Thank you for continuing on this little journey with me. I appreciate it and I appreciate every one of you.

I do not own Glee or the characters, neither do I own Head Over Heels.

We're almost at the end. Just one more chapter and a short epilogue.

"Just when you think you have a handle on life...it breaks."

Mercedes Jones

The next day, Sam had just finished reading a kid the riot act, for shoplifting his lunch at the convenience store, when his phone vibrated.

'Mercedes,' he thought, his chest squeezing with the painful reminder, of how she'd slipped out of his bed, at some point in the middle of the night.

But it wasn't her.

It was the doctor calling to tell him, that his father had been admitted to the ER for chest pains.

"It's not a heart attack," Dr. James said, when he'd met Sam in the hallway outside of his father's room.

Sam, who seemed to have taken his first breath, in the twenty minutes since he'd gotten the phone call, asked,

"So what is it?"

"He said he was trying to mow his lawn early this morning, when the chest pains came on. And he waited until now to come in, because he's Dwight Evans."

Sam gritted his teeth.

"He said he'd hired someone to do that for him," he muttered, though, why he felt inclined to defend himself, he couldn't guess.

Nearly everyone in town knew about his rocky relationship with his dad, including Dr. James.

The doctor shrugged.

He was looking like it'd been a long day already, in wrinkled blue scrubs, a stethoscope hanging around his neck, his dark hair ruffled and dark eyes lined with exhaustion.

"It's anxiety. I'm going to prescribe some mild anti-anxiety meds, but he needs to go low stress."

"You tell him that?" Sam asked.

The doctor gave a tired smile.

"Yeah." He clapped a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Try to take it easy on him."

Sam walked into the room.

His father was prone on his back, hooked up to an IV and oxygen, looking frail, small, and old, and yet, he still managed to make a sound, that perfectly conveyed what he thought at the sight of him.

"Gee, Dad," he said. "I'm happy to see you, too."

Dwight closed his eyes.

"You'd be sarcastic to your dying father?"

"You're not dying. You're going to outlive me out of sheer orneriness."

His father's eyes opened and narrowed.

"It's anxiety, not your heart," Sam told him, standing at the foot of the hospital bed.

"The fuck it is. I was mowing the lawn. No stress in that."

"And why were you mowing the lawn, Dad?"

"Because I…" He clammed up.

Sam, at the moment, was trying his damnedest to ignore The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air rerun, blaring on the TV behind him. He had no idea how to proceed here, without further infuriating his father.

"Dad, I know there's no kid."

"He got busy."

"There's no kid," Sam repeated.

Dwight frowned.

"You're standing in front of the TV."

"I'm trying to talk to you."

"Move!"

Sam felt the helplessness reach up and choke him.

It was a new feeling, but it'd become his best friend, since Mercedes had sneaked out of his bed, and, he suspected, out of his life.

What was it she'd once told him?

Life was too short?

Well, she'd been right on.

"What do you want from me, Dad?" Sam asked.

"Nothing. Take your fucking bad attitude and get the hell out of here."

Dwight had no idea how much Sam wanted to do just that. But no more putting this kind of shit off.

"Look, I know I disappointed you as a kid. I get that. I disappointed me as a kid," Sam said.

And for the first time since he'd walked into the room, his father met his gaze.

"And I know," Sam went on, "That you did the best you could with me..."

There was a long, painful silence, during which Sam kicked a chair closer to the side of the bed and sat.

Getting the message that his son wasn't leaving, Dwight finally cleared his throat.

"Maybe I could have done better with you."

"I don't know how," Sam admitted. "I was a complete shit. We both know that. In fact, raising me probably put you in here."

He reached for his father's hand. It was the first time they'd touched in years.

"But I'm trying to make up for it. And it'd be great if you let me."

"How?" Dwight asked warily.

"By eating some pride and letting your sorry-ass son help you out once in a while."

"You're busy."

"Not that busy."

His father said nothing to this. But his gaze drifted to the TV again.

Sam stood up.

"But it can't be one-sided. You're going to have to meet me halfway," he said.

