"Wow, Sam. Wow." You're trying to keep your voice down, but you're failing. "Great. Really great, Sam. How. Fucking. Mature." You can feel the anger bubbling in your chest, you can feel it trying to escape and you decide it would be best for the both of you if you got out of the room as soon as possible. In your haste, you knock your chair over, and as you leave you resist the urge to slam the door on her. You hear a sniffle, followed by a loud obscenity as well as one expertly smothered sob. Her voice cracks the second time she calls out your name. You don't really care right now. You're vaguely aware of the sound of the chair you had tipped being kicked further across the room, and Sam continuing to swear at herself. You really do not care. You do have a bit of a problem, though. Normally you'd shut yourself in your study, but the second last thing you want to be around right now is your overwhelming library. After a few minutes of deliberation, you settle for laying down on the sofa.
You have absolutely no idea how long you've been staring at the ceiling when you finally start to calm down. It's getting dark outside though, and while your stitches are still intact, your side hurts from where you've been tugging and scratching at them. You're still upset, but with a clearer head, you feel that what happened was at least partially your fault. You lashed out, and Sam lashed back. You both acted like children throwing temper tantrums, and frankly, you're a little embarrassed. You want to go to Sam but the last remains of your anger are holding you back, along with some warped sense of dignity.
In the end, you don't have to get up. It's not much longer before you hear soft steps approaching you. "Lara?" You throw your hand up, so she can see it over the back of the sofa. "Oh, thank God, you're-" You really wish she would stop cutting herself off every time that she's about to tell you that you're something, but you try not to think about it as you flail your hand around in an attempt to call her over. It works, and you hear her footsteps get closer.
She's a bit of a mess. She's obviously been crying. You didn't hear her, but it doesn't look like it was soft, delicate crying, either. "C'mere." The sofa isn't really large enough for both of you, but she joins you anyway and ends up partially beside you, partially on top of you. You wrap an arm around her after she buries her face in the crook of your neck.
Your shoulder muffles her voice. "You're here." A rather astute observation on her part.
"Yeah, I'm… where else would I be?" You run a hand through her hair. "Well, maybe in the study. Or I could have been in the bathroom, I suppose."
"No, you're here."
She can't see your brow crease in confusion, so after a moment's silence you tell her, "I am. I'm right here, yeah?" This prompts a hiccup, and you can feel her nod. You aren't sure what this is about, but you think that maybe you've said the right thing. Even though you aren't one hundred percent positive that you did, you ignore it for the moment and move on. You need to say a few other things, even though they might not be the most pleasant. "Sam, what you did, that wasn't alright." You feel her stiffen and she goes completely still. "Hey. Relax." You stroke her hair again, and even though it's futile, you try to make eye contact. "Sam, what I did wasn't okay either. We can't just hurt each other to avoid getting hurt ourselves. Even if it's an unintentional reaction." That must have been something she needed to hear, because you feel her settle down slightly. "Still," you make yourself tell her before you change your mind, "We'll go out tomorrow."
She immediately gets upset again. "No. No no no Lara you don't have to we don't have we can reorder it you don't have to got out just because I'm a fucking asshole you don't have to Lara I'm sorry I am I really am I'm such a fucking-"
You shush her. "You were mad at me, because I was being an asshole first. You might have overreacted slightly." She huffs. "Really Sam, it's okay. We just need to try not to freak out on each other next time."
"You aren't mad at me?" The slight crack in her voice is giving her away again, and phantom hand decides it's a good time to show up and reach into your chest once more.
"I was. I still am, though not nearly as much." Her faces presses closer against you. "But I forgive you." No response. "You heard me, right? I forgive you." A stifled whimper escapes her. "And we'll go buy some kind of excessively elaborate sofa tomorrow. I'll try to… I can do it. We can do it."
"'Kay." She shifts into a slightly more comfortable position.
You don't want to bring it up, but you force yourself to. "One last thing, okay? You're probably right, you know." Silence again. "I just want you to know that. Just because I lost it on you doesn't mean I don't agree. It just means that… I don't know. That I'm scared, I guess." More silence. "But I just want to ask you; I was right too, wasn't I?"
After even more silence, she makes a noise that you consider to be an agreement. "Sam, you don't have to pretend with me. Not anymore, at least. Please?"
