Disclaimer: I own none of Glee, but I manage to find joy all the same.
A/N: No Finn in this one. Thanks again for the reviews; I'm glad folks are enjoying this!
Chapter 3: This Day and Age We're Living In
In which it is a Saturday morning in a string of Saturday mornings.
Sam lived for Saturday morning. When he was 9—before Stevie and Stacy showed up—Saturday mornings were for cartoons and Star Wars and the silver dollar pancakes his mom would make for them after she and his dad were done sleeping in. After the twins were born, Saturday mornings were for the same things, but better, because he got to help make the pancakes and then he'd get to practice his big brother skills. He struggled with reading, but he would draw and sing with them while his mom and dad enjoyed some (mostly) alone time.
When he went away to boarding school, Saturdays changed. The other guys usually slept late, eager to relax after a long week of classes and sports and staying up all night playing video games. No matter how he felt, Sam kept to his Saturday morning ritual, making do in the dormitory kitchen with a microwave and frozen waffles. He'd watch his favorite movies on the dvd player in the common room, and sometimes, especially when the seasons changed, he'd grab a sketch pad and shimmy out the 4th storey window to the forbidden ledge. The view of the mountains from that point was perfect, and Sam loved to feel the shift in the weather on his skin while he drew whatever the world inspired.
On other Saturdays he was out early hunting or fishing with his dad. His sketchbook was always with him, but after scaring away a doe when the book fell out of his hands and off of the deer stand, he only brought it out on the way home or sitting around the cabin, sketching out his memories of the day. He and his dad talked a lot—about sports and school and work and what it meant to be a man—but they never seemed to talk about Sam's drawings or his guitar or his gift for impressions. They'd go home to dress the deer or filet the fish, and then Sam would help his mom with the cooking. When he'd return to school after a weekend at home, it always took a full day or so to shake off his dad and the outdoors so that he could be the quarterback who also read comic books and drew landscapes.
After they moved to Lima, Sam went back to making the Saturday pancakes and started introducing the twins to classics of sci fi cinema. He missed the alone time—and sometimes even the fishing—and it wasn't too long before he was pulling out his sketch pad on the deck at their suburban home. The drab utilitarian fencing marched along the back of their lot, effectively blocking the view of a home identical to the one they occupied. Sam couldn't help but long for the mountain views. He found his inspiration elsewhere—in the new people and experiences at McKinley, at first, and later, as his family's financial realities came clear, in the dark and thin unknown.
He didn't take out the sketchbook at the motel, and they never had pancakes. By the time they got there, he was exhausted from working nights at the pizza place, struggling to keep up with school, trying to keep the twins' spirits up. Saturday morning was the one morning when he could keep his eyes shut and pretend that things were different, so he'd pull the thin blanket over his head to block out the light and dream. Eventually Stevie or Stacy would pounce on him and tickle him out of the darkness for a little while, but by the time the sun set and he headed out to work, after he'd sat down with his parents to do their weekly accounting while the twins played on the meager porch outside their door, things looked blacker and bleaker than ever.
###
On this Saturday in mid-August, Sam rolls to the edge of the bed. His fingertips brush the canvas of his knapsack, and he unzips it and roots around for the sketchbook and pencil he always carries. He moves slowly, desperate not to wake Mercedes, who is snoozing beside him. Paper and pencil in hand, he slowly scoots up until he is sitting against the soft headboard, a couple of pillows behind his back for extra support, and he looks at what is fast becoming the best Saturday inspiration he's ever had.
For a couple of months now—since the start of June, to be exact—he's been coming to Mercedes' house on Saturday mornings for breakfast. Her dad volunteers at the health clinic downtown on Saturdays, and her mother is usually busy at her boutique, so Saturday mornings have become their time. No kids for Sam to corral, no pizzas for Sam to deliver, no dress alterations for Mercedes to complete—nothing but breakfast and movies. At first.
Things changed the Saturday after the party at Rachel's. Sam had come over around 7:30, just in time to say a quick hello/goodbye to the Joneses and to find Mercedes taking a piping hot breakfast casserole out of the oven. That should have been his first clue that something was up—the previous weeks they'd always cooked something together—but he'd happily eaten with her and listened as she shared stories about the customers she'd been fitting that week. He hadn't noticed the nervous way that she kept twisting her napkin or that her eyes kept flicking over to the clock on the microwave. He'd just been so happy and thankful for her and for Saturdays that after they'd put away the leftovers and washed the dishes, he'd just assumed that she was leading him to her bedroom instead of the den because she'd left the movie in there or something. It wasn't until she'd closed the door behind him and stood against it, breathing nervously, her eyes fire and a small smile at her mouth, that he'd realized what this morning meant and Saturday morning became so much more awesome than it had ever been.
