[A/N] Trigger warnings for this chapter: microaggressions, general family angst
II.
They're not fighting—not exactly. Things are just a little awkward.
There's a whole wedding to plan and that keeps them occupied, but it's hard to avoid the topic of Baird's parents when so many things revolve around the number of guests – venue size, meal options, table configurations. At the end of the day the absence or addition of two extra people isn't the biggest deal, but it's a constant reminder that they don't see eye to eye on how to approach the landmine that is Baird's family.
Baird is perfectly happy to keep things the way they are: maintain radio silence and only occasionally feel guilty about it. Sam, of course, is ever the optimist, and wants to at least inform them that there's going to be a wedding. He wonders why she's so invested in this. Sure, they're going to be her in-laws, technically, but Baird's made no secret of the fact that he hasn't contacted his parents since he enlisted to pay for his mechanical engineering degree. If he had his way, he'd pay someone to surgically extract all memories of them from his brain.
The worst thing is, Sam should understand where he's coming from. She's told him the story of her own enlistment, how her mother was adamant that Sam pursued anything other than military service, but Sam joined up a week after she turned eighteen anyway. She's done the strained parent relationship thing; he doesn't get why she's so determined to fix Baird's life.
One night Baird gets stuck pulling OT to help with scheduled maintenance on some weapons systems, and so he has to miss their monthly dinner with Sheraya Byrne. It's actually probably for the best in the end, because it's only when Baird is up to his elbows in wires, finally thinking about anything other than the wedding for the first time in weeks, that he has an epiphany. It's exactly because of Sam's history with her mother that she thinks she can repair Baird's relationship with his own family.
She and her mom didn't talk for almost a year after Sam enlisted. It wasn't until Sam finished her training and was getting ready for her first deployment that they reconciled. The possibility of Sam actually seeing combat and potentially getting injured – or worse – had been the catalyst for things getting resolved. Of course, Sam had actually told Sheraya that she was being deployed, whereas Baird hadn't told his parents jack shit about his military service. He'd been on plenty of combat missions where he could have been killed – on the worst of which they lost Dom – and he'd never heard a peep from his family.
Maybe they'd been hoping he'd be killed and save them all the trouble.
Baird rubs his eyes and decides to go grab a coffee from the mess hall. He's suddenly not in the right headspace to do this kind of work, and he doesn't think the brass would appreciate it if the targeting systems go haywire the next time they're used.
As luck would have it, his and Sam's work schedules seem to run opposite to each other for the next week. Hoffman's usually pretty good at keeping his unofficial team – Baird, Sam, Cole, Marcus and Anya – together, but there's been some sort of stomach flu tearing through the garrison and they're short on manpower. Baird's smart enough to know that he shouldn't try to start a conversation about anything major while he and Sam are both stressed and exhausted, so he has to wait until their schedules finally calm down enough that he doesn't need three cups of coffee in the morning to function.
They finally get a weekend together, with Baird having worked the night shift the night before and Sam getting the A Shift until noon. As soon as Baird gets home, he collapses into bed and passes out. He knows he's going to be fucked up for a while – it's been a minute since he's had to do night shifts, and switching back isn't as easy as it was when he was fresh out of basic. He only means to sleep a few hours, to get up around nine or ten and force himself to stay awake to the rest of the day, but he doesn't so much as roll over in his sleep until he hears the apartment door slam closed. Sam must be back.
Baird groans and sits up in bed, feeling groggy and disoriented from sleeping too long. He's got to talk to Sam about not letting the front door swing closed; they're going to get another angry note slipped under their door from one of their neighbours. Shuffling out of the bedroom, Baird expects to see Sam grabbing something from the kitchen, but instead he sees she's on the couch, her laptop open on the coffee table in front of her.
He stands behind the couch and looks over her shoulder, watching as she types into what he recognizes as her wedding spreadsheet, comparing quotes from all the catering companies she's called so far. The fact that she has this spreadsheet going—with multiple sheets and formulas—is unreasonably attractive to Baird. That probably says something unflattering about him. Whatever. He reaches out and places his hands on her shoulders, digging his thumbs into where he has no doubt knots will be based on her posture. Sam's typing pauses and she leans back into his touch.
"God, that feels good," she says, as he finds a particularly tense spot. "I think you missed your calling. You should have been a massage therapist. Your hands are bloody amazing."
Baird chuckles. "Is that a hint? You want me to discharge and turn in to your stay-at-home masseuse?"
"Tragically, I don't think I could pay you enough." Sam tips her head back to grin at him. "I didn't wake you, did I?"
"Yeah, but I overslept, so no big deal." Baird shrugs.
"How was the night shift?"
"Fine. Pretty boring, other than when Reid chewed me out for misfiling a maintenance report. But it's always fun to tune him out and watch his face turn red."
"And I'm sure you didn't talk back and piss him off more," Sam says, rolling her eyes.
Baird shrugs again. "Who's to say?"
"I'm amazed you haven't been dishonourably discharged for your mouth."
"Oh, I don't know, you seem to like my mouth just fine."
"Well, I hope you're not using your mouth with Reid the same way you use it with me."
Baird only just manages to stop a flood of frankly disturbing images involving himself and Major Reid by internally reciting the first few elements of the periodic table. He glares down at her, but Sam doesn't even blink. "Come on, you walked into that one."
"How's the cost analysis going?"
Sam grimaces. "Part of me just wants to hire a wedding planner and be done with it. Or just elope. Why is everything so bloody expensive just because it's for a wedding?"
He feels a pang of guilt deep in his chest as Sam laments the expense. He knows she's mostly griping for the sake of it, but it still cuts deeper than it should. If he was on better terms with his parents, they wouldn't have to spare their finances a second thought.
Sam rolls her shoulders a few times, snapping Baird out of his thoughts. "I have a couple emails to write, but I seem to recall you promised me lunch."
That was true. At least he'd had the presence of mind to order grocery delivery a few days ago instead of assuming he'd be halfway functional after his last night shift.
"As you wish," he says, ruffling her hair mostly just to be a brat. Sam swats his hand away and scowls at him as she smooths down her hair. Baird laughs his way to the kitchen.