That breaks the dam and she's done with holding it in now. You find your positions have reversed as she's the one breaking down for once. You don't know exactly what to do, other than lay there and hold her as she sobs into you. It comes out strangled, between whimpers, but you hear her say it one more time. "You're here."
You still don't understand so you just keep your arms wrapped tight around her until her crying comes to end. Listening to her crushed you, the way she was crying, and you have no idea how long she's been holding herself together, though it was most likely from the start. Holding herself together for your benefit, probably. You're angry at yourself now, for doing this to her. You don't say anything though, now is not the time. The way she was crying though, it was very clear that it was about more than what just happened. So, although she never actually said anything out loud, she has at least somewhat admitted that she isn't as okay as she's been acting. But she's not going to want to talk about anything right now, and you do your best to not think about it, instead trying to focus solely on her in this moment. She doesn't say or do much of anything at all, and you feel it best to simply mimic her. Again, you lose track of time, and the only reason you eventually roll Sam away from you is to allow you to get up to go to bed.
When the two of you finally do make it to bed, you don't need Sam to prompt you to take any painkillers. She does seem concerned that you're still apparently in enough pain that you need them, but she doesn't speak up. You know you're treading on dangerous water, but you don't care at the moment. All that's important to you right now is that you have a peaceful sleep. Sam takes longer than usual to settle down but once she's finally comfortable, pressed tight against your back with her arm clinging you tighter than normal, you close your eyes. And you fall into a blissfully quiet sleep.
When morning rolls around, Sam is back to being her perky self (or at least seems to be), informing you that she's decided that you're going to make a day out of this shopping trip, and she's forbidden you from cooking breakfast. Not that she's going to do it either. You were in the bathroom, brushing your teeth when she suddenly appeared behind you and made the announcement. "Get your butt moving, sweetie, and buckle up," You had a strange feeling of role reversal, as previously, you were almost always the one ready and dressed and trying to hurry Sam up. "We're going for pancakes!"
You are now currently buckled up, and you're feeling good about that as Sam weaves through traffic, trying to find a place to flip around after missing the turn into her chosen diner. You wish she'd keep going and stop at, well, almost anywhere else. The pancakes at that place are almost as bad as Sam's volcanic toast. But if you have to eat them, it's best to just get it over with, so you urge her to stay in one lane while pointing desperately at a gas station with a large enough parking lot for her to turn around in. The finger you're using to point trails behind you and you watch helplessly out the window as she drives past. She tells you that you didn't point it out quick enough. You contemplate throwing yourself out of the car. You've survived a hell of a lot worse.
Eventually, Sam spots a different diner, one advertising "a cherry pie that'll kill you", and you hear a horn honk as she takes a sharp turn to pull into it's parking lot, original food venue apparently forgotten. Before you get out of the car, she looks over at you and asks you one more time, "Are you absolutely sure?" It's vague, but you know she's asking if you're sure that you want to try this. You actually aren't sure if you are, but the only way to find out is to try, and you nod as you look out the window.
The place is nearly empty when you walk in, and a wave of relief washes over you. You happily find out that the food is also drastically better than what you would have forced down had Sam not missed her turn. The two of you keep up the best banter possible, given the anxiety looming over you. It actually goes alright, the lack of customers helps you relax enough to keep a conversation going. While you pay, you realize that neither of you actually tried the pie. Before you leave, Sam can't stop herself from thanking the waitress for making a damn fine cup of coffee. They share a laugh and you groan at her as you walk out the door.
After a relatively short drive, Sam parks the car in the lot of the first furniture store that catches her eye. You open your door to get out of the vehicle, but find you can only push it so far before you'd bash the van that's in the stall beside you. Luckily, Sam didn't manage to park very straight and the car swings away from the van in your favour, and you manage to squeeze out. Maybe you can convince her that driving is a form of exercise that you are fully able to participate in now.
Despite the fact that it's an unusually warm, bright day, you've chosen to wear your oversized, and now stylishly bleached hoodie. For some reason, something about it makes you feel more comfortable about being outside of the house. When you first pulled it on, you assumed that Sam would march you right back into the bedroom and put you into something that was at least a little cleaner. She did raise an eyebrow at you, and you aren't sure if you might have reacted in some way that she noticed, because she followed up by shrugging at you. She smiled like she was proud of something (what that might be, you have no idea), and gestured for you to go first.