That was their first time, a sweetly awkward encounter that had ended almost as quickly as it had begun. Mercedes had been forward, but shy, and Sam, only slightly more experienced, had taken as much care as nerves would allow to try to make it memorable for them both. He'd managed to hold off his orgasm until he'd entered her, but one kiss and the feel of her thighs pressing against his hips was enough to break his tenuous hold. She'd been a bit disappointed, but he'd taken the opportunity to kiss her body the way he knew she liked to be kissed, moving his lips and tongue slowly over the stiff peaks of her nipples, dipping into and nibbling at her navel until his tongue licked—gently, at first, then with increasing intensity—at her clit. His hands had gripped her thighs, keeping her open to him. She'd leaned up on her elbows at one point, wanting to see what this looked like, his long blond-brown hair against the dark curls on her pussy. He'd looked into her eyes then, sucked at her clit a bit harder, and she'd collapsed back on the pillows until she came. They'd held each other afterward, and they would have given it all another try, but Mercedes' alarm clock rang to warn them that noon—and her father's return—was approaching, so they'd cleaned off and dressed, and Sam had headed back to the motel and the weekly family accounting feeling richer than he ever thought he could.
###
He flips through the sketch pad. He's finally started drawing again, the first image a self-portrait from a photograph that Mercedes thought was perfect. He almost hadn't recognized himself in the picture, his jaw emphasized by his longer hair, his eyes harder and sharper—and clearer—than he'd remembered. As he'd drawn his own face, he'd thought about the year and he'd begun to understand that losing everything had brought him more than he'd realized.
###
The day after the first time, when Sam took Mercedes on their weekly Sunday night date (the Lima Theatre downtown showed Hollywood classics for half-price), he'd finally felt like he could ask her the question that had been bugging him since the Sunday after prom. She'd called him to thank him for a great night, and they'd started talking about nothing until they stopped two hours later. He'd enjoyed it so much he'd called her after his pizza deliveries were done the next night. The rest, as they say, is history, but to Sam, who'd been a witness to events, there was one thing he didn't quite get.
"Why me?"
Mercedes put her purse in the empty seat next to her and took a sip of her drink. "Why you what?" She reached for the popcorn.
"Why me—" Sam paused, searching for the right word. "Why me everything? I mean, I've got nothing to offer you, Mercedes, nothing except my heart and a bunch of goofy impressions."
She shifted in the seat next to him, put the bucket of popcorn they were sharing onto the floor along with their drinks, and, taking his hand, looked very seriously and deeply into his eyes as she said, "Bieber and bolo ties. That and the fact that you're fearless, which means you're worth all of this fierceness." She picked up her drink, handed him his, and turned her attention back to the screen, where black and white animated popcorn tubs, candy boxes, and drinks were dancing up a storm.
Sam sat staring at the screen, condensation dripping from the side of his cup, and he tried to figure out what Mercedes meant. He knew better than to press any further right now; the movie was about to start, and Mercedes seemed to enjoy the oldies as much as he loved sci-fi. He transferred his cup to the cupholder, wiped his hand on his shorts, and picked up the popcorn bucket so that he and Mercedes could share it as they watched the movie.
Mercedes wasn't a big fan of tonight's film; she and her mom had watched Imitation of Life a few times before, and with each viewing she got more and more frustrated with the story of two single mothers, one white and one black, and the daughters they were trying to raise. When her mother saw the movie listing in the Sunday paper, she'd joked "Guess it's the summer of black maids raising white women's children," and Mercedes had rolled her eyes. Her mother's book club had just finished reading The Help in preparation for the film's release, and since it was summer and the meeting was in their home, Mercedes had joined the club for a lively discussion. Truth be told, she'd thought about giving this movie a miss after that discussion, but her mother had always insisted that she confront the things that made her uncomfortable. Seeing this movie with Sam definitely did that, so she went.