Dwight shrugged noncommittally.

"Do you know how many times you've called me, Dad?" Sam asked.

Dwight hunched over the remote, squinting at it, since he didn't have his glasses.

"Fucking remote needs new batteries. Get the nurse for me, will you?"

"Never. You've called me never," Sam said. "I don't even know if you have my phone number."

Dwight aimed the remote and gave it another try, and Sam sighed.

Maybe he deserved this.

He'd been so busy preserving his own pride and playing super sheriff to make up for the past, that he hadn't recognized his father's pride.

The man was getting old, and Sam himself, was starting to get how much it sucked, when the world you worked so hard to build, fell down around you like a house of cards.

Sam took the damn remote and walked out of the room to find some batteries.

He was halfway down the hallway when his phone rang.

When he looked at the screen, it was with disbelief.

It was his father.

"I have your number, because, when you bought me the phone last year, you put your number in it," Dwight said. "I never called you before, because I had nothing to say."

Sam walked back into his father's hospital room and stared at him, both of them still holding their cell phones to their ears.

"You have something to say now?" Sam asked.

"Yeah. Except, we have to hang up first, because I'm not supposed to have this cell phone on in here."

Dwight lowered his arm.

And Sam reached up and manually turned off the TV, because a new episode was starting, and if The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air theme song got stuck in his head, he was going to have to kill himself.

His dad cleared his throat, his eyes going to the now dark screen of the TV.

He looked uncomfortable and embarrassed, but he still spoke.

"I saw you in the paper. You caught that guy trying to hurt that pretty waitress at the diner."

"Avery," Sam said. "She's okay."

"I know." His father cleared his throat. "Because of you."

Sam waited, but he said nothing else. Apparently, that was as big an atta boy, as he was ever going to get, but it was so much more than he'd expected, and he found himself speechless.

"So you're saying?"

His father scowled, the lines etched deep in his jowls.

"That you didn't totally fuck up."

At that, Sam had to laugh.

"Wow! That's going to go straight to my head, Dad."

"Watch it! I can still kick your ass."

But there was a small smile around the corners of Dwight's mouth when he said it.

"Now get out, so I can get some sleep," he added. And in fact, his eyes were already closed.

But Sam knew it was going to be okay.

Not great, maybe never great, but at least, they could do something they'd never quite managed before...peacefully coexist.

"You look different, Merce."

Mercedes glanced at Tenny and then quickly averted her gaze, afraid he'd see her misery.

She needed sleep.

Even more, she needed to understand what had happened at Sam's last night.

Or maybe, it was best if she didn't.

She and Tenny were at the cottage.

He had caught another nasty cold, that had kept him in the hospital for the past few days.

His doctors had wanted him to stay, but two hours ago, he'd had enough and had walked out, calling her for a ride.

She'd brought him here, because his duplex was being watched for the still-missing Trent. Plus, Tyson was on a job out of town, until Friday.

Trying to help make Tenny comfortable, Mercedes had him stretched out on her bed and was giving him a massage, while they waited for his girlfriend Randi to get off work and come get him.

"If Randi ends up with overtime again, you're going to stay here with me tonight," Mercedes said.

Leaning over him, she worked her special oil blend into the knots of tension in his shoulders and back.

"You're like a rock quarry," she said. "Breathe as deep as you can. Positive visualization. Picture your lungs all clear and at one hundred percent. All puppies and rainbows."

After a pained laugh, Tenny shifted a bit, then turned his head just enough to be annoying.

"Puppies and rainbows? What's going on with you? You seem off today."

He tensed and grunted when she hit a particularly sore spot.

"Ouch!"

"You're not concentrating on visualizing your good health," Mercedes said.

So he dropped his head down and was obedient for all of fifteen seconds.

"It's about Sam, right? What happened? It got too real, and you bailed?" Tenny asked.

"Hey, I don't do that."

Tenny was facedown, but Mercedes knew he was also brows up, and she sighed.

"Jeez, look at you Ten. You get laid, then you turn into a relationship expert."

He snorted.

