Really sorry for the significant delay in this update - I've been really, really ill, and had observations and stuff, but hopefully it was worth the wait!
Waking up used to be the easiest part of the day for Connie Beauchamp. She would be awake before her alarm, keen to go to work for another ridiculously long shift – because, when Grace wasn't around, what else did she have?
Now, rousing from sleep only serves to remind her how weak she is, and how much pain a day will bring her. Well, that and the nausea which seems inescapable at the best of times; in the morning, it feels as if she'll do nothing in the day but vomit.
Her eyelids flutter once, twice, and then three times before she manages to keep them open for more than half a second. Rolling onto her side to check her alarm clock hurts more than it used to –but not more than it ought to, if she believes her doctors. Apparently, doing anything will hurt, according to them.
And Sam.
Despite staring at her alarm clock, Connie can't make out the numbers, her attention instead focused on a man who isn't even on this floor. He is in this house, though, and has been for almost two weeks. It had been a non-argument, his moving in with Grace, primarily because she hadn't had the strength to fight him over it. Of all the things she could argue with Sam Strachan about, him being around, surprisingly, wasn't at the top of the list she keeps mentally prepared.
Not that he's close, however. He's in the guest bedroom closest to Grace's, ostentatiously staying in Connie's house to be near to their daughter. The closest contact they have – the closest he comes to seeing her vulnerable in her own home, at least – is when he knocks on her door to make sure that she hasn't fallen asleep again after the alarm. Another thing which, before, would never have happened. Cancer really has taken away everything from her.
Well, he does more than that, she has to admit to herself. He lives with her primarily to make sure that she doesn't die during the night, or have an adverse reaction to treatment with nobody around. It's the side to his living here that she tries to ignore, save for the carefully crafted text messages sent every couple of hours – okay? He asks. Fine. She responds. The greatest infringement to her privacy has been allowing him access to the data from her Apple Watch. A monitor of her heartrate, it doesn't exactly provide an exact science – but it's enough to alert him to a serious problem if it suddenly tails off.
Suddenly irrationally angry, Connie pushes any and all thoughts of Sam Strachan out of her mind, instead trying to focus her eyes to read the alarm clock. She doesn't want Sam Strachan around – and she certainly doesn't need him. She's not a little girl who's waited to be saved for years, no matter what his hero complex might think. No, she doesn't want him around, not consciously at least. The only reason he's still here is because he feels guilty about taking Grace away whilst she suffered with a serious tumour. That and the fact that, unfortunately, he had suffered a similar illness not even ten years ago: he understood what she needed more than she did, and knew that she too would pretend to be entirely self-sufficient.
Despite the logic in his involvement, Connie hates it – far more than she probably should. There's just something about it being Sam Strachan, a man who usually does what he can to run as far away from her and the concept of commitment as possible. After all, it hadn't even been six months ago that he had put forward the proposition of tentatively moving towards the three of them being a family unit. And then, not even a fortnight later, he had gone almost without a trace, taking away their daughter, the one thing that Connie held dear. If it was anyone else helping her, she's fairly certain that it would be a much more amicable situation – even though, deep down, she knows that she'd rather have nobody know just how precarious her circumstances truly are.
It's at this exact moment in Connie's thoughts that her phone buzzes on the bed next to her. It, unsurprisingly, is Sam checking in that she's still alive. Which she is – thankfully. Or unfortunately, depending on your perspective.
What she notices with a start, however, is the time. It's a little after nine in the morning – three hours later than she should have gotten up. Grace will have gone to school, and Sam should have…well, who knows what Sam should have done. Where is Sam?
Flustered, Connie forces her body out of bed, ignoring the tell-tale signs that the chemo is affecting her far more than she's willing to admit. She's groggy, can't quite make herself stand up straight, and her gait is severely impaired. She shouldn't get dressed alone; she certainly shouldn't make her way downstairs alone – but she's going to do it anyway, rush job it may be. She has to get to work – because even though her department's on incredible form, even her team will notice that she's completely absent.
It's been a constant point of contention between herself and Sam, her continuing to go to work. The arguments are stacked up against her, Connie's well aware – she used most of them against Sam, back in the day. But now that she's on this side of the table, she's determined to ignore all form of logic and reasoning in favour of perpetuating the myth that there's nothing wrong with her.
