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I do not own Glee or the characters, neither do I own It Had to be You.
Just three more chapters.
Sam didn't touch Mercedes. God knew he wanted to.
She was standing there, with her arms wrapped around herself, the don't-touch vibes coming off of her like lightning bolts.
He'd caused that.
Instead of keeping his mouth shut and saying goodbye to her, he'd ruined what they'd shared during their short time together.
Worse...he'd hurt her.
"I called you," he said quietly.
She hadn't picked up at the time.
So, he'd called her again, and her mother had answered, saying that she'd gone to the store and left her phone.
And right away, Mrs. Jones had invited him to her party.
And though the invitation had been nice, he'd been on his way, regardless.
"My mom is dying of curiosity about you," Mercedes said.
"She's protective of you," Sam replied.
That brought her gaze to his.
In all this time, she'd been an open book. But right now, she had herself closed off, shuttering everything from him.
And silently he admitted, it was his own doing.
"Your mom wanted me to know you were upset," Sam said.
Mercedes made a sound and closed her eyes, and he stepped closer.
"I told her it was my fault," he said, "And that...I wanted to come see you."
"Well, you're seeing me now."
"Ah..." he said helplessly, "True. But we need to talk."
"Not here," Mercedes said. And with that, she walked outside.
Sam drew a deep breath and followed.
They didn't go around to the back, where the party was ramping up, if the raucous laughter and loud music meant anything. Instead, Mercedes started walking down the street...and Sam went with her.
"Mercedes..." he started.
"Not here either," she said.
So he decided to shut it and let her lead.
But she stopped so short, at the sight of the white Dial-A-Ride van, he nearly plowed her over.
She swiveled her head and looked at him in disbelief.
With a sheepish look, he shrugged.
"You drove the Dial-A-Ride here?" she asked.
"Someone took the key bowl," he said, "With my keys in it."
Mercedes stared up at him.
"Oh my God. That was me. I took the bowl." She smacked herself on the forehead. "I've got to stop doing that."
Sam smiled, and then they walked on in silence a few blocks more.
Weeds poked through the cracks in the beat-up asphalt, in front of the houses, that had seen better days decades ago.
Some had bars in the windows, and others had flowers in pots on their porches.
"We lived on that corner once," Mercedes said, pointing to a place on the right, where there was a skeleton of a Chevy up on blocks. "We also lived across the street."
"Where does that loan shark asshole live?" Sam asked. "The one who threatened to sell you?"
Mercedes took a look at his face.
"You want to beat the shit out of some guy, who scared me fifteen years ago?"
"Badly," he said, and meant it.
Mercedes shook her head, but there was the very smallest of smiles on her face.
"Mercedes..." Sam started, again.
"I still don't want to talk."
'Fine,' he thought. He'd give her a few more minutes, but that was it, because then, he was going to talk.
And she would listen.
Hopefully.
Because, actually, he hadn't had a whole lot of luck in getting her to do anything, that she didn't want to do.
They walked another few streets, and then, Mercedes pointed to a house, just like all the others.
This one pale yellow and nearly falling off its axis.
"That one," she said. "That's where we lived with The Pincher."
Sam's chest squeezed hard, like maybe his heart was swelling and bumping up against his ribs.
"I'd like a moment with him too," he said grimly.
A minute later, they came to a deserted elementary school. And Mercedes slipped in between a gap in the linked fence, like she'd done it a hundred times.
Sam eyed the gap.
It wasn't nearly wide enough for his shoulders, or his long frame, even if he squeezed in sideways.
With a sigh, he climbed the fence.
By this time, Mercedes had claimed a swing and was watching him.
And there was something new in her face now.
She was more than just closed off to him...she was closed off, period...disassociated from their surroundings.
Sam had seen this all too often on the job, so he knew exactly what it meant.
It meant, that being here, had brought her memories that were hard...if not impossible...for her to deal with.
"Talk to me, Mercedes."
"Well..." she started, but her gaze tipped upward, to the corner of the structure supporting her swing.
"There's that web right there, and I'm wondering where the owner of it is."
"Long gone," Sam promised.
"And then, there's the fossilized dog poo just behind you. Don't step in it."
"Mercedes..."
"I love getting to see my mom," she said quietly. "And my sister." She shook her head and kicked off gently to swing. "I just hate being here."
Sam moved behind her and gave her a big push.
She sighed, as she flew through the air, leaning back into the motion of the swing, as if to savor the motion and the sun on her face.
"You went to school here," he said, staying behind her, continuing to push her.
"Yes, I did. I also used to run away here. And hide away here too, when it was necessary."
In Sam's mind, he'd stayed at the back of her, so that she wouldn't have to look at him when she talked, sensing that she needed that.