He doesn't have anything fancy planned, but a homecooked meal will be a nice change of pace after a week of mostly eating takeout. It's a recipe he stole from Cole's mom: five-cheese mac and cheese, which is always a hit with Sam because sometimes Baird honestly thinks she loves cheese more than she loves him. He's also maybe secretly hoping that offering Sam one of her favourite comfort meals will make the conversation they're about to have easier.
He cooks the pasta and throws all the cheeses into the pot to combine. After dumping the already ridiculously cheesy noodles in a casserole dish, he tops it with even more cheddar, and shoves it in the oven to bake. As soon as the oven door closes, he feels Sam's arms snake around his waist as she hooks her chin over his shoulder.
"It's gonna be a few minutes," he says.
"I know. I just missed you, is all."
Baird feels his face heat up. "God, you're needy," he mutters, but he twists to brush his lips against her temple.
Just as he's about to turn around in her arms and find a more enjoyable way to pass the time while their lunch cooks, Sam sighs into his ear, "We really need to talk about your parents."
Baird makes an outraged noise and whips around to face her. "That's not fair! I was gonna bring that up."
"Gotta cut to the chase faster, then."
"I still get credit for wanting to initiate this."
"So stop patting yourself on the back for emotional growth and talk," Sam retorts, but she's smiling slightly, so she's not really annoyed.
Baird rolls his eyes. "I'm getting to it, Jesus. Okay, so, I've told you that I'm not on great terms with my parents, but maybe I haven't done the best job of explaining just how not great it is."
He's probably been too cavalier, downplaying it because it's easier to keep this piece of his past at arm's length.
"I mean, I know you joined the army to get your engineering degree," Sam says, "because your parents didn't approve. But you really haven't talked to them once since then?"
"Not since they wrote me out of the family Christmas update." He means it as a joke, but Sam looks at him like he's a kicked puppy. He scrambles to save face. "It's not a big deal. It happened ten years ago, I'm over it. Seriously. It's just that this would literally be the first time I've talked to them in a decade, and I guess I just don't see the point."
It's not like the communication blackout has been entirely his doing. He still gets the cheques on his birthday like clockwork, despite the fact that he puts them through the shredder almost immediately, so his parents clearly know where he lives. But they have never once sent anything other than money – no letters, no emails, no calls or texts. He assumes the cheques are just their way of keeping up appearances, or maintaining some kind of twisted superiority in their own minds, because if they cared – if they really cared – they would have fucking tried harder.
Sam has her thoughtful face on. "You don't see the point," she echoes.
A terrible thought suddenly occurs to him. "You don't think I'm embarrassed of you, right?"
She snorts. "Obviously not. I wouldn't be marrying you if I thought that."
"Okay. Good. Because I'm not—embarrassed of you."
"I know, Damon."
"So then why do you want to meet my parents so bad?"
Sam sighs and begins fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. "It's not that I particularly want to meet them. And I'm not saying we even have to invite them to the wedding. But it just feels... like a bad idea, to completely ignore this part of your life."
Now it's Baird's turn to huff. That's not an... unreasonable thing to be worried about. And if he's honest with himself, he's a little scared himself about his parents finding out he's married after the fact. Not that they could do much else to him – they've already cut him off financially, but he's not eager to find out what else they could come up with if they were feeling vindictive. He's been trying to protect Sam from his past and he really should have learned by now that she doesn't need protecting.
"I can... try. Although they might be pretending that I don't exist at this point."
Is it bad that Baird secretly hopes that's the case, and then this decision is out of his hands?
"Even if they ignore you, at least you made the effort."
Sam reaches out and squeezes his hand. Baird just grins back weakly.
In the end, he chickens out and sends an email.
He tries to justify his cowardice, reasoning that his parents could have changed their phone numbers over the last ten years and he doesn't want to leave that kind of a voicemail for some random stranger to hear. His father is still practicing so it doesn't take much digging on the city's legal department website to find an email address.
Baird sits with a blank email one night after Sam's gone to sleep, watching the cursor blink expectantly at him. He has no frigging idea how to word this. Dear Mother & Father, not sure if you've been spying on me, but I'm getting married. For whatever stupid reason, my fiancée wants to meet you. How about dinner next week? Suck my dick, affectionately yours, Damon.
Somehow that doesn't seem appropriate. Although it is a little cathartic to write it all out and then delete it.
In bed beside him, Sam makes a small, sleepy noise. Baird's eyes flick to her, waiting to see if she'll wake up, but she settles. Thank god she's not awake to see the dopey grin that spreads across his face as he looks down at her. Two years of sharing the same bed and he still feels like a lovesick teenager sometimes.
Come on, suck it up. You can write a goddamn email to your goddamn parents.
He takes a deep breath and bangs out a perfunctory message.
Dad,
I don't know if you've heard but I'm getting married. I'd like to introduce you to my fiancée, Sam. Let me know if you're available over the next few weeks.
Damon
He hits send before he can second-guess himself and shuts his laptop. With any luck, he won't hear anything back, and after a few days he'll just shrug to Sam and they'll move on with their lives.
But of course he isn't that lucky.
He wakes up the next morning to a reply from his father nestled between various newsletters in his inbox. Against his better judgement, he decides to open it before he has his first cup of coffee.
Damon,
Your mother and I would be delighted to host you and your betrothed this Saturday at 4:15 pm for cocktails and a light supper. Please accept the attached calendar invitation and advise us of any dietary restrictions.
With respect,
The Honourable Judge J.S. Baird
The first thing that Baird thinks is: he didn't even bother to change his frigging email signature.
It's so... nonchalant. Like this is a regular conversation between father and son, not the first words they've exchanged in ten years. He doesn't notice he's clenching his jaw until he catches Sam's concerned gaze across the table. Forcing himself to relax, he gives her a strained smile.
"We're going to my parents' on the weekend."
There's a small petty part of him that wants to ask Sam if she's happy now, but he forces that nasty impulse back down where it belongs, to the mean and bitter place where he keeps the worst of himself. He hates that the mere thought of his parents is enough to bring it out in him so easily, like he's regressing back to the emotionally closed off, damaged asshole he was five years ago.