She doesn't treat any patients, at least not severely injured ones, that's the deal that they've made so far. She spends ninety five percent of her time in her office, and only jumps onto minors when absolutely necessary. It's likely that Henrik will notice shortly – particularly as she's been putting in a fraction of her usual number of hours recently, and missed almost every Head of Department meeting in the last month due to chemo appointments – and, in all honesty, Connie isn't quite sure she knows what she'll say to him. Will she tell him the truth, and watch as the pity clouds his features and his judgement of Connie Beauchamp forever more? Or will she fob him off with some half-truth, never quite letting him know how ill she really is?
"Connie." She hears her name called, the tone stern as she has come to expect from Samuel Strachan. Never in her wildest dreams did she imagine that she would be treated like a child in her own home. "What on earth do you think you're doing?"
Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Connie ignores Sam as she finishes making her way down the final three steps, doing her best to hide just how much effort it takes to make sure that her feet meet each and every pitstop on the way to the ground floor.
"Connie?" Sam repeats, taking a step closer to the bottom of the stairs. He's standing in the doorway to the living room – her living room, at least formerly, until he started bringing his own medical journals and newspapers and frankly outrageous DVD collection out of storage – and he's dressed casually. Far too casually to be planning on leaving the house today. Somewhere in the ten year interlude between the last time he stayed in this house and now, he hired a stylist who constructed an entire wardrobe of casual and workwear clothes, the most casual of which is a cashmere sweater and lounge trousers. If his presence didn't irritate her so much, she'd almost be enticed.
However, this casualwear is a problem right now. Because Sam Strachan, in this incarnation at least, refuses to leave the house without at least a smart jacket on. Which suggests to her that he doesn't expect to be meeting anyone he knows today – other than Connie, anyway.
Tightening her cardigan around herself, Connie fixes a stern expression on her face as she turns towards Sam.
"I know that it's difficult for you to remember agreements or discussions about potential situations," Connie begins icily, pausing for breath. Thankfully, Sam doesn't interrupt her, which is probably more out of empathy than actually wanting to let her speak. "However, I'm fairly certain that we agreed that you would make sure I didn't sleep in for work. Given it's now nine thirty, you've failed on that front."
Sam snorts slightly, reaching out to gently take a hold of Connie's arm. It's a casual touch which, even six months ago, would have been completely unacceptable to Connie. If there's one thing she dislikes above all else, it's being touched when she doesn't want to be. Now, however, she doesn't want to admit how much she needs his strength – even if she doesn't want to acknowledge it.
Gradually, Connie allows Sam to guide her towards the living room, the highbacked, upright chair nearest the door their target. It's far easier to get up from this than from the far more comfortable sofa, and Connie doesn't plan on staying long; she just needs to get her breath back, that's all. Then she'll be in the car driving to work – or making Sam drive her. She thinks that that'll be the best idea today, though of course she won't admit that she needs him to do it.
"You're clearly exhausted, Connie," Sam says by means of explaining his failure to wake her up. "Nobody will have even noticed your absence. And," he adds, his tone inflecting a suggestion for Connie to not answer back yet, "I've done most of your outstanding paperwork this morning. Done to the Connie Beauchamp letter, of course, no cutbacks or scrimping on the details."
Connie rolls her eyes. "That's all well and good," she points out, gripping the arm of the chair more tightly than she needs to, "however, I still need to open each file to sign them, Sam."
Sam smirks. "No you don't."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, working for you for three years meant I got…rather acquainted with your signature," Sam explains, alluding to his meaning. "It's probably too simple for such a complex woman as yourself, Connie. I'd really recommend upgrading your signature tactics."
"That is forgery, Sam!" Connie snarls, using the burst of adrenaline which accompanies her shock to help her get to her feed unaided. "I absolutely have to go in now – what if there's a mistake in there? Or if somebody notices the difference in signature?"
Rolling his eyes, Sam continues to loiter by the door, leaning his weight on the frame, his arms folded. If she didn't have to remind herself about how much she hates Sam Strachan on a regular basis, Connie would almost begrudgingly admit his near incomparable good looks.
