butterfly.
"Come on, Sammy! Come on!"
Nobody saw the red truck turning around the corner, gaining more speed instead of slowing down in the friendly neighborhood. There was a loud screeching sound and somewhere, people were screaming in horror. Tory was still yelling at him to catch up, stomping at her little feet clad in bright yellow sandals.
What had happened didn't sink in until after.
"It wasn't your fault," her mom had told him, over and over again, like saying it enough times would bring her daughter back to life. "She's in a better place now."
Some ethereal place with countless stunning butterflies, because this world simply wasn't worthy enough to have someone as angelic and pure as Tory.
Sam didn't think he'd ever seen someone more heart-broken than his dad. His father didn't cry. Not even a trickle of tear.
After the funeral, all hell broke loose.
No more sporadic evening visits.
No more hair-ruffling.
No more pats on the back.
No more Victoria.
Time worked well in creating a deeper abyss between him and his father. Growing up, Sam secretly wondered if his dad hoped that it had been him instead of Tory. He surely acted like he had gone invisible.
It's your fault. It's your fucking fault that Tory's gone. If only you didn't let her out of your sight, none of this would have happened.
Your fault, Samuel Braddock.
No actual words had ever been spoken, but the fact was as obvious and as bitter as that.
"I'm going to join the military. JTF2." Sam schooled his face to remain stoic.
Archibald Braddock looked up, scrutinizing him closely with eyes a deeper shade of blue than his. "You do know that taking down Al Qaeda was different from picking up girls from the club."
"I wasn't asking for your permission," Sam continued, his chin jutting out defiantly in an unconscious gesture of self-defense. "I have sent out my application."
For long moments they were staring at each other. When it was clear neither would speak first, the General finally put his pen down. He pushed his chair back and crossed his thick arms over his chest, the stars on his uniforms sparkling as though mocking his son.
No. Tell me I can't go. Tell me I must not go.
Order me to stay.
Please, Dad?
Hope was definitely a four-letter word.
"Very well. If that's what you want." His father cleared his throat and pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose before diving back into the pile of paperwork.
Sam felt a pang inside his chest and willed himself not to show any emotion - the betrayal.
Then again, it's not like it was unexpected. No more Sammy to remind you of what they had lost. Right?
Once his father appeared to not have anything else to say Sam took his leave. His hand grasped the doorknob, turning it slowly.
"Samuel."
Sam turned his head, waiting. His dad had taken off his glasses. He looked old and tired.
"Just so you know, this isn't a game. Real lives are at stake here."
Sam had to refrain himself from saying things he would regret later, fingers clutching the knob so tightly his knuckles turned white.
If there's someone who made this a game it's him.
Had been since the death of his sister.
"Sam."
Sam lifted his eyes and looked at him straight in the eyes. There was no hesitation now.
For you, Tory.
"Aye, sir."
I promise I will not torture him or make fun out of him in my next story. But it's just… tempting.