"It's going to be okay, Damon."
Baird really wishes he could believe her.
Saturday comes before Baird has time to emotionally prepare—although his parents could have picked a Saturday a year from now and Baird still wouldn't be ready to face them again.
Despite his best efforts, he can't stop thinking about those last few days before he left. He'd been just eighteen, fresh off receiving all his final marks in school and riding the high of knowing he could go to whichever university he wanted with his grades. His parents hadn't exactly been subtle in their preferences—they'd laid brochures out for all the ivy league schools they approved of, along with lists of prerequisite courses for law school. Naively, he'd thought that maybe his parents would be appeased if he attended one of their approved schools but went into engineering instead of law.
What an idiot.
He tries his best not to remember that last night, after he'd finally voiced his intentions earlier that day to his mother. It hadn't been dramatic; no shouting or screaming, no broken furniture or antiques – just the cold, hard disappointment and realization of something he'd always known: his parents didn't care about him, not as a person. He'd only been created to safeguard the family legacy. And when he refused to play the part any longer – when he wanted to do something for himself for once – his parents didn't even hesitate. It was law school or he wasn't welcome in this family.
And now he's about to walk back into that house – no longer his family home, because he can't think of it like that if he wants to avoid punching something – and introduce Sam to his parents.
This is stupid. This is so, so, so stupid.
It's all he's been able to think since he woke up that morning. He's also been quiet, only speaking when necessary, but that's mostly to avoid snapping at Sam. Only once they're both starting to get ready to go out does Baird feel like he's compartmentalized enough to offer input on outfit choices without being unintentionally cruel.
"I'm assuming jeans are out of the question?" Sam asks from the closet.
Baird's sitting on the bed, doing up the buttons his dress shirt. He glances over his shoulder to see Sam in nothing but her underwear, hands on her hips as she surveys her options. There's a dull thud of arousal deep in his chest, but it's quickly dwarfed by anxious thoughts of his parents. Baird looks away.
"Business casual is bordering on too informal for them," he says, trying to sound amused but missing the mark.
Sam makes an annoyed sound behind him and he hears something drop to the ground. Probably an inappropriate pair of jeans. Baird almost laughs; the moratorium on jeans rules out probably ninety percent of Sam's wardrobe. He also somehow doubts that she'll want to wear one of her few dresses that she has for formal occasions to dinner with his parents.
"Okay, how about this..." Sam mutters. She seems to be talking to herself, though, so Baird doesn't turn around.
In the end, she settles on a lacy bodysuit worn under a pair of high-waisted, flared dress pants and a matching blazer. It's dead sexy, but the only thing that Baird can think as he watches Sam fix her hair is how much his mother is going to hate that outfit. And he hates it because he shouldn't care what his mother is going to think. If anything, he should be delighting in the possibility of pissing her off. But there's that little boy inside of him who was trained for eighteen years to detect the barest hint of his parents' displeasure and to immediately correct whatever behaviour had triggered it.
He runs his hands through his hair and shakes his head, trying to snap out of this funk. The absolute best-case scenario for tonight is his parents disapproving but deciding to continue to stay out of his life; he doesn't know why he's worried about trying to make this dinner a success – whatever that would even look like at this point.
Eventually, they can't put it off any longer. Baird orders an Uber.
Standing on the front steps of his parents' house is surreal.
He hasn't seen it in a decade – hasn't even been within fifteen miles of the neighbourhood in the same amount of time. Nothing much has changed: the area is still full of mansions with immaculate lawns that take an army of landscapers to maintain but you'd never see them, and the driveways are lined with luxury sportscars. Baird checks his cufflinks for probably the tenth time. His heart feels like it's going to beat out of his chest.
Suddenly Sam is in front of him, smoothing down his jacket lapels. "You ready?"
There's a sudden, wild urge to just turn around and go home. He takes a deep breath. "No. Let's go."
Before he can second-guess himself more, he forces his legs to carry him up the white stone steps to the front door and presses the doorbell. Time seems to stand still. He remembers walking out this door ten years ago with a duffle bag and an army recruitment pamphlet. What the hell has possessed him to come back?
Footfalls make their way to the door from the other side. He hears the lock turn, watches the doorhandle twist, and then –
He's face to face with his parents for the first time in a decade.
They don't look all that different, and that hits him in the chest in a way he hadn't anticipated. Jocelin had gone grey early, but Baird thinks he detects a few silver strands amongst his mother's blonde waves (he'd forgotten that his own hair was almost the exact shade as Elinor's). Their faces are perhaps only slightly more wrinkled; how much of that is aging well or having had work done, it's impossible to say. Baird wonders how different he looks to them. He was always a bit of a gangly kid, didn't fill out properly until he joined the army.
I'm taller than them now, he thinks distantly.
"Mother," he says, his voice stilted. "Father."
"Damon." Jocelin nods once, like they're business partners meeting for the first time.
"Darling!" Elinor breaks into her entertaining-guests-smile and moves to kiss his cheeks. She doesn't actually make contact though, just kisses the air on either side of his face. He recognizes this from the old dinner parties he used to be forced to attend – the act she puts on of a gracious host when she doesn't hold a very positive view of her guests. Elinor turns her attention on Sam. "And you must be...?"
"Samantha Byrne," Sam answers, extending her hand. "But please, call me Sam."
Baird watches his mother's expression change as she takes Sam in properly. It's subtle – the corner of her mouth pinches slightly and her eyes go cold – but Baird doubts that Sam will be able to pick up on it. He only notices because he spent his entire childhood trying to avoid causing Elinor to make that face. What he isn't prepared for is the sickly, hot feeling creeping up the base of his spine. To his horror, he realizes that it's embarrassment.
Fuck. He's not ashamed of Sam, he's not – but apparently he isn't immune to the hold his mother has over him, even after a decade away.
Elinor takes Sam's offered hand, but instead of shaking it, she twists her grip to get a better look at the ring. "What a... unique engagement ring," Elinor remarks. Before Sam can answer, Elinor turns to Baird. "You know, darling, if you needed money for something better, you only had to ask."