"You didn't notice on Darwin, Connie," Sam points out, his tone neutral. "I sincerely doubt a rushed medic in an NHS Emergency Department is going to notice if the swing of an a marginally off."
Pursing her lips, Connie shakes her head and takes a step closer to the door. "Let me through, Sam," she says, her tone bitter. In another world, Sam would retort with a comment on her attitude, but in this universe, he doesn't make accusations or snide interpretations; he lets her away with it. And it's almost annoying at times. "If you don't drive me, you know I'll take myself to work."
"I could tell Hanssen – or Charlie," Sam says, his tone matter-of-fact.
Connie stops still. "You wouldn't."
Sam's expression remains neutral, but as he meets her gaze, Connie can sense how serious he is. It's a strange skill he has, to keep calm when telling her no, and it's one that she probably helped him to curate. Their shared experience of cancer probably helps, too, but she's going to ignore that for the minute.
"You're right," Sam pauses, and takes a step aside. If she brushes his side, she could get passed him; though it's probably a psychological move. Sam Strachan knows how to trick her into accepting what's best for her. "I wouldn't tell them about the cancer. But going into work when you look like this –no offence – wouldn't be helping your cause of keeping it secret."
He knows that she knows he's right, and it's infuriating. They've always had an imperfect equilibrium, one which is normally upended by her superior skill and manoeuvres, but now, the power is all on his side. It's a situation she's never been in before – because even with Michael Beauchamp, she retained enough of her wits to know how to use his insatiable need for power against him. Yet now, she's weak, almost powerless, and alone.
Well, that's not true. No matter how much she doesn't want to admit it – or even acknowledge the fact – she isn't alone. Sam Strachan is here, with her, and that's a damn sight more than she's had for the last six months.
"Fine," she concedes defeat, meeting Sam's gaze. There's a split second of relief in his eyes – he truly thought he'd lost this discussion, which surprises her slightly – but it's gone and replaced with the careful neutrality which guards his expression whenever he knows she's watching him. When he doesn't know, however, it's a different story. "I won't go in. But I'm certainly not going back to bed or sitting around doing nothing. I'm checking the paperwork – and you're going to be reminded of every single reason why forging my signature is dangerous. Not just for you, but for the patients."
The corners of Sam's lips lift, and he takes a step away from the door towards her. In a different life, this would mean a different thing than it does; it would mean what Connie's heart wants it to mean, rather than just being a very literal support to help her keep her balance. But this life is determined to keep Connie and Sam apart, so there's no point even acknowledging the what if or might have been.
Well, maybe she will, when he's gone to bed and she's lying in her own bed, thinking about the future – or her lack of it. But nights are intended for pipedreams, and the days are for cold, harsh reality.
~x~
She's exhausted all the time, especially after chemo, but she can't sleep most nights. She gets off to sleep without a problem, sucked into a dreamless sleep, but by two in the morning she's wide awake again. Part of it's her lack of routine – working shifts for her entire life has left her body peculiar, needing to be awake and alert at a moment's notice – and part of it is the fact that she doesn't want to sleep.
If this is to be her final few weeks on this planet as Connie Beauchamp, then she doesn't want to go down passive, sleeping to pass the time. She isn't in any pain, not really. If she's going down, she's going to go down fighting.
So she gets up most nights and wanders around the downstairs of her home, running her hands over the nicknacks she's gathered – and kept – over the years. Her various phases and need to declutter has led to a lot of momentos disappearing and simply becoming memories, but at least she's managed to stop herself purging the folders and folders of photos.
With a glass of water in one hand, photo in another, she whiles away the small hours perusing through the photos, going from her childhood to the present at random. Some nights she spends the entire time looking at photos of Grace's first year; other nights, she flits from her teenage years to her promotion to Consultant, wondering wistfully if she would have changed any of it. Other nights still, she looks at the photos of the fifteen years she spent with Michael, her attention drawn by the enraptured expression on her wedding day, all those years ago.
Most nights, Sam joins her. He's remarkably sensitive to the noise of her walking down the stairs, and usually joins her after a few minutes, when it becomes clear that she's staying downstairs.
