(Nothing I feel needs warning in this chapter. Flirting and stuff with "Rick" and Sam. Sam's feeble attempts at ASL.)
"Do I know you?"
Sam glances up from the bar. He blanches. He would recognize those dollar-coin eyes anywhere. The way they glint, like the man they belong to finds something immensely hilarious but refuses to tell exactly what.
And the matching smirk.
Sam flushes hotly and looks away. The most he can communicate with signs is "You're Rick." Well, he gets as far as, "You're Ric," but gets stuck on the letter K, because he's still pretty shaky on the alphabet. He taps on the bar and nods toward the bartender, face crinkling in confusion. Rick tilts his head, one eyebrow raised, but then his face clears and he grins like a coyote.
"You're confused, 'cause I was a bartender in that town in Ohio?"
Sam nods.
"Well, what can I say? Felt like a change." He shrugs and slides his hands into his pockets, leaning on the bar. "And I guess fate led us to meet once more, eh kiddo?" He winks, and it shouldn't be charming, but somehow it is. In a corny way. He moves a little closer to Sam. Looks him up and down. He says, "How would you feel about a little re-enactment, if you know what I mean?"
With a soft huff, Sam shrugs. He catches Rick's eyes once, and turns away, and blushes 'til his whole face is scarlet. But he ventures another glance, and an embarrassed grin—his dimples show, and he can't help but scoot a little closer to the other man.
Rick looks up at him, all mischief and amusement. He loops his arm through Sam's and tugs him down so he can whisper in his ear. "My hotel room has a killer bed."
Sam almost chokes on his beer.
Rick laughs and leans back. He pats Sam on the back, still smirking, and lets his hand drift up until he has a handful of Sam's hair between his fingers and suddenly they're kissing. But not in the way Sam expects. It's a slow kiss, and surprisingly subdued. Rick tastes like nectarines and honey and blood and chocolate. Intricate and heady—dizzying. Sam reaches up to hold him in place as they kiss. Someone cat-calls from the floor and Sam ignores them. Rick snaps his fingers and for a moment the air crackles and warps, folding in on itself, packing Sam into a cube and then unfolding him again and that's... disorienting, to say the least. He stumbles as a swanky hotel room materializes around him.
Stares in utter shock at Rick, who doubles over laughing.
"Sorry, beansprout! Should have warned you!" His eyebrows wag and he raises his hand. "I'm a trickster!" Another snap, and Sam flinches, expecting another static-y jump, but all that happens is that the lights dim and somewhere in the depths of the room a record starts playing. Marvin Gaye, Sam thinks, but he's not entirely sure. (He tries to be well-versed in music, and researches many different things when he has the chance, but there's a lot of information in the world. In any case it's smooth and not particularly modern.)
"Care for a dance?" Rick smirks.
Sam ignores his question and signs, "I knew you weren't human!" Or, as close as he can get: "Not human, know!" He really needs to study some more. He doesn't understand the grammar of ASL very well and he knows so few words... He widens his eyes to emphasize his point. Rick laughs—and it doesn't seem to be directed at Sam so much as at the situation. He prances over and takes Sam's hands in his own and tugs him down for a quick kiss.
"Your ASL is rudimentary at best, but if you keep it up you'll be a pro in no time." He ruffles Sam's bangs. "But, to make it easier... I could just read your mind, if you want."
Sam immediately shakes his head. He doesn't know how to tell Rick "don't," so he uses "not" instead. Just to further reinforce the fact that he absolutely does not want a stranger looking around in his brain.
"Okay, okay!" Rick grabs his hands again. Laces their fingers together with a cheeky smile. "Don't get your panties in a twist, big boy." A wink. (He winks far too often, in Sam's opinion, but it's kind of endearing.)
Sighing, Sam pushes at Rick. He nods his head toward the (absolutely massive) bed, raising his eyebrows. Rick gets the idea and his grin turns lascivious as he walks backward, towing Sam along with him. They don't fall onto the bed so much as they instantaneously wind up laying on the bed—Sam on top of Rick, Rick on top of the scarlet silk sheets. Which cover a memory foam mattress of some kind. All Sam knows is it gives under his hands and knees in the best way. He forgets to pay attention to Rick and instead prods at the silk-covered mattress curiously. Sponge-y and interesting.
Rick chuckles and waves his hand under Sam's nose. "Earth to Sam," he says. "Come in, Sam—"
Sam swats at his hand, wrinkling his nose. Again, "not," because if he tries to say "stop," he will fall flat on his face and squish Rick.
Rick laughs again. "Testy today, aren't we?"
Sam kisses him to make him stop talking. Rick responds with enough enthusiasm to power a small country—he feels like electricity. Especially when his hands tangle in Sam's shaggy hair and his legs wrap around Sam's waist. Sam presses him down into the squishy mattress. It doesn't creak, like he's used to. Just gives and molds around Rick's body. So strange. But Sam likes it. It's nice to plant his elbows against while he bites at Rick's jaw.
Surprisingly, they don't have sex.
Rick says, "No." He nudges Sam away, pushes him down onto his back with ease, and sits on his stomach. He crosses his arms and looks down at Sam, eyes narrowed. "What do you say," he murmurs. "You and I watch some movies instead?"