Baird's face burns red. This ring is what Sam wanted, so why does he feel embarrassed so easily? He hates that his mother can turn him back into the twelve-year-old boy who was still stupidly seeking his parents' approval with only the tone of her voice.
"Oh, but this is perfect," Sam says sweetly. The venom in her voice is blatantly obvious to Baird, but Elinor is either oblivious or elects to ignore it.
"Come, let's go to the sitting room," Jocelin says.
Without waiting for a response, he turns on his heel and retreats into the house. Elinor motions for Baird and Sam to go ahead of her, and she closes the door behind them. The sound of the lock sliding into place makes Baird's palms start to sweat. Christ, he needs a drink.
The walk down the front hall to the sitting room is much the same. Baird can't help glancing at the walls, looking to see if they have any family photos hanging up still. He tells himself it's only because he was forced into a ridiculous suit to pose for them every year and it would be a shame for all that discomfort to go to waste. Not that it matters – there aren't any photographs on display, family or otherwise. Instead, they seem to have been replaced with various framed accomplishments: his father's law degree, his mother's recognition as an outstanding donor to various charities, articles cut out of various society magazines. His mind races as he tries to figure out if his parents are deliberately trying to avoid any memories of him or if they've just reordered their priorities.
Jocelin opens the doors to the sitting room and immediately goes to sit down in his favourite chair. Everything is laid out the same as Baird remembers. He and Sam hover awkwardly by the door; Sam looks to him for a cue, but Baird doesn't know where he should sit. In his usual spot? It's still there, the end of one of the couches next to a case of rare books. Baird glances at his mother, who motions to a different couch.
"Sit down, I'll get us some drinks," Elinor says.
She could have offered to strip naked and dance the flamenco and Baird would have been less surprised. He's a little shocked that his parents hadn't hired serving staff for tonight; he'd never seen them lift a finger to prepare anything before.
"What would you like to drink, darling?" Elinor asks from the bar cart.
It takes Baird a second to realize she's talking to him. "Uh, an old fashioned, please."
"And you, Samantha?"
"Just a rum and coke is good for me."
Baird watches his mother fix their drinks with a strange sort of fascination. He's never seen her do something so domestic, and wonders what the angle is. Although maybe he's being unkind – he left home before he could legally drink, and he was rarely allowed into the sitting room after dinner. Maybe Elinor has always been the family's bartender and he was never informed.
"How did you two meet?" Elinor asks after she's handed them their drinks. She takes a seat across the coffee table from them, next to Jocelin.
"At work," Baird says quickly. He watches his parents intently for any reaction to the mention of his career – decidedly not law – but they don't so much as blink.
"We're in the same unit together," Sam elaborates, giving him a sidelong look. "We knew each other for about a year before..."
Before we fell into bed at our friends' wedding.
Baird takes a gulp of his whiskey to stop himself from laughing hysterically. They should have rehearsed their story beforehand. Although then he wonders – why? Why is he so nervous to have what should be a normal, casual conversation with his parents? Of course they'd be curious to know how their son met his betrothed.
"...before we decided we wanted to be more than friends," Baird finishes.
"Quaint," Jocelin says.
Elinor smiles at them, a little forced. "Tell us, Samantha, what do your parents do?"
Baird does his best not to wince. He knows this question – probing, to see if there's anything objectionable in her family history.
"My mum worked as a translator for the army before she retired, and my dad was a sergeant."
"He was only a sergeant when he retired?" Jocelin remarks, confusion mixed with a tinge of disapproval in his voice.
Baird cringes again, this time on Sam's behalf. He opens his mouth to correct his father, but Sam beats him to it.
"My dad actually passed away before I was born," she says.
"On active duty?" Jocelin presses. There's actually some curiosity in his voice, instead of just the monotonous feigned interest.
Sam nods. "An op went bad, but he made sure the rest of his squad got out."
Baird dares to glance at his mother to try and gauge her opinion. Behind her polite smile, he can almost see her doing mental calculations, weighing the pros of having a war hero for a father against the cons of being raised by a single mother. He's not sure where exactly she lands, but he can make an educated guess.
"And you joined the army instead of going to university, like Damon?" Elinor asks. Her tone is light and conversational, but the implication makes Baird's chest constrict. "Or was university not an option for you?"
There's a beat where Sam doesn't seem to know how to respond, where she can't tell if she's been insulted or not. Baird knows she has; he's trying to figure out whether or not he should acknowledge it or feign ignorance in hopes of avoiding a blow-up.
"I, uh, always knew I wanted to serve," Sam says, recovering. "Like my dad."
Jocelin nods sagely, as if he has any fucking idea. "Very admirable."
They sit in awkward silence for a few moments, broken only be the sound of ice cubes clattering against their glasses as they drink. Baird's social etiquette training is extremely rusty, but it does seem like his parents are trying. Maybe he can actually relax –
Of course, it's then that his mother turns a razor-sharp smile on him. "And Damon, how is the pursuit of your little hobby going? We haven't had a word about it."
His stomach curdles. Little hobby? Like he'd taken up knitting? "Of course you haven't heard about it, you made it abundantly clear that –"
"Don't take that tone with your mother," Jocelin cuts in. "We raised you better than that."
Evidently not, Baird wants to spit, but he reins himself in. "Sorry. I was under the impression that my choice of career wasn't something you were interested in."
"It's just such a shame, darling," Elinor says. "You had such high marks in school. You could have attended any university you wanted, and you chose to enter such a menial industry."
Did he hit his head at some point on the way here? Is his mother actually trying to imply that he chose to join the army instead of attend a prestigious university? "I seem to recall that you and Father said –"
Elinor waves her hand dismissively. "Oh, come now, let's not re-hash old disagreements. I assume you wanted something more from this evening other than to introduce your affianced?"
"I don't know what you –"
"Of course we'll be willing to help out with the expense of the wedding," Elinor continues breezily, "but we'll need to talk about certain expectations."
The blood drains from Baird's face. They think he's here to ask them to pay for the wedding? He hadn't even considered that option might be available to him. He glances at Sam, and is surprised to see that she looks almost seasick.
Baird tries to clear up this misunderstanding. "I wasn't actually –"
"Have you set a date yet?" Elinor interrupts. "You're not on a... schedule, are you?"