Some nights they sit in silence, Sam not probing into the material remains of the life of the woman she was before she met him, simply sitting there until she hands him a photo of Grace or a moment in her life he'll recognise.
Other nights, they talk. They talk about anything that comes to mind, from Grace's childhood, to the news about the development of replacement stem stents in the US, to the absolute rubbish that they ended up watching on the television the night before.
The only thing they never talk about is them – what their relationship is, what it has been, what it could be, and why he ran away from it all.
"Do you ever worry about dying?" Connie asks him randomly on this miserable Tuesday morning, the wind driving the rain into the windows. It's triple glazed, and yet she still needs two throws and the heating on.
Sam smiles wistfully from across the sofa, resting his head against his right hand. There's a hint of stubble on his jawline, and Connie thinks that it makes him look more attractive than ever.
She shakes her head to remove the thought from it, and looks down at the rim of her glass, hoping desperately that the heat rising to her cheeks isn't obvious.
"Hey," Sam says gently, touching her arm. He clearly thinks that she's looked away out of sadness, rather than anything else, and she decides not to bother correcting him. "Of course I do. And I did before, you know. I wrote a will and everything – that definitely wasn't on the top of my to do list for 2009, you know, with the playboy thing and all that. And I still do now." He takes a deep breath, and Connie looks up at him again; he's wistful, wistful in a way she doesn't think she's seen from him. "I think it's normal to be scared of your own mortality, you know? Especially as doctors…we see so much death, to not think about it would be strange."
Connie purses her lips, taking a sip of water before she continues. "Do you think that you think about it more because of what happened?"
"Absolutely," Sam confirms. "After all, I'm probably completely different because of what happened."
She can't stop herself from snorting.
"Hey, what does that mean?" Sam asks, suddenly affronted – but Connie can't tell if he's playing the role or not. He's done that quite a lot recently, trying to draw some form of emotional connection out of her.
Most of the time, she resists his efforts. Tonight, she doesn't bother.
"I mean, you're still almost exactly the same sort of person you were before," Connie protests, offering a weak smile. "Womanising one woman one minute, flashing someone else a smile the next. An excellent practitioner of medicine – though that always comes second to one thing or another. Fiercely loyal to your own ideas of right and wrong – hey, I'm not saying it's a bad thing. I'm just saying that…you've changed less than you might think you have."
"Yeah, you're right," Sam admits. "But…I know who I was before. I don't think…I doubt I would have gone to America in the first place if I hadn't. I'd have stayed here, and challenged you in Holby. It would have been World War Three, both for Darwin and for Grace. And it would have probably destroyed us both. So I think I changed – just maybe not in the ways that you might see." His voice is soft, and it's once again offering Connie a different side to Sam Strachan than she usually sees.
It's too gentle, however, and Connie doesn't want to start down a road which will only end in her heartache again, so she deliberately makes her voice jovial as she says, "Don't count your chickens before they're hatched, Sam. I can assure you, no matter who you were, there's no way you would have destroyed me – or taken my department." She doesn't mention Grace, however, because she knows that a full-strength, determined Sam Strachan could have taken her daughter far more easily than she's willing to admit.
"Fair enough," Sam, too, concedes.
The moment's awkward, and the conversation will probably end up going down a road that she doesn't want to pursue, so Connie forces herself to her feet, and fakes a yawn. "Right, I'm off back to bed," she says, "goodnight."
"Goodnight."
As she lies there, twenty minutes later and more awake than before, Connie realises that Sam Strachan knows that she lied and he could barge through the door any moment.
Thankfully, he doesn't.
~x~
Sam accompanies her to her chemotherapy appointments, which appeases the busybody nurse who normally gets involved to ask about her lack of family.
They sit in silence for the most part, except for when they exchange opinions on the latest cardiac surgery advances, debating their practicality in a busy NHS theatre.
He always offers to get her a coffee when she sends him away for a few minutes every week, keen to gather her thoughts as she feels the toxic chemical seeping into her bloodstream. She always declines.
Sometimes, he comes out with something profound, however. Just as he does today, in the otherwise empty chemotherapy suite. There are some benefits to private healthcare, and this is one of them.