"Yeah, I'd make a fine shrink. I'd tell everyone to fuck the rules and just live." He paused. "And it's more than getting laid, by the way. We're a thing, Randi and I."

Mercedes stared down at Tenny's painfully thin, pale, disease-ravaged body. If she wanted to, she could count every rib.

And his breath rattled with each inhale.

"Does she understand...I mean...is she..."

"Okay with me dying?" He sighed. "No. Hell no, not even close. But she loves me." He shook his head, sounding marveled. "And if she can love this body and the man inside it, then you sure as hell can find someone to love your sorry...but fine ass."

Love hadn't been in Mercedes' plans when it came to Sam.

Wild sex, yes.

Love, no.

So of course, that's what she'd done. She'd gone and fallen.

'Stupid, stupid, stupid.'

But what was done was done, besides, she couldn't un-fall.

She'd tried and it didn't work.

She'd only fallen harder, even hoping that he'd caught the bug, too. But she wasn't sure.

God, she was so confused.

One lousy minute of contentment, and boom, everything had fallen apart.

"I smell something that'll burn in there," Tenny teased.

Shoving up to his elbows, he gave Mercedes a terrifyingly gentle look.

"I've seen him look at you, you know. He accepts you, Merce. As is."

Maybe. But could he love her?

"Just promise me you won't waste your time doubting or second guessing," he said. "It's not worth it. Just go for it."

His eyes were unsettlingly clear and serene, as he softly added,

"Look, we both know I'm no shrink, but I know what I'm talking about here. And I...I want to know you're okay before…"

Before he was gone.

He didn't say it out loud, he didn't have to. It was the big, fat elephant in the room.

Why the hell did it seem, as if everyone was saying good-bye to her?

"We are not having this conversation," Mercedes said, her chest going tight. "People with CF have a median survival age of thirty-seven years now. You have ten years left, before I will even think of having this conversation with you."

"Merce, that's the median age. People die at two, or ten, or twenty-seven."

Tenny's voice was low and rough, and he shrugged his too-thin shoulders.

"Shit happens."

"Yeah, shit happens. I could get hit by a bus," she said grimly. "Or smack you upside the head for being annoying."

"Goddammit, Mercedes! I want to know you have someone."

Suddenly, she couldn't breathe.

She just couldn't.

She struggled for air, and couldn't manage it. She staggered backwards, tripping over her own legs, to fall flat on her butt.

"Fuck!" Tenny swore, as he leaped off the couch and crouched in front of her, in nothing but his boxers.

He shoved her purse in her lap.

"Is your inhaler in here?" he asked.

Mercedes managed a nod, and he opened the thing like it was a ticking bomb.

"Pocket," she wheezed. "Inside pocket."

Looking squeamish, he rooted passed a lip gloss, a pack of birth control pills, and the latest Cosmo, to get to the pocket.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" he was muttering. "If I find a tampon in here, I'm going to hurt you."

Tenny opened the pocket, plunged his hand in, and came out with a…

"Argh!"

He flung the tampon across the room like it was a hand grenade, and Mercedes was both laughing and sobbing for breath, when he finally located her inhaler.

She took a long puff. Then another. But it didn't help fast enough, and she felt the licks of that familiar horrific panic gripping her.

Tenny stayed with her, holding her face.

"In and out, baby, that's all you gotta do. In and then out," he said.

Just then, Mercedes caught enough breath to croak out a shaky joke.

"That's what she said."

And Tenny laugh.

After a few minutes, she finally caught her breath a little more and glared at him.

"Okay, don't you ever fucking say good-bye to me again."

"How the hell is telling you, that it's okay to fall for someone, saying good-bye?" he asked.

"It felt like a good-bye. God..." She felt the tears well up. And she never cried. "Goddammit!"

Tenny let go of her face and sat back on his heels.

"Merce," he said softly. "You know it's coming..."

"No, I don't! And you can't think like that!"

"I have to think like that." When her phone vibrated, he rose to his feet a little shakily and reached out a hand for her. "But you don't. You have your whole life ahead of you."

Mercedes swallowed a sob, ignored his hand, and scrambled to her feet on her own.