That had eased the slightest amount of the fear that had settled in your stomach, and although Sam's driving was frustrating and slightly frightening in a different manner, the familiarity of it paired with the arguing that resulted from it helped settle you further. At the diner, your shoulders had relaxed for the first time. But now, in front of the furniture store in the middle of a long row of busy shops, you can't take a deep breath anymore. Sam stops walking to the store when she realizes you haven't been following. She comes back to you and takes hold of one of your hands. "You trust me, right?"
You'd trust her with your life. Still, you find yourself pulling your hand away to tug your hood up and over your head. Like the rest of the sweater, it's far too large for you and it hangs almost low enough to obscure your vision. You don't understand why it makes you feel slightly better, but it does and you reach back down to reclaim Sam's hand.
She has to peek forward to see past your hood to your face. She bumps lightly against your shoulder. "I've got you, okay?"
Your throat is dry and you swallow in an attempt to fix that. You trust her. You trust her. She'll keep you safe. You trust her. You trust her and you take the first step forward, lightly tugging her along with you. By the time you reach the building, you're hyper aware of every person within a reasonable radius of you. You hear music coming from inside the store and through the tinted glass you see all the other people who've decided to shop today. Once again you're overwhelmed, and you stop short of opening the door. Sam catches herself and, not nearly as suddenly as you, also stops walking. Everybody around you must think you're a complete head case, the way you keep stopping and standing still and staring vacantly ahead of you. Now you're anxious and self conscious. Sam puts an arm around your shoulder and pulls you to the side, so a family can pass by you and enter the store. You don't know if you can go in there, but at the same time, standing out in the open is almost worse. The sidewalk is crowded, and even though you've stood to the side, people occasionally bump into you. It takes all your control to not react in any way other than accepting the apologies thrown at you as the offenders pass by. It's enough of a reflex that you can still do it as you zone out and the scenery becomes blurry. People still bump into you, and all they are are blurs, but your breathing is speeding up at the same rate that your control is diminishing.
At some point Sam must have stepped in front of you, because after you blink a few times in an attempt to make everything seem less blurry, you find yourself face to face with her. She's holding your hand and you realize she's pulling it away from your hip, where it had been desperately searching for your axe. "Lara, are you listening? Are you, uh, are you here?" You pull your hand out of hers as soon as you realize what's happening and you stare at it, as if it'll explain itself to you. "Lara?"
You briefly close your eyes, and attempt a deep breath. You give up on getting any answers from your hand, and use it to rub at your forehead instead. "Yeah, I'm- I am." You aren't sure how long you were… gone. It couldn't have been too terribly long, if it had been, Sam would probably be a lot less composed.
"Okay. Keep listening. I know this is tough. I had a rough time handling being in crowds the first few times I went out by myself." Your stomach twists, because it's your fault that she had to go out to begin with, inevitably to places where she would be completely surrounded by strangers, strangers who were probably asking questions and invading privacy. And it's even more your fault that she had to go alone. Although your stomach is now twisted, Sam's voice is calming you enough that you start to breathe regularly again. "I'm not going to lie to you right now. All this," she gestures around her, "is still hard to deal with. But you aren't going to magically be able to assimilate if you stay inside all day, every day. I'm a little ahead of you, but we can still work on this together." She's just verbally admitted to you that she's anxious too, which is technically more than you got out of her yesterday. That admission is what gives you the courage to step forward into the store. If she can step forward enough to tell you, out loud, even just the smallest hint that she's not as okay as she's pretending to be, then you can damn well step forward into the crowd and pick out a sofa with her. Probably.
You did step into the crowd, and nervously walked around the store for what felt like an eternity. You never ended up picking out a sofa. Not that you didn't like any of them, there were a variety of good choices. Sam, on the other hand, didn't care for any of them and insisted on keeping the search going. You agree, because you don't know what else you can say, and then fail at snatching the car keys from her hand. While waiting for traffic to slow enough to allow her to turn out of the parking lot, you look over at her and watch her fingers rapidly tap against the steering wheel. They're taping at almost the same speed that she's bouncing her free leg, and you suspect the only reason that you aren't driving home with a receipt and delivery slip is because she wants to keep you out for as long as you can handle. You appreciate that (you think), but you also worry about how she's feeling. She's been out of the house more than you, that much is obvious, but you don't know how much of that time was spent in a large crowd. But you know that if you ask her, she'd tell you that she's absolutely fine, so you don't bother. While you wonder how you never noticed her stress about leaving the house before, your right hand scratches and taps at your side.