Still, since she'd seen it already, she didn't have to watch it closely. Instead, Mercedes was having a great time sneaking glances at Sam as he frowned and bit at his bottom lip. She'd meant what she said—Bieber and bolo ties were why she'd gotten up the nerve to call him—but sitting here next to him, watching him try to sort out her little cryptic riddle because what she thought about him mattered to him, she understood why she'd decided to have sex with him the previous morning and why she'd felt so nervous before seeing him tonight. This was real, like really, really real, which meant that she really had something to lose now. Being with Sam felt good and awful at the same time, and she kept playing over scenes from the previous morning and weeks in her mind. Before she knew it, the funeral on screen signaled the film's ending.
Sam was crying. She'd been so lost in her thinking that she'd actually missed the movie, but Sam clearly hadn't. She fished a packet of tissues from her purse and handed him one. He took it gratefully, and they sat in the theatre while the other patrons (mostly middle-aged or elderly) made their way out.
"So you liked it?" she asked.
Sam shook his head. "Hated it." His voice was hard, and she was surprised. "How could she do that to her mom? After everything she sacrificed for her? Selfish, selfish" he muttered under his breath as he gathered the now empty drink cups and popcorn bucket.
Mercedes followed him out to the lobby, grabbing his hand after he'd tossed the empties into the garbage. "Sam? What's got you?"
Mercedes' grip on his forearm brought Sam out of his frustration. "Sorry," he said. "That movie kinda took me by surprise." He took her hand as they walked to through the lobby. "Family is everything to me, especially now. How could Sarah Jane hate where she came from so much?"
They were standing outside the theatre now, and neither one of them felt much like talking. Mercedes took his hand, steering them both toward the ice cream parlor next to the theatre. They ordered their usual—a banana split—and sat across from each other in one of the retro-themed booths.
Sam took a bite of the ice cream. "So…Bieber? Everybody seemed to think it was lame."
Mercedes laughed as she licked some whipped cream from the cherry. "It was, but you owned it and that was what made it awesome. That," she continued, "and the fact that you were willing to hang yourself out there for your girl—" She paused, still a bit uneasy about bringing up old hurts. Sam was quiet, but not visibly shaken, so she kept going. "You seemed like a really stand-up guy. And then you had to ruin it by dating Satan." Mercedes popped a spoonful of the ice cream in her mouth and grinned.
Sam rolled his eyes and grudgingly nodded. "Yeah, I know. That was a mistake."
"Well, you kept on being a stand-up guy, even after we all turned against you." Mercedes' voice was softer now. She knew that Sam had forgiven her—forgiven all of them—for what they'd accused him of doing with Quinn and Kurt, but she hadn't quite forgiven herself yet. "You started really sharing yourself with us after that. You were brave."
They were both smiling now, and Sam offered Mercedes the chocolate ice cream he'd just scooped up with his spoon. "And the bolo tie?" he asked, curious about its role in winning her heart.
"Admit it—you love that tie." Mercedes stared at him expectantly. Sam tried not to smile and failed miserably. "You were so comfortable at Prom, so confident. Even St. Jerk couldn't shake you. All I could think the next morning was that the fearless guy in the awful bolo tie was the best looking thing I'd seen in a long time, and I wanted to get to know him better."
Sam took her free hand in his. "I'm glad you did." He scraped up the last bit of ice cream and chocolate sauce and fed it to her. She leaned across the table and kissed him, sharing the treat, then took the empty glass and spoons back to the counter. Sam quickly composed himself, grabbed her purse and held the door open for her as they left the ice cream parlor. They held hands as they walked back to her car, pausing for a moment to watch one of the movie theater attendants changing the letters on the marquee.
"Sorry I got so upset about that movie," Sam said.
Mercedes shot him a sideways glance. "I'm not. You're supposed to be mad at Sarah Jane because you're supposed to sympathize with her mom. And don't get me started on 'Miss Lora' and Susie." She shook her head as she looked down at the pavement. "What's really awful is that Sarah Jane is right about needing to pass," she said bitterly as she gently pulled Sam to continue walking to the car. "Only way she'd be able to get ahead back then."
They were both silent as they got into the car, and Mercedes began to worry that she'd said too much. They'd never really talked about race, their little cocoon of secrecy shielding them from having to acknowledge certain realities.
"Do you think people still do that?" Sam asked.