Confused, Sam frowns, eyebrows pulling together and making his forehead wrinkle.
"No, no, it's okay—" Rick leans down a drops a quick kiss on Sam's mouth. "I'm not trying to let you down gently or anything. I'm just... not in the mood, you know?"
There's something else he isn't saying. Sam wishes he could ask exactly what, but... Limited communication. So he stares at Rick instead, wide-eyed and pouting. That face always gets people going—Alastair says it's Sam's "kicked dog" face, and it really is. So endearing, so innocently heartbroken. Or so Sam hopes.
"You stop that!" Rick pretends to glare at him. "Even I am not completely immune to puppy-dog eyes." He rolls off of Sam, and off of the bed as well, jumping to his feet. He wanders over to the large flat-screen TV facing the bed and picks up the remote, twirling it in his hands. The music that has been playing slowly dies off—though, seemingly not because of the remote, considering Rick hasn't pressed a single button. He shrugs. Tosses the remote aside. The TV flicks on by itself. Sam jumps. Rick laughs.
They end up snuggled together on the bed watching reruns of The Twilight Zone, which Rick apparently knows by heart, word for word. He recites each line perfectly, and Sam thinks it's one of the silliest things he's seen, but he enjoys it. Even though he falls asleep halfway through the fifth episode.
Sam wakes up curled against a pillow. For a moment, he's afraid he's been left completely alone, but he hears singing, and looks up to see Rick sitting at the little table nearby, eating a croissant and drinking coffee, humming and singing random bars from a song Sam doesn't know. All he catches are the words, "you are the apple of my eye, forever you'll stay in my heart."
At first, Rick doesn't notice Sam. But when Sam stretches, Rick stops singing and looks at him with a broad grin and squinty eyes. "You're a real cutie, you know?" He's teasing, and Sam knows it, but he's also completely telling the truth—he obviously thinks Sam is adorable. And Sam's not sure how he ought to feel about that. Flattered? Embarrassed? He seems to be experiencing a little bit of both. So he looks away and buries his face in the pillows and blushes.
"Awww," Rick laughs, but it's soft and even a little kind. "Someone's bashful."
Sam flips him off, which only elicits more laughter.
"C'mon, now." Rick leaves his spot at the table and is at Sam's side much more quickly than should be possible, so Sam assumes he's bent space or time or something. He peeks out from the pillows, to see Rick crouched beside the bed, still grinning. Rick pokes Sam's nose. "You're a good kid, huh?"
The bedding rustles as Sam sits up, tilting his head. His nose wrinkles and his eyebrows knit together. He stares at Rick.
"Like—" Rick sighs. He shoves at Sam, and climbs into bed beside him. He takes a moment to gather himself. "You're, what? Eighteen? I know you're not old enough to drink—I'm amazed you can get into bars even with that fake ID." He notices Sam's scandalized expression and snorts. "You can't seriously think everyone believes you're twenty-one?"
Sam rolls his eyes and crosses his arms.
"Anyway," Rick thinks for a moment. "Right. You're this eighteen year old kid, sleeping around with older men and women, and you apparently move a lot. You can't speak and you can barely use sign language so I'm going to assume you either don't have access to any kind of consistent education—which, considering how often you obviously skip from town to town is probably true—or that you have shitty parents, which might also be true. Or maybe it's just a very recent condition."
Sam nods. Raises his fist in that simple knocking motion.
"Yes? Yes, what?"
Sam widens his eyes and raises his eyebrows. Waves his arm around vaguely.
"All of it? All three?"
Another nod.
"Bad education, bad parenting, and recent. How recent? Sixteen?"
He shakes his head at Rick.
"How old?"
Sam gives him this look. This look that says, "seriously?"
"Okay, okay. I get it. Jesus, this would be easier if you'd let me read your mind." But at that, Sam glared. So Rick let out a sigh. "I'm assuming between ten and seventeen?" Rick settles more comfortably on the bed, and Sam nods at him. He clears his throat and squints at Sam. "Fifteen?" No. "Fourteen?" No. "Twelve?"
Vigorous nodding, and Sam grabs his hand.
"You've been unable to talk since you were twelve?"
Nodding.
"Wow."
Sam shrugs.
"Six years, and you don't know more ASL than a five year old?" Rick frowns. "I guess your parents really do suck—parent? I've seen you around, with some tall guy. A demon."
Sam stares.
"What?" Rick shrugs. "I know a demon when I see one, kid." He smirks and leans his head on Sam's shoulder. "He's a demon, for sure. A powerful one, too. But... you don't seem any worse for the wear? Does he... What is he, to you? Not actually your father, surely?"
Sam shakes his head. He pulls away from Rick to grab the little pad of paper and pen on the bedside table. Settles down again and begins to write. It takes up a sheet and a half, but he thinks he's got a good explanation of his relationship with Alastair and how it came about. He hands it to Rick.
As Rick reads, his expression darkens. He looks unhappy. He crumples the paper into a ball and tosses it across the room—it vanishes before it hits the ground. Rick turns to face Sam more fully. "Sam," He takes Sam's hand, and Sam realizes he's never told Rick his name. But he listens to Rick speak.
"Sam, I know he's not physically hurting you, but I think you should find a way to leave."
What? Sam doesn't understand. He signs so.
Rick just shakes his head and sighs.