Sam exits the car a moment before you do, as you're busy pulling at your hood, securing it over you head. The weather really is quite warm and you'd rather be wearing something lighter, but you've figured out that the hoodie is barrier. The smallest barrier you could put up, probably, but a barrier nonetheless. Sam must have figured that out far earlier, and you assume that's the reason she didn't redress you. You want to thank her, but you're standing in an unfortunately dingy underground lot, and it doesn't seem the time or place to bring it up.
As well as that, you're currently occupied with psyching yourself up to wander through another shop. Larry's Discount Goods doesn't seem to be the most intimidating place, but you haven't had a chance to look in, thanks to your parking situation. When Sam had seen the sign that Larry carried discounted furniture, she told you that it was to be the next stop. You've no idea why. You don't think Sam has ever set foot in a store that carries the word "discount" in its name.
The store is just as unfortunately dingy as the parking lot was, and, possibly because of that fact, is quite empty. It also carries some of the most hideous items you've ever laid eyes on. You're absorbed in staring at an atrocious rainbow coloured zebra print footstool, and you jump when Sam speaks. "Wanna see if that one's any good?" She's jabbing her thumb over her shoulder at a seafoam green corduroy sofa, and you think you know now how you ended up in Larry's Discount Goods.
"Sure," you agree, looking back to the footstool. "Staring at this is almost like staring into some twisted abyss. But I can't seem to look away."
She laughs, a genuine laugh, and makes a show of forcing you away from the zebra abyss. As she pushes you towards the godawful corduroy, you decide that it's almost as bad. "I think this might be stuck only one circle of furniture hell up from that footstool."
"Just close your eyes if you can't appreciate this aesthetic. We're looking for comfort." You think that she's being sincere about the comfort bit, but you aren't completely positive that she's talking about sofas anymore.
Larry doesn't seem much bothered by the fact that the two of you have been sitting far long than needed to test a sofa. So you stay on the corduroy, Sam leaning against you while your right hand traces patterns in the offensive material. Other than the drama spewing from the soap opera that Larry's invested in, the store is pretty quiet. The pair of you are mostly quiet too. After you brush away the swirly pattern you created on the cushion beside you, you shift so you're leaning back against Sam as much as she's leaning on you. "Hey, Sam?" She pokes you with her elbow. "Thank you."
"Hm?" She's playing with you. She knows exactly what you mean.
"For stopping here." She knew everything here would be rubbish, and she knew that it'd be fairly vacant because of that. "To let me take a break. For not pushing me too hard."
She looks at you with a perplexed expression that is noticeably forced. "Lara Croft, I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about." If that answer wasn't enough to give her away, the apology you see in her eyes certainly is. You knew you needed to be pushed out of the house, as did she. But you both also know that she shouldn't have shoved you out the way she did, just to spite you for your overly hostile outburst.
You don't feel the need to respond, and the sounds of Larry's show fade away as you sit in completely comfortable silence for possibly the first time since Yamatai. It's only when you make that observation that you recognize the amount of silence the two of you have shared lately. If you had some way of keeping track, you're sure that you'd find that you've talked more in the past few days than the past few weeks.
Sam breaks the silence about ten minutes later, when she pulls you up off the couch. "Y'know, nothing in here is catching my eye. Let's go somewhere else?"
You're not going to point out that she barely looked through a quarter of the merchandise. She might actually make you browse around some more if you do mention it. "I don't know," You try to keep the corner of your mouth from twitching up. "I think that zebra print is calling to me." Sam doesn't restrain her smirk, and lightly flicks you in the middle of your forehead before turning to leave the store.
Sam slows the car as she turns into the parking lot of your next stop, a rather busy big name chain store. Stepping out of the car, and into the bright sun, you think that you preferred the dinginess of Larry's. You're tugging at your hood again when you feel Sam's hand over your own. Her grip is just tight enough to allow her to bring your hand back down to your side. She reaches into the hood to brush some hair from your face, and nods reassuringly at you. Your gaze scans the parking lot, trying to get an idea of the number of people surrounding you and observing their grouping. When you try to take a deep breath, it sticks in your throat and ruins your stoicism, but Sam stops to reassure you again. "You can do this." You aren't sure that you agree with her, but you nod back anyway.