Heat floods Baird's face. His parents think they're rushing into a wedding to avoid, what, a child out of wedlock? He doesn't know whether he wants to laugh or scream. "No, Mother, we're not expecting –"
"Son, come help us with the refills in the bar," Jocelin says suddenly, getting to his feet.
Baird blinks stupidly for a second. "Um, okay."
He stands up and follows his parents to the door opposite the one they entered through. He knows where the bar is in the house, wouldn't have been surprised to have been asked to go and pour the drinks himself, but he's confused why his parents are asking him to help them – especially when the bar cart still looks perfectly stocked. Over his shoulder, he catches Sam's eye. She shoots him a questioning look, but he only shrugs in response. They clearly want to talk to him alone. Although what they don't want to say in front of Sam when they've already insulted her and implied she was knocked up, Baird can't imagine.
Joy.
It's a silent walk down the hall to what Baird used to call the Alcohol Den as a child. Baird was rarely allowed in here, mostly because his parents always hired servers for all of the event they hosted and it would have been unseemly for the family to mix with the help. When they enter, he finds that nothing much has changed in ten years. It's a strange feeling of déjà vu; he feels like he's in a memory with the wrong body.
Jocelin produces a key from his pocket—because of course the liquor cabinet is locked—and unlocks the doors that contain the brandy. His father always liked brandy, Baird remembers. Sometimes whenever Baird smells it, he sees a flash of his father leaning down to talk to him, the stale, sweet hint of it on his breath. Brandy seems a bit strong for before dinner in Baird's opinion, but whatever. He's not exactly going to argue this one, is he?
Baird goes to where he recalls the crystal snifters being kept and finds that they haven't moved. He grabs four glasses and places them on the counter, careful not to make too much noise when the feet touch marble. Jocelin selects a bottle from his cabinet and begins pouring it slowly. He's always been incredibly careful with his alcohol, his father. Baird almost expects the whole affair to take place in silence, thinks he might have been wrong about his parents wanting him alone, but then Jocelin speaks.
"You know, son, if you're looking for something a little more exotic, there are services for that type of thing."
Baird freezes. "Excuse me?" He must not have heard that right.
Jocelin continues pouring the brandy. "Think about it. You don't need to wed someone like her to enjoy yourself."
"Someone like her?" Baird echoes.
"There are plenty of suitable young ladies at our country club," Elinor chimes in, as if Baird hadn't spoken. "All from excellent families. Think of how wonderful the announcement would look in the society paper."
For a few moments Baird doesn't even remember how to breathe. This feels like some sort of vivid dream; he can't believe his parents are actually making this suggestion. Their disapproval he expected, but this? As if they think Sam's just some escort that he's taken a shine to?
"You're joking," he says flatly.
"Just take some time to consider it, son," Jocelin says. "No need to make any rash decisions, since you're not... obligated to her."
"It's not a rash decision," Baird snaps. "We've been together for two years."
His parents share a disappointed glance. "Think of the optics, Damon," Elinor says, and of course that's what they're worried about. "Someone from her... background, people will talk. They'll assume she's just after the lifestyle you can provide her."
Blood rushes in Baird's ears as he sees red. "Trust me, you don't have to worry about that." He turns his back on them and starts storming back to the sitting room. "I'm not taking one goddamn cent of your money!"
If his parents call after him, he doesn't hear it. He powerwalks down the hallway and stomps through the closed doors to the parlour. Sam looks up from her phone when he bangs open the doors and then immediately slams them shut behind him.
"What –?" she starts.
"We're leaving," Baird growls, heading for the foyer. "Now."
"Don't have to tell me twice," Sam says as she grabs her bag.
When they're standing on the curb in front of his parents' estate, Baird takes a few deep breaths to try and calm down. He's absolutely furious, madder than he's ever been at his parents, even angrier than when they kicked him out. He shouldn't be surprised, he really shouldn't, but he can't believe they actually said those things about the woman he loves.
"I assume you didn't order an Uber?" Sam asks lightly.
He looks at her, and sees she has her phone out with the app already open. "Shit, no. Let's not wait here, though. There's a coffee shop a couple blocks away."
"Lead the way." Sam links her arm through his and matches his pace as they set off. "So, what happened in there?"
"Christ, where to even begin?" He has a sudden urge to glance back and see if his parents are watching them leave, but he tamps that down quickly. He doesn't want to give them the satisfaction if they are looking out the front window. "They suggested that I keep you as my side piece and marry someone they prefer."
"Someone white, you mean." It's not a question. She's trying to sound unbothered but Baird can hear the sadness lurking underneath and he hates that. She shouldn't want his parents' approval. Although, he suspects the hurt she's feeling isn't entirely to do with the Lytton-Bairds.
"They didn't say that," he says, trying to soften the blow. Sam raises an unimpressed eyebrow at him. "...but that would probably be one of their qualifications for an ideal wife."
"I suppose it wouldn't matter that my dad was Irish."
No. No, it really wouldn't. His parents would never come right out and say it, but Baird knows his family tree well enough to know that it's white as the driven snow. What probably pisses his parents off more than him marrying below his rank (like he's nobility in frigging Victorian England) is that he's going to be "throwing away" two ancestral lines of so-called perfect breeding stock. Of course, neither he or Sam even want kids, which might actually be a relief to his parents because that means the Baird and Lytton lineages will just end with him, instead of being "polluted".
There's no way in hell he's going to say that to Sam, though.
It might be a bad idea but he decides to try and deflect with humour. "Can you imagine the woman they'd pick out for me? I'd shoot myself by the end of the day." His voice doesn't come out quite right, still a little tight with the aftershocks of anger.
Sam snorts, though, and plays along. "Miss Georgianna Mainwaring, blonde and blue-eyed, excellent at the fortepiano."
"Sounds about right." Baird laughs, then sighs. "They're going to be your in-laws. You might want to rethink saying yes."
Sam stops abruptly, keeping a tight grip on his arm that makes him stumble. "I'm not marrying your parents; I'm marrying you."
"You know what I mean."
"People don't get married because of their families. Most of the time, it's probably in spite of their families." She grabs him by the front of his shirt and pulls him in for a quick, firm kiss. "Anyway, my mum loves you. So at least there's that."