"What, try to pass?" She shrugged. "I'm sure they do, if they can and they think they need to, but I hope not. That's a shitty way to live your life, always trying to be something that isn't all of who you are." They were stopped at a light now, and she took the opportunity to grab Sam's hand. "Bieber and bolo ties. Fearless." She gave his hand a squeeze, more to strengthen herself than him, then released his hand as the light changed and she drove on.
He smiled and nodded. "Yeah. I get it." And he did get it, but the conversation and the movie stuck with him for a long time afterward.
###
He is sketching her now, building her face from memory since all he can see at the moment is the gentle full curve of her hip beneath the deep purple sheets on her bed and the smooth expanse of her shoulder and back. Her hair—
Sam stops drawing and looks at Mercedes' hair. He's never really touched it, not because she'd said not to or because he didn't want to, but because of something Santana had said to him once about black women and their hair. He doesn't really know what a weave is, but he knows is not "hers" in the way that he understands hair. Curious, he gets out of the bed and looks around the room for photographs, pausing at a colorful collage of school portraits. Mercedes in pigtails. Mercedes with a cute puffy bun on her head. Mercedes with sleek straight hair—much like she wears it now. Mercedes with a riot of fluffy curls framing her beautiful face. He smiles and reaches out a finger to stroke the image.
"I didn't think it was possible, but your ass just gets finer every day."
He jumps at the sound of her voice and turns toward her, his face a bit flushed from the surprise and the feeling that he'd just been caught doing something naughty. Mercedes chuckles, then stretches, her arm brushing the sketch pad he'd left on his pillow. She looks at the sketch he'd been doing of her.
"Why am I bald, Sam?" There was a bit of an edge to her voice, but it wasn't anger so much as a guarded curiosity.
"I wasn't sure how I wanted to draw you," he says. He takes the pad and finds the pencil before sitting back against the pillows. "I was trying to see you as I drew—you know, like that picture of me that you like so much, how you said it really was me." She nodded, so he continued. "When I started to draw your hair, I realized that I've never really even touched it."
She sits up in the bed, pulling the sheet to cover her chest. "So touch it. I won't stop you."
Sam reaches out a hand to touch her hair, then stops. To Sam, she looks scared and angry and hurt all at the same time, so he strokes her cheek instead. "Mercy? Talk to me?"
Mercedes leans back against the headboard. Her voice is bitter and hard. "Talk to you about what, Sam? It's just hair."
Biting back the impulse to give as good as he got, Sam says "No, clearly it's not."
Mercedes looks at the clock. 11:15. She turns her back to Sam and grabs the robe on the floor. "Playtime's over for today."
Sam watches as the soft terrycloth covers her smooth skin, and he wonders why she pauses as she pulls her hair out from beneath the collar of the robe. He's hit a nerve, a really deep one, and the heat of the shame of hurting her makes him angry. He stands and quickly dresses, his hands tugging and pushing and stuffing at his clothes and his knapsack. He waits outside the door to her bedroom while she washes up in her bathroom, fists clenching and unclenching in frustration. He's hurt her. She doesn't trust him. He is afraid.
She comes out of the bedroom and seems surprised to find him still sitting there. "I thought you'd left."
"Mercy, I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"
She shakes her head. "It's OK, Sam. I just need to think right now."
He nods and rises to leave. She walks with him to the front door and opens it. He stands in the doorway, one foot out, one foot in, and looks at her. "Are we—" he hesitates, not sure what's happening, "are we going to be OK?"
She reaches for his hand and gives it a quick squeeze. She nods, then leans up to give him a soft kiss on the cheek. "It's not about you. I just need to figure out something I didn't realize was bugging me."
He doesn't know what's bugging her, but he understands about needing to figure things out. "See you tomorrow night? I checked; it's something called Now, Voyager tomorrow. I love sea movies."
Mercedes shakes with laughter, and Sam laughs along with her, not quite sure what's so funny, but glad that he's said something to make her smile. She sniffs as she finishes, wiping away the tears from her cheeks. "Don't ever say that to Kurt. And I think we should take tomorrow night off," she says, her voice now serious. "I really need to think about this—" she points to her hair—"and us."
Sam purses his lips and nods. "You know I love you, no matter what, right?" He hugs her tight, kissing her forehead as he releases her. "Call me when you're ready?"
She smiles. "I will. And I won't make you wait too long. I promise."