Five minutes and one aisle after reaching the furniture section, Sam is, not at all delicately, dropping herself onto a sofa that in your opinion, is a completely dreadful shade of something resembling mauve. You hiss at her. "Sam!" She looks at you, not recognizing, or perhaps not caring, that throwing yourself at the sample furniture is really not so acceptable, even if that's how she'd approach it at home. You glance around, sure that you've attracted unwanted attention. Nobody seems to even be looking your way, but you can still feel eyes watching you.
Ignoring your admonishment, she pats the cushion beside her. "How do you feel about leather?" You roll your shoulders in an attempt to loosen them, and you're quite sure that you'd buy a sofa made of barbed wire if it meant you could leave right now. Sam notices your obvious discomfort, and pats the cushion again. "Sit?" You do, although the amount of movement and sound surrounding you prevents you from even coming close to the level of relaxation you felt at Larry's. Sam notices that you're sitting stiff as a board and begins a steady monologue, if only because you can't seem to speak back. "Well, okay, let me rephrase that. How do you feel about pleather? I'm pretty sure this isn't actually leather. This tag here shows a bunch of colours, which is nice, because I am not feeling this purpley crap at all. I'm not sure if it's quite squishy enough though, feel how pointy these arms are." While she's poking at the arm of the sofa, she looks over to see you still sitting stiffly. You've at least willed yourself to rest your hand on the supposedly unsuitable arm of the sofa, though it's not doing much other than resting there. It's your eyes that are doing all the work, flicking back and forth to follow other shoppers. She looks back to the tags. "Says here that it's stuffed with 100% recycled…" Without dropping the tag, she looks back to you. "Uh, recycled stuffing stuff. I guess that's environmentally friendly but it doesn't actually say what the stuff is and," Your hand has moved from the armrest to your stomach. "Lara?"
You startle slightly at your name and when you do, your hand hits your side just hard enough for you to notice, and you immediately pull it back to the armrest. You don't miss how Sam's eyes dart from your hand to your eyes as you refocus your vision on her. You try not to consider if she's interpreted anything, and instead work on finding at least one syllable to respond with. "Yuh?" A single syllable non-word is better than absolutely nothing, you hope. Sam frowns. Maybe it wasn't.
"Next aisle?" She suggests as she stands up and holds her hand out to help you do the same. You desperately, and tightly, grasp her hand, and you don't let go even after standing up. Sam doesn't start towards the next aisle immediately, and it looks like she's trying to make a decision. It's not long before she smiles at you and juts her head towards the second aisle. Her smile does a pretty good job of hiding her concern, you judge.
You've travelled two more aisles before Sam stops to properly evaluate another sofa. "What about this?" It's a much more reasonable colour this time, and not leather. Or pleather. She seems a little more serious now. You shrug, and try your hardest to focus on her. You're failing, and Sam watches as your eyes dash around while you almost compulsively attempt to keep tabs on everybody around you. Your hand is pre-emptively twitching against your thigh, where a gun should be holstered. "Actually, y'know what? I have to pee. Help me find the toilets?" Still looking at everybody but her, you absently nod in agreement. The gun is a lost cause and honestly rather unnecessary, you try to tell yourself, but you want it just the same. You give up on the gun and instead watch for exit routes as Sam weaves her way to the washroom.
You're starting to feel a headache coming on as Sam pushes the restroom door open, and then drags you into a stall with her. There's only a few other occupants, which is much less overwhelming, although there are far less ways to leave. "Lara." She pushes your hood down, which makes you inhale sharply. You want that shielding back, however small it is. "Lara, look at me." You do, even if your eyes are slightly glazed. "You're okay. I know it's really busy in here, but everybody out there is just looking to shop. They aren't going to… you don't need to be watching constantly. Or, hrm, you don't need," She lifts her hand and pretends to shoot a gun. "You don't have to- they're all just shopping." You know that, rationally, but your brain doesn't seem to want you to be rational right now. "We started out early enough to beat the crowds, but now… fuck, I wasn't thinking. Do you want to leave?" You do. You don't. You really really do. But you don't. You'd love to. But not really.
"I…" You're not sure how to answer. You decide not to answer her question, but to instead tell her the one thing you do know. "I don't want to disappoint you."