Baird flushes, unsure of how to respond. Sam doesn't seem to be waiting for an answer, though; she takes his hand and starts walking again.
When they make it to the coffee shop a few minutes later, Sam goes inside to order some drinks while Baird leans against the brick façade and waits. He's still too pissed off to go in with Sam; it feels like he might crawl out of his own skin if he has to be around people in an enclosed space. It's not even five minutes before she's out with their drinks.
"Uber's on its way," she says, handing him a black coffee. "A couple minutes."
He smiles weakly at her and sips on his drink, relishing the feeling of warmth that trickles down his throat. It's almost enough to take the edge off. Getting back home will do the rest.
"God, I never even asked," Sam says suddenly, nearly making Baird jump. "Are you okay?"
"Me?" he repeats stupidly.
"Yes, you."
"I wasn't the one they basically implied was a pregnant gold-digger."
"No, but I could practically see the emotional abuse in the air."
Something inside Baird recoils at the insinuation. It's not– they didn't– they might have made him feel like shit but that doesn't mean it was ever–
"I'm fine," he says, probably too quickly to sound sincere.
Sam gives him a searching look. Before she can say anything, a car pulls up next to them and Baird hears Sam's phone vibrate.
"That must be our ride," he says.
Sam glares at him as if he somehow summoned the rideshare at that exact moment. Baird simply shrugs, and wanders over to the car.
The ride home is quiet – at least for Baird. Sam makes small talk with the driver because of course she does. She's lovely and extroverted and if his parents didn't have their heads shoved so far up their own asses they'd be able to see what an amazing person she is. And fuck if that doesn't make his blood boil all over again. And it also makes him a little scared. If he hadn't had a passion for mechanics, hadn't broken with his family because of it, would he have even looked twice at Sam? He doesn't like to think about that.
When they get home, Baird heads straight for the bedroom to get changed. He'd really like to pretend the last few hours were just a really intense bad dream, and getting out of the nice clothes he was wearing seems a great way to start. As he's pulling on a sweatshirt, Sam pokes her head into the bedroom.
"I was thinking we could order in, since dinner fell through."
"Sounds good. What are you feeling?"
"Curry from the usual place?"
"Good with me. I'll get what I always get."
"I'll call it in."
She gives him a smile and leaves. Baird waits a few minutes until he hears the end of the phone call before he follows her out of the bedroom. Sam's still dressed up and Baird has a brief urge to pull her back into the bedroom and unwrap her like a present, but he can see the strain around her eyes and even he knows that trying to use sex as a distraction is a terrible idea. Instead, he goes to the couch and sits down, and waits for Sam to join him.
She does a few minutes later, having changed herself into a pair of leggings and a t-shirt. She drops down beside him on the couch and wastes no time in invading his personal space, pressing into his side and resting her head against his shoulder. Baird stops scrolling through his newsfeed on his phone and glances down at her.
"So that could have gone better, huh?" he says lightly.
Sam groans. "Did you think it was going to be that bad?"
"I figured they'd be their usual charming selves, but that was a new low even for them."
Sam twists so she's half on top of him and brings one hand up to cup his jaw. "My mum and I had our fair share of fights when I was younger, but I can't imagine growing up in a place like that."
Baird frowns; he doesn't want her pity. Sure, his parents are cold and heartless and only ever treated him as an investment, but it could have been much worse. He opens his mouth to tell her as much, but then her thumb begins to stroke his cheekbone gently and he decides he's done talking about his parents.
He reaches around to grab her ass with both hands and pulls her closer. Sam goes with it, repositioning herself and easing him onto his back. Her hand moves from his face to the back of his neck and she scratches lightly with her nails as she covers his mouth with hers.
It's easy and soft, a smooth drag of her lips over the seam of his. Baird feels himself relaxing and sinking further into the couch with each kiss. The tight ball of anxiety and anger under his ribs loosens, and then disappears completely when Sam shifts her position and ends up settled between his open legs, her body a warm and comforting weight on top of him. It grounds him in a way that surprises him, but shouldn't really. Being back in his parents' house had him feeling like the obedient son again, withering on the inside but outwardly presentable, and it's unexpectedly hard to shake off that persona. But Sam – wonderful, fierce, takes-no-shit Sam – can so easily pull him back to himself. It might be sappy, but in her arms, he remembers who he is, who he wants to be for her.
He doesn't know how long they stay like that, tangled together and trading lazy kisses, but eventually there's a knock at the door that makes Baird flinch. He'd forgotten they ordered delivery – he'd forgotten the world outside of the couch existed. Sam kisses him one more time, firm, lingering and deep enough that Baird actually whines when she pulls away. She pats his cheek lightly and gets up to pay for their food.
Baird pushes himself up into a sitting position and stretches. It's dark enough now that he needs to lean over and turn on the floor lamp next to the couch so he doesn't end up stabbing himself with a fork or something. Sam returns a few seconds later with the takeout and it's then that Baird realizes he's starving. As Sam starts pulling containers out of the bag, he notices she's ordered extra garlic naan – and he's suddenly filled with an overwhelming surge of affection for this woman. His fiancée.
Sam catches him looking and gives him a questioning smile. "What?"
He points to the naan.
"Oh, that." Sam tucks some stray strands of hair behind her ear. Is she embarrassed? "It's been a shitty fucking day, I figured we could splurge $2.95 for an extra order."
Baird gives her a dopey grin and reaches for a piece. He's just about to dig in when he sees Sam heave a sigh in his peripheral vision and turn to him.
"I'm sorry. For tonight."
The food smells amazing and his mouth is watering, but Baird manfully resists the urge to take a bite. "What are you sorry for?"
"You didn't want to do it, but I pushed. I didn't think they would be so— I just get the feeling that I've sort of ruined how you've been coping with things."
God, he really wishes she could have waited until after dinner to have this conversation. "Sam. Babe. Yeah, it was kind of a total disaster, but I'm actually kind of glad."
She shoots him a flat look.