But now, he was glad that she couldn't see his face, because, although he was good at hiding his feelings, he couldn't seem to do it with her.
"I left here..." Mercedes said. "...I wanted to go somewhere new, be smart and independent. I wanted people to like me. I wanted a new life. I wanted to be happy."
Sam stopped her motion, and from behind her, pressed his cheek to the top of her head.
"You are all of those things," he said, "And more...much more. You're smart and sweet and caring."
He twisted the swing so that she faced him. And squatting before her, he took the steel chains in his hands, caging her in between his arms.
"I'm going to talk now," he said.
Mercedes opened her mouth, but he leaned in and kissed her, to shut her up.
"What you heard me say to my grandpa..." he started, moving back just enough to speak, "...I shouldn't have said."
"I shouldn't have stood there as long as I did," she said. "When I heard you two talking, I should've gone back inside."
"That's a lot of should haves. But you overheard me talking out my ass, Mercedes. You're not a job to me. Not even close."
She leveled him with those big, brown eyes.
"Then why did you say it? Twice?"
Sam blew out a breath and tried to put his thoughts into words.
"I guess I was just coming to grips, with what's going on between us and I wasn't ready to discuss it." He let out a low, pained laugh. "Hell, Mercedes, I'm not good at talking about this stuff...even when I am ready."
"And you're not," she said, her eyes on his. "Ready?"
It was a question, not a statement.
And a fair one.
"I didn't think so," he admitted. "And the thought of being yet another man, who's disappointed you or let you down..."
Mercedes pulled back a little more at that.
"I'm not your responsibility, Sam. I won't be your responsibility."
"I know that. But I care about you."
She nodded, and yet, her face was still closed off.
Sam knew she felt off balance. And their location wasn't helping much, but that wasn't the number-one problem.
The number-one problem was him.
Him and the stupid, idiotic words that he'd thrown out there, to get his grandpa off his back.
"You're not just someone who needed help," he said to her, leaning in, so that her knees touched his chest. "I don't think of you like that, Mercedes. At all."
She was looking at him, but through him, and worse, she was tensed for flight.
He was already losing her. He could feel it. He was losing her, before he'd even realized the miracle that he'd had.
Because, like her mother had said...she was a miracle.
His miracle.
She'd brought him back to life.
He wasn't sure how, or what he was going to do about it, but he knew that he had to figure his shit out fast, before it was too late.
"I don't need help," Mercedes said.
"I know. I'm the one who needs it," Sam replied.
This brought him a very small smile.
It would seem she agreed, that yes, he needed help.
"I love your determination," he said. "You're tough and resilient, Mercedes. And amazing."
And he wanted her.
More than he'd wanted anyone before.
That alone, was enough to terrify him, but he was willing to put the terror aside, to make this right between them.
"You've got to go," Mercedes said. "It's late. And your job's on the line. You're going to have to drive all night to make it for your review."
Sam didn't move, and she closed her eyes.
"Please don't look at me like that," she whispered.
"Like what?" he softly asked.
"Like you love me."
His heart stopped.
Just stopped.
"I think I do," he quietly said, and instantly knew his mistake.
It was one of those big, life-altering, bonehead moments, that he couldn't take back.
"You think you do," Mercedes repeated softly. She sucked in some air, then shook her head with a low laugh. "You think…No. No, Sam, I'm here to tell you, that you don't. Because, if you did love me, we would've discussed like rational adults, what would happen after you go back to San Francisco. Instead, we're here, with you about to toss your cookies, because you think it might be true, that you feel something for me. God, the horror."
"Mercedes..."
"Oh, no. I'm not done." She poked him in the chest. "The fact is, Sam, you don't do love. You don't, because that would mean feeling, and you don't like to do that either. I get it though. I really do. You think you let other people down, and now, you've got it all mixed up in your head somehow, and you think you're unworthy of love. And that's just bullshit."
Sam scrubbed a hand over his face.
"Mercedes..."
"You've closed yourself off to receiving love, which sucks, especially because, that means you can't give it either. I get that too. You're a detective, because you're good at it and because it allows you to stand back and observe. And the biggie...you get to stay distant. Which, by the way...you're freaking fantastic at."
Sam wished like hell he wasn't holding onto the chains of the swing, so he could touch her.
But if he let go, she'd spin.
And then she would walk.
He'd faced bullets and bad guys in his work, and yet, he was still a coward.
Mercedes Jones, floral designer and pottery artist, was the brave one. She was so brave, that she was going to walk right out of his life, because she knew she deserved better.
And indeed, she rose to her feet, bumped him back, and walked away.
Stay safe!