A/N: My first Gone fanfic! I've been obsessed with this series since it first came out. Having to wait for each book to come out was a nightmare. By the time I got Light I was so excited that I was actually vibrating. Anyway, first time writing a fic for this fandom, but definitely not my first fic. I hope you guys like it.
Sam was in Astrid's house. Of course, it wasn't really her house since Drake had burned hers down a few months ago. And he lay awake in bed, thinking of her, as he always did. How could he not? She was his girlfriend. But all they'd done so far was make out. And they made out a lot. But he wanted more than that. And maybe she did too. But she had to help run Perdido Beach, and look after Little Pete. Sam helped when he could with her brother, and Mother Mary did too of course. Mary was such a godsend. And she worked harder than almost anybody.
Sam didn't work hard, he though. Or maybe that was just him berating himself. He really wanted to, even with all the late-night patrols, but the council wouldn't let him act. And then there was the little problem of Drake. He was dead. He'd seen his brother, Caine, kill him. How could someone survive getting tossed down a mineshaft with uranium? And the mineshaft had then collapsed, making sure he was really dead. That hadn't been the true purpose of collapsing the mineshaft. They'd done it to lock away that Thing in there. The gaiaphage.
It lurked in Sam's mind, dark and oily, like slimy fingers trying to get a hold on his brain. It slithered through the first layer of the membranes, but couldn't get far. It was pushed back by the shards of glass that were the pulsing, bleeding memories of Sam getting whipped by Drake. Even now, lying in bed, pangs of hunger shooting through him, staring at the ceiling, exhausted, his back burned. It wasn't a twinge, a little thing. Just a reminder. It was fire, a wild animal clawing.
He had to bite his lip to hold in a cry.
He wouldn't cry, he wouldn't scream, he wouldn't make a noise. Because he was Sam Temple. He was the Hero.
Sam was back in the nuclear power plant, on the floor, weak, sweating, bleeding. Drake stood above him, crowing with malicious, evil glee, whip hand covered in Sam's blood. His back burned like someone had put a blowtorch to it. And he couldn't move. He couldn't do anything. He couldn't fight. If he fought back everyone would die; Drake would set off a nuclear meltdown.
Sam didn't care if he died. He just wanted the pain to end. But if Astrid died, if Little Pete died, and all those kids, it would be on him. He would be at the doors of Heaven, or maybe the gates of Hell, being asked, "Sam Temple, why did you let those three-hundred kids die?"
And his answer would be, "I couldn't take it."
I couldn't take it. Like he was a baby. A child. Not the oldest person in the FAYZ.
The whip struck his marred, ribboned flesh, tearing at what was already ruined. The crack followed by the flash of pain seared his senses, and he could barely hold on.
When would it end? When would it stop?
Drake's hand was on his shoulder.
Except… he hadn't touched him with his hand. It'd just been his whip. And the hand was smaller.
Sam cried out, Astrid materializing in front of him. The cold, sterile steel of the nuclear power plant faded to the background, and Sam was in his bedroom, Astrid over him, face filled with concern, eyes wet with unshed tears.
"Sam?" she asked tentatively.
He screamed and shoved her away, crawling to the far side of his bed, keeping his back firmly against the headboard.
Don't touch me don't touch me, he thought.
Oh god, he couldn't have someone touch him.
He was hot, sweating, absolutely aching from the waves of pain traveling through him.
"Sam, it's okay," Astrid said. "You're here, with me."
He shook his head, pulled away from her, but she sat down anyway.
"Talk to me," she pressed. "Is it Drake?"
"Yeah," Sam said, voice dead and cold.
"Flashback?"
Sam ran his hands through his hair, breathing heavy, trying to get a grip. Pins and needles were in his hands and feet. The whip cracked. He winced, body flinching from the memory of the blow. Even in his bedroom with his girlfriend it felt like Drake was with him.
Drake would always be with him.
It didn't matter that he was dead.
In Sam's head, Drake lived on.
"Is there anything I can do?" Astrid asked, slowly reaching out a hand to him across the bed covers. To Sam's surprise, he let her do it. Their little fingers touched, and a small part of his messed up reality came back.
Drake was dead.
Drake was dead.
Sam moved over to Astrid, putting his forehead against hers, saying, "Just stay with me."
And in the darkness of his room, with her warmth, the whip cracked. Drake smiled.