She read the text from Tessa requesting some help.

"I have to go," she said. "Randi will be here soon. Call me if you need anything."

She refused to look at him, as she shoved her inhaler in her pocket and ran out the door. And as she stepped off the cottage porch, she wiped the tears from her eyes.

It was all she could do, not to drop down to the stairs and weep like a child.

Clearly she hadn't gotten nearly enough sleep. She and Sam had turned to each other over and over again in the night, like…like they were never going to have each other again.

'Don't go there.'

Another sniff, and another swipe of the back of her hand, and she was almost at the inn.

As Mercedes moved, she saw a swirl of dust fade at the edge of the woods, which was odd enough to catch her attention.

There wasn't a road there, just an old hiking path.

With a quick change of direction, she followed the dust and caught sight of tire tracks in the still-moist mud.

She could hear an engine. A truck, probably. Something with four-wheel drive.

It wasn't far, but she was wondering who'd be out there in the first place.

At the edge of the woods, Mercedes stopped and listened again.

It wasn't just one truck...it was two.

She took out her cell and called her sister.

"Hey, there's a couple of trucks moving around out here in the woods. I'm going to go take a look, and I didn't want to be the stupid chick in the movies, who doesn't tell anyone where she's going."

"Hang on, I'll come out," Tessa said.

"It's probably nothing. Maybe the forest service checking on the fire lanes. I'll call you right back."

Mercedes disconnected, then headed down the trail. She could still hear the engines ahead of her.

The trail wasn't meant for vehicles, so it'd be slow, rough going.

And then, the engines cut off.

She could hear the faint sound of male voices. And then a truck door closing.

Suddenly, an engine revved, coming back her way.

"Shit!" she softly swore, then dove into the bushes and ducked low.

A blue truck drove passed her, going far too fast for the terrain. But she recognized the driver and covered her mouth to hide her gasp, even though no one could've heard her.

It was Rick Milano.

Suddenly, the forest had come down around her like a theater curtain, surrounding her with mossy pines, spruce, and the scent of Christmas.

There was still someone ahead of her, and she made her way a little closer, then went utterly still, because there, behind a huge outgrowth of sage, was a truck.

A new, black, shiny truck.

Trent's.

'Trent and Milano? Oh, God, this can't be good.'

Mercedes shifted behind a large pine and dialed Sam this time, as she watched Trent behind the wheel, talking on his cell phone.

She took a hit from her inhaler on instinct, and held her breath as Sam answered, sounding distracted.

"Evans."

But Trent was exiting his truck now.

Afraid to reply and tip him off, Mercedes bit her lower lip and remained silent.

"Mercedes?" Sam said. "You there?"

"Milano. And Trent," she whispered, her hearting pounding, and her chest tight. Too tight.

That half-mile walk had taxed her.

"Trent? He's with you?" Sam asked.

"In the woods. Milano's leaving."

It was all she could say.

She took another peek from around the tree. She could see the whole left side of Trent's truck, but not him.

There was something in the bed of his truck that looked like camouflage netting. And she knew marijuana growers used it to hide their crops, which made sense, given what he was suspected of.

"Mercedes," Sam said. "I'm on my way. Where are you exactly?"

"I'm half a mile or so in." She pressed a hand to her chest. She was wheezing badly. "Tenny knows the trail. I think Trent is hiding his stash."

"I've called it in," Sam said. "We're all on our way. You did great, baby. Now get the fuck out of there." He paused, then added, "Please. Please get the fuck out of there. For me."

Despite the fear and asthma attack now fully upon her, Mercedes smiled as she left her tree and started to head back.

"I like the please," she whispered. "Nice touch."

"Use your inhaler," Sam said, staying on the line.

"Did."

She was a safe enough distance away, but she slowed, then stopped.

"Okay, I'm in trouble," she admitted. "I have…to rest."

She dropped to her knees, gasping for breath.

She opened her mouth to tell Sam that she was going to hang, up when a hand clamped down on her mouth, and her scream was swallowed before it started.

Stay safe and enjoy the holidays!