"I just," Sam begins, and Connie immediately tenses. When Sam Strachan is less than perfectly eloquent in a conversation, it means it's a difficult one. And a difficult one for him is likely to be a difficult one for her, too. "I was going to come back, you know. Before."
"It doesn't matter," Connie mumbles, because she really doesn't want to have this conversation not now, not ever. He can say what he wants now, because he's here, but the only reason he came back is because she has cancer and he feels bad. That's the crux of the matter. "Really. Can we not talk about this now?"
The corner of Sam's lips quirk. "There's no one else in the room to overhear anything," he points out, logic on his side for once. "And you literally don't have to say anything."
"Still," she protests.
"I was going to come back," he presses, a sense of urgency in his voice as it becomes clear he desperately needs her to believe him. "I always do, don't I?"
"Barely," she whispers. "When you need something." Her words are vicious, but, she reflects, honest.
And he knows that.
"True," he concedes. "But I come back to you when I could go anywhere else."
"And the first time, it took you eight years," Connie retorts. "That time, it was purely accidental, and you did everything you could to get out of my department as soon as possible."
Sam snorts, and as she looks at him, Connie can see his eyes focused on the memory of the event – his memory, though, not hers. "I tried everything to get her out of there," he confirms, "because I knew that the longer she stayed, the longer I'd be around you. And I wasn't ready to come back, to be reminded of you and what could be."
Her heart flutters, and it's reflected on the machine, embarrassingly. To try and hide the reason for the increase in her heartrate, Connie twists slightly, and feigns feeling discomfort in her arm.
Sam, unfortunately, doesn't appear to fall for it.
"What happened to her, anyway?" Connie asks, curiosity piqued. She didn't want to have this conversation, so she'll be damned if she doesn't ask the questions which make Sam uncomfortable. "Emma. Grace liked her, you appeared to…and yet the next time Grace spoke to you, it was if she had never existed."
Shifting uncomfortably, Sam looks away and towards the chemotherapy machine. It takes more than a minute for him to reply, but she's already decided he isn't getting away with giving her a non-answer.
"She was great," he admits, "until I came back here."
"And what does that have to do with anything?" Connie asks, exasperated. She can sort of understand what he's hinting at but, vindictively, she wants him to say it. He isn't getting away with giving her this sort of hope again – at least not by avoiding the actual words. Her breathing is getting more rapid, but she can't tell if it's the chemo, or Sam.
(It's definitely Sam, but she isn't going to let him build her quashed hopes and dreams up from the ashes again, at least without something definitive.)
"It's you, Connie," Sam says slowly, without meeting her gaze. "It's always been you."
This causes an extremely noticeable peak in her heartrate machine, but it isn't for the emotion that Connie was expecting to feel.
"Then why," she begins with gritted teeth, the forceful nature of her anger surprising even her. "Did you leave? Why did you leave back then? And then why did you leave in August?"
Sam looks back, meeting her eyes, and his mouth opens but no words come out. "I…I…I…"
"You ran away because you were scared of commitment and the idea that you might have to change even remotely for anything to have even a remote chance of success," Connie spits out, locking eyes with Sam and wishing that she could fire daggers from her eyes. "Because it's all well and good thinking you want something when you're three thousand miles away, but when you remember that you have to modify the least acceptable parts of your personality, you freeze. And then, once you've unfrozen, you run so that you don't have to deal with the feelings or your attitude." She takes a deep breath, but she's run out of words – or the strength to continue.
She's surprised that his expression softens, and there appears to almost be a chance that he's going to cry, but she doesn't regret a single word. If he hadn't run, none of this would have happened. Well, she would have had the cancer still…but she wouldn't have had to go through it alone.
"You're right," Sam replies.
"I know I am," Connie interrupts curtly. She didn't need for him to argue or to confirm a point that she's spent three months (and more) thinking about. "Now I've got ten minutes left, so go and get the car so that we can get straight off and pick Grace up from school."
~x~
She deliberately goes to bed straight after dinner that evening, feigning 'not feeling well from work' to a daughter who still doesn't know her mother has cancer, so that she doesn't have to speak to Sam. He's told her everything she wants to hear and everything she never wanted to know for definite in an attempt to ignore the convoluted nature of their relationship.