"No, seriously! I mean, I'm not glad glad it was a disaster, but it sort of like solidifies things for me? Like, there was a part of me that was wondering if I didn't remember things right, if it was really that bad. Or if I could have made amends by now. But now I know for sure." Seeing the way they'd treated Sam, the things they'd said about her... "They can fuck off and die for all I care, and I'm not going to feel guilty about it anymore."
That surprises a laugh out of Sam. She holds his gaze, assessing, clearly trying to figure out if he's bullshitting to make her feel better or actually being honest. Baird's pretty sure he's being honest, amazingly. He takes a big bite of the naan.
He's gotten closure. He's absolutely over it.
Until he sees the magazine in his doctor's office a few weeks later.
Baird's sitting in the waiting room, cursing that he forgot to charge his phone before he got here, because his doctor is running half an hour late – as usual – and Baird's running out of battery life to stave off the boredom. In a moment of pure desperation, he reaches for one of the rag magazines stacked haphazardly on the small table in front of him. He means to just flip it open to a random article and internally jeer at the insipid celebrity gossip that millions of people apparently find absolutely fucking fascinating when one of the insert photographs on the cover catches his eye.
Is that... Victoire?
He squints, but the picture is kind of grainy and taken from far away, and the woman in it is wearing a large sun hat and sunglasses. She's got the trademark Lytton blonde hair though, and something about her did grab Baird's attention. Victoire is his cousin, the daughter of one of his mother's brothers, although Baird hadn't seen Victoire in years, even before he was disinherited. He never got the full story, but something had happened between Elinor and her brother, and that branch of the Lytton family had been persona non grata since Baird was around thirteen years old. He has vague memories of being forced to sit next to Victoire at big family events. She was stuck-up and prickly, but that was all of Baird's cousins. Their generation had all been raised to believe they were better than everyone else.
Baird flips the magazine open to the table of contents and scans for her name. Sure enough, he sees: Turn to page 37 for details about Victoire Lytton's brunch with aunt Elinor Lytton-Baird.
That gives him pause. Why on earth would his mother be seen in public with Victoire after all these years?
"Damon Baird? We have a room ready for you now."
Baird jumps in his seat. For a split second, he hesitates as to whether to just leave the magazine alone and say fuck it, or bring it to read later and satisfy his curiosity. The receptionist stares at him, impatience filtering through to her expression.
He takes the magazine with him.
Sam's out for the evening – dinner with Anya – and so Baird has the apartment to himself. He grabs a beer from the fridge and kicks his feet up on the coffee table, reading over the article on his mother and cousin despite his better judgement.
VICTOIRE LYTTON was sighted this weekend at her favourite farm-to-table diner with a very unexpected guest: her estranged aunt, trust fund heiress ELINOR LYTTON-BAIRD. A source close to Victoire says Auntie Elinor is looking for Victoire's help in organizing the fabulous annual charity gala ball for the Women's Legal Forum...
He knows what this means: he's officially been replaced. It might not be legally binding yet, but Elinor bringing on dear cousin Victoire for the gala indicates that his mother is grooming her to take over that role one day. The Women's Legal Forum was founded by Elinor's grandmother and has been the pride and joy of the Lytton family since then. Baird was expected to eventually take the reins one day, to pass it on to his own children. His mother would never come right out and say it directly – that would be beneath her, of course – but this is signalling to all her society friends that Victoire is now the heir apparent of the Lytton-Baird dynasty.
It hurts.
Baird is furious with himself for feeling anything about this news. It's been ten years. He knew what he was doing when he left and joined the army. He was never going to inherit the family fortune, never going to have to run those god-awful charity events that are just tax breaks in disguise for the wealthy, never going to be forced to marry and raise children he didn't want.
But it still fucking hurts.
He wonders how long this arrangement with Victoire has been in the works. Did it pre-date him reaching out to his parents? Were they waiting to see if their wayward son would eventually come crawling back and ask for their forgiveness, and only switched to his cousin after that disastrous dinner? Or were they laughing on the inside the whole time, knowing that whatever Baird might have tried to do to earn their approval, Victoire was the one in the wills now. Has there actually been a familial reconciliation between Elinor and her brother's relatives – Baird thinks he remembers reading a few years ago that said uncle had died – or was his mother signalling to him that hated, ostracized cousin Victoire was a preferable heir to her own son?
Fuck.
He downs the rest of his beer and then immediately grabs another. Then he boots up a video game because he needs to fucking kill something.
Two beers turns into four turns into he doesn't know how many, but it's enough that his hand-eye coordination goes to shit and satisfaction he gets from mowing down aliens with a machine gun is soon outweighed by the frustration of getting killed every other second and being forced to watch the same goddamn unskippable cutscene over and over again. Eventually he gives up and turns the game off before he puts a controller through the TV.
The door to the apartment opens suddenly, flooding the darkened living room with light from the hallway. Baird cranes his neck to watch Sam come inside, then groans as she flips on the lights and blinds him.
"Why are you sitting in the dark?" she asks, shrugging off her coat.
"I just finished a game," he says, and gets to his feet to greet her.
It's only when he stands up that he realizes he's definitely drunker than he thought.
Oops.
All the alcohol seems to hit his brain at once and he sways. Suddenly Sam is right there, her hands on his shoulders to steady him, and even though the room is spinning and it's kind of hard to focus, he can see the concerned expression on her face. He gets it, in a distant sort of way. If he came home and found Sam getting drunk by herself in the dark, he'd probably be a little worried too. But he's fine.
"'M fine," he says, and then frowns. His mouth isn't quite co-operating.
"You won't be in the morning," Sam says. "Jesus, how much did you drink? What brought this on?"
Baird gestures to the open magazine on the coffee table. Sam follows his gaze and then looks back at him.
"I don't get it."
"I've officially been replaced," he says. "It's – it's whatever."
It was inevitable. He doesn't know why he was so thrown by the news. He just wonders what it is about him that made it so easy for his parents to toss him aside.
Sam's hands suddenly press against either side of his face as she stares intently. She looks angry, but he gets the feeling it's not directed at him. "I really wish you were sober right now but I need you to hear this. That has nothing to do with you. It's not because of who you are, it's because your parents are fucking mongrels."
Christ, did he say that out loud?