Thankfully, she drops straight off to sleep, but the sleep is filled with images of his face throughout their relationship. Her brain reminds her of the positives they've had over the years, as well as the negatives, reminding her that, when they chose to work at something, they generally improved. Look at their relationship with Grace, after all.
The thing that always let them down was that neither of them were willing to make the changes needed for a Connie and Sam story to last more than the first chapter.
~x~
She can't avoid him the next day.
"Look, Connie," Sam begins, but she cuts him off. She prepared what she was going to say in advance, and it's easier if she can say it in one go rather than trying to have to amend it to whatever he says first.
"Sam," she says simply, her voice far gentler than yesterday. "It doesn't matter. Yes, things could have potentially happened – but note could. Things didn't change – I didn't change and you didn't – and we both said and did things that would make it incredibly difficult for anything to work."
"But…"
"And anyway, nothing can happen," Connie presses on, her tone carefully neutral as she looks away so she doesn't have to see Sam's expression. "Because you can't change, Sam. It isn't your fault, and I'm not blaming you. But as soon as I'm better – if not before – you'll go back to America, probably with Grace, and the old cycle will resume."
"But…"
"There are no buts, Sam," Connie replies gently, as she forces herself to her feet. It's always more difficult the day after chemo, and she's glad that she managed it without his help. She probably wouldn't be able to finish her mini speech if she could feel his skin on hers; it affects her far more than it should. A small smile slips onto her lips as she concludes, "I had started to change – at the very least, I was open to the idea of reprioritising, which was a miracle. But you weren't. I suppose it was unfair, to change the rules so late on in this very long game. So let's just…let's just leave things as they are, shall we?"
She walks out, leaving a dumbstruck Sam Strachan sitting in her kitchen, not to move for another three hours.
~x~
He isn't sure what's most shocking: that Connie Beauchamp was willing to change for him, or that he didn't realise it sooner.
Well, he thinks, that's a lie. He had recognised it at the outset – that's what caused him to run. She's slightly wrong in her analysis of him, but that she's so close to the truth without being near to him shows just how well Connie knows him. He saw that she was open to the idea of them becoming a family, and he panicked; he didn't think that he could do it, no matter what he said.
But that doesn't matter now, because he has to find a way to show her that, finally, he wants to try and make the change. It might be too late, as she said, but he doesn't think so. As long as you're always willing to change, a relationship can start at any point in life.
"Hey, Dad," Grace says with a smile as she slides into the front seat. "School was great today! Fran and Taz were, like, so excited to see me – they haven't been in for a couple of weeks because they've been sick. But it was so great to see them again!"
A small, rueful smile appears on Sam's face. He had convinced himself that the friends she made during her year in America were the ones that she was closest to. He had forgotten about the ones she had had before – and during – both periods of time spent in New York.
"That's great, sweetheart," Sam replies, turning the ignition of the car to get the engine to start. "Look, Gracie, I had a question for you…"
"Yeah?" Grace asks, distracted. "If it's about dinner, I vote pizza. I know Mum won't like it and she'll have her weird veg, but we can, right? It won't hurt her if we eat something else?"
"No," Sam admits. Salty pizza can't hurt Connie by diffusion, anyway. "But it isn't about dinner."
"Okay?"
"How…how would you feel about a permanent return to England?"
There's a period of silence, and Sam takes his eyes off the road momentarily to see a perplexed expression on his daughter's face.
"Is this because Mum's so ill?" Grace asks. "I mean, you still haven't told me why she's ill. Or how she's ill."
"It isn't because of that, sweetheart," Sam rushes in to confirm. "It's up to you, I don't mind if we live in England or in America. But, if you want to come back, we can. Permanently, this time."
"Really?" Grace asks, a smile spreading across her face. "I mean, America's great, but…it isn't home. Was this Mum's surprise?"
Sam smiles. "No, sweetheart. Your Mum doesn't know yet – I didn't want to get her hopes up if you wanted to go back when she's better."
"Does this mean that you're wanting to stay for a different reason?" Grace asks, her tone suddenly curious. "A romance reason?"
Sam laughs. "I want to stay to make you and your mother happy, sweetheart. That's all."