Sam smiles softly at him. "It's kind of early, but I think you need to turn in. You're going to be so miserable tomorrow."
He means to protest but Sam grabs his hand and tugs him forward, and he's unsteady enough on his feet that he has to go with it if he doesn't want to end up face first on the floor. Sam leads him into the bedroom and pushes him down on the bed. Before Baird has a chance to make a lewd comment, he's hit in the face with a wadded-up ball of clothes – a shirt and a pair of flannel pyjama bottoms.
"Get changed," she orders. "And then you're going to drink an entire glass of water before you lie down."
Sam returns with said glass of water by the time Baird's fumbling with the drawstring on his bottoms. She shoves the glass into his hands and doesn't break eye contact until he downs the whole thing.
"Happy now?" he says, somewhat petulantly.
"Get under the covers and I will be."
Baird rolls his eyes forcefully, and then immediately regrets it. The room spins and he feels a bit nauseous. He makes a show of angrily getting into bed and then looks up at Sam.
She's smiling at him, fond but a little sad. "We're going to talk about this tomorrow."
"Awesome. Can't wait."
He rolls over and pulls the covers up, trying to ignore the strange mixture of embarrassment and melancholy swirling in his gut. Sam shuts the lights off and leaves him to it, and it isn't long before he's asleep.
Baird wakes up the next morning to a mouth that tastes like ass, his brain feeling like it's going to explode out of his skull, and a churning in his stomach that forces him out of bed and stumbling to the bathroom.
Christ. Why does anyone get drunk ever? The hangovers aren't worth it.
He finally manages to drag himself out of the bedroom after shivering in front of the toilet for ten minutes, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a cape.
"I'm dying," he announces.
Sam glances up from where she's sitting at the kitchen island. She takes one look at him and, instead of her face crumpling in pity as Baird had expected, she starts to laugh.
"I'm dying and you're laughing at me?" Baird splutters, then winces. His raised voice feels like someone is stabbing a needle into the top of his head.
"I told you that you were going to be miserable," Sam chuckles. "Did you see the Advil I left on the bedside table?"
That takes the bluster out of Baird's sails. "Oh. No. I had to run to the toilet."
"I'm not surprised," Sam says. "I heard you chundering, and made coffee."
"Christ, I love you," Barid gasps, and makes a beeline for the mug she indicates on the counter.
After he's taken a few big gulps – it's hot enough that it almost burns his throat, but Baird doesn't care about that right now – Sam slides what he recognizes as his phone towards him across the countertop.
"Cole's taking us out for breakfast."
Baird glances down at his phone and sees a series of missed text notifications from Cole, the most recent of which appears to be his friend laughing mercilessly at his predicament.
"Does it matter that I'd rather crawl back into bed and sleep for the next week?" Baird asks.
Sam shakes her head. "Nope. Come on and throw on sweatpants at least. We'll go get something disgustingly greasy and soak up all that alcohol in your stomach."
Baird shuffles back to the bedroom, cursing whatever force in the universe brought Augustus Cole into his life.
He manages not to throw up again, which is probably a good sign. Just as he's finished brushing his teeth and using half the bottle of mouthwash, he hears his phone buzz.
From: 'Cole', Received 9:46 AM
honk honk baby
At least Baird can appreciate Cole not laying on the horn to announce his arrival. He and Sam make their way down to the front of their building and find Cole waiting for them in one of his less ostentatious cars.
"If you ask me how I'm doing," Baird says as he gets into the back seat, "I will murder you."
Cole just laughs.
When they arrive at the diner, Baird's surprised and annoyed to see Marcus and Anya sitting in a booth already. He glares at Cole, who just shrugs in response. "We all have the day off. Thought it would be nice to get the gang together."
Baird is not mentally prepared to act like he doesn't have a hangover in front of Marcus. He probably still smells like stale alcohol too, since he hadn't had time for a shower before Cole showed up. Although he supposes they've both seen each other covered in blood and grime and at their worst; Baird with a hangover isn't the worst Marcus has ever seen him look.
He slides into the booth opposite Marcus and Anya, sandwiched in-between Sam and Cole. Might be a bad idea as he's not entirely certain he won't have to quickly excuse himself and run to the bathroom. Marcus raises an eyebrow at him, but otherwise doesn't mention Baird's appearance. Baird feels himself wilt with humiliation a bit as he wonders if everyone knows that he'd gotten drunk last night after reading a gossip magazine about his family.
"Have you guys decided what you're doing for the honeymoon?" Anya asks.
Baird and Sam glance at each other. "Not yet," Sam answers. "We've been a little preoccupied with the details."
Anya, Marcus and Cole seem to all make eye contact, and Baird is immediately suspicious. "I thought we were having an impromptu hangout?" he accuses Cole.
"Caught me," Cole says, holding his hands up. "I lied."
"We know the wedding's not for a bit," Anya says, "but we wanted to give you an early wedding present."
Marcus produces an envelope from his jacket and holds it out. Baird slowly reaches out to take it, eyeing it suspiciously. "What is this?"
"You could open it up and see for yourself," Marcus deadpans.
Baird does, and pulls out what looks like two plane tickets.
"Oh my god," Sam says.
"You can't be serious," Baird says. "We can't –"
"'Course you can," Cole says. "You guys are our family and we love you, so let us do this for you."
The Baird of three years ago would have allowed his pride and jealousy to get the better of him, to wallow in the fact that he couldn't afford on his own the vacation package his friends were gifting him. But the Baird of now gets stuck on one word, and that word makes all the difference: family.
That's something that Elinor and Jocelin have never been to him. Looking around the table, at the people who've seen him at his worst and decided to love him anyway, Baird decides that it doesn't matter whatever the relationship is between him and his parents. These people are the ones that really matter, the ones who took in an angry, broken man and turned him into someone who could feel.
His family.
[A/N] My biggest personal gripe about Kilo Squad: The Survivor's Log was that they had Baird, if not forgive his parents, come to sort of an understanding with them by the end of the book. Which was set like, what, six weeks after E-Day? But in Gears 3 there's definitely dialogue from Baird that implies he's still pretty bitter at his mother. So this is my way of rectifying his reverse character development.