Grace's lack of response tells him everything he needs to know.
~x~
The first Connie hears of the decision for Grace and Sam to stay in England – and, more specifically, in Holby – is after dinner on the same day she tells Sam that they don't have a future.
"So, basically, Dad asked me where I'd rather live, and I said here, obviously!" Grace squeals, jumping up and down. "Are you happy?"
Connie smiles, and claps her hands. She can't bring herself to stand up; her head hurts, and she hasn't felt this dizzy in weeks. The chemo's affecting her more than she thought – it's unlikely she'll make it into work tomorrow, to have the meeting Henrik wanted. But it isn't the reaction Grace wanted, and she knows her daughter will be suspicious.
"I am absolutely over the moon, sweetheart," Connie replies, a grin spreading across her lips. "Come and give me a hug – careful though, Mummy's still ill."
"What's wrong?" Grace asks. "I mean, we're staying. You might as well tell me."
Connie freezes with fear as she wraps her arms around her daughter, and she frantically seeks Sam's gaze to make eye contact with him. For once, she actively wants him to see the fear in her eyes.
"It's a circulatory thing, Gracie," Sam replies, keeping his gaze on Connie the entire time. "Nothing to worry about. Just means that your Mum shouldn't be alone."
"Are you really happy that we're staying?" Grace murmurs into her mother's ear.
"Nothing could make me happier," Connie whispers. "I love you more than anything else in the world."
She isn't sure if it's an accident or a deliberate decision, but she keeps eye contact with Sam as she speaks, and she can see the response in his eyes. I love you.
~x~
They meet at two in the morning, by some sort of unspoken agreement, in the living room of her third home in Holby. The photos are already spread around her in a circle as she sits on the floor, crosslegged and focused on trying to find the photo she's looking for.
"You do take an exceptionally large number of photos," Sam comments with a smile as he drops to his knees, sitting down directly in front of Connie.
"Yeah, lots of things happen, got to remember them," she murmurs, barely looking up from the photos in her hand to acknowledge his presence. "Take a look in that box, will you?"
"What am I looking for?" Sam asks.
"You'll know it when you see it."
She recognises that it's not exactly the most useful instruction, but, to his great credit, he doesn't argue, simply opens the box and pulls out a handful of photos. They're both searching through the boxes of Grace's early years, looking for the photo which will explain everything.
Ten minutes later, she finds it.
It's the one photo that she's never been able to display, for fear of causing her heart to gain a perpetual ache. A photo from when Grace was six months old, both of her parents by her side, smiles on their faces. Sam's arm gently around Connie, they were a family – at least for the photo.
"Look," Connie says gently, her voice barely audible. "I've got it, Sam."
She shows him it, and watches as his eyes light up with the same expression he has when he's looking at her without realising she can see.
"A good memory," he declares.
"Yes," she agrees. "But…it doesn't have to be the only memory."
His brow furrows. "What do you mean?"
Shrugging slightly, Connie sets the rest of the photos in her hand down and reaches out for his empty left hand. "I mean…you're trying. I'm trying. It might not go anywhere after I'm better…but what's the worst that could happen?"
"The worst is that we could end up getting married," Sam suggests. "Certainly not the worst is that you choose to let me live with you."
"I opened myself up to those possibilities months ago," Connie retorts, though her voice stays gentle. "Have you?"
"This isn't a game to me," Sam says firmly, maintaining eye contact. "We'll have bad days, and we'll have even worse days – you can't not, when we're as stubborn as we are. But we'll have good days, and great days, and we'll make sure we get through those worse days."
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying, Connie Beauchamp, that I've stopped running away from you."
She can't really move, so she's grateful that Sam reaches across and gently presses his lips to hers. It doesn't last long, simply because she can't really do without the oxygen that a kiss denies her, but it's sweet, and vastly different to most of the other kisses that they've shared.
There are a thousand barriers in their way, largely the ones that they themselves have constructed to stop this happening, but Connie knows that they can knock them down. Provided they don't implode along the way.
Thanks for reading! Please leave a review to let me know your thoughts, and if you have any suggestions about what I can write next, please leave that in the reviewbox also! If you're on tumblr, also feel free to message me on conniebaechamp