"God, Lara, you aren't-" She once again doesn't finish telling you what you aren't, which would worry you more if you weren't so occupied with counting the footsteps that follow every time the washroom door opens. "C'mon, let's get out of here." She pulls your hood back over your head and gives it a little tug. "What kinda food should we pick up on the way home?"
When you enter your flat, you walk past Sam and straight into the kitchen, depositing the greasy bag of imitation Mexican food on the counter. You proceed to stand still, staring down at your feet, your hand pulling at the material of your hoodie that's covering your wound. Things had been going kind of okay, but then you completely checked out and ruined the day. You hear Sam enter the room, but you don't bother looking up at her. You've not spoken since Sam led you to the car, despite her best efforts to get you to say something, anything. You can only think of one thing to say, and at this point, you don't care if she yells at you. "I'm sorry."
Sam doesn't respond right away, and a minute later you're staring at two pairs of feet instead of just one. "Lara, sweetie," she gently tilts your chin up so that she can see your eyes. You don't resist, but you don't meet her gaze either. "Why are you sorry?"
You shift your weight to one foot. Then to the other. "I couldn't do it."
"Sure you could. You were doing it. But you are aware that you can't do it all at once, right? You were great. I am not disappointed in you." She steps sideways, barely, just enough to try to meet your eyes. She would have, if you hadn't averted them immediately.
"We didn't buy a new sofa." You try to look back down, but her fingers are still under your chin.
"So what? We're making a fashion statement." You can hear a smile in her voice, but you don't understand why. "Lara, please look at me." It's almost painful to do so, but you force yourself. "You have nothing to apologize for. That was literally your first go. You remember the day after I slept on the sofa? How I was late coming home?" You do. You remember how worried you were. "Do you know why I was late? I didn't tell you because, well, because we weren't telling each other anything at that point. But I was late because I had to lock myself in a bathroom, there were so many people everywhere, and I was so messed up from talking about Yamatai that I had to lock myself in a bathroom. Like, the bathroom, not just a stall. I think I was in there for at least forty-five minutes before somebody called the janitor to open up the door." She reaches up with the hand that isn't under your chin, and pushes your hood down again. "There were a lot of people in that store, I get it, and it's okay. I wasn't completely comfortable being there either, I don't think you noticed that. But I wasn't." You think back a bit and recognize the sofa lunge as an attempt to act normal. "This is going to take us time, alright? Don't you dare think you disappointed me, Lara." She's smiling at you. "I'm proud of you. I'm so proud of you right now."
Your voice is a little shaky. "Why?"
"Why? You came out with me. You didn't even try to back out of it. Sweetie, I was proud of you the moment you stepped out of the house with me, even though you were wearing this monstrosity." She tugs at your hoodie, clarifying what the monstrosity is. You don't notice that she's tugging at the same spot that you were, just as you didn't notice that she softly pushed your arm down so that you would stop your own tugging.
You do however, understand now what that proud smile this morning was about. "I was just making a fashion statement." There's a ghost of a smile on your lips, and though you're still speaking quietly, there's the shakiness has left your voice.
"You were, huh? Should we go big and just splatter bleach everything?" The ghost has disappeared and your smile is small, but real. "You kicked ass today, Lara, and I'm proud of you."
The two of you stare at each other for a moment, as your smile grows wider. You're about to respond when she kisses you, the hand that's still grasping your hoodie pulling you forward slightly. It takes a moment to register, but when it does, you reciprocate. It's short and gentle, and it's the first time in weeks that it's felt right.
After she pulls away, she reaches past you and grabs the take-out bag. "So," She has a huge grin on her face, which you assume is mirroring yours. "You wanna go buy some bleach? Or should we go ruin my keyboard with crumbs and grease while we spend too much money on the internet?"
You roll your eyes at her, she shrugs in response, and after you grab some plates, you start pushing her towards the bedroom, where her laptop is still plugged in.
Later, as you're inexplicably browsing the home appliance department of Amazon, you remember the conversation that Sam might not. Even if she does, you want to say it again anyway. You forget that you've got a mouthful of quesadilla, and it comes out muddy, "Sham? I luff yoo."
She doesn't bother containing her laughter. "Lara, despite your terrible table manners, I think I love you too." She's still laughing as she shoves some fries into your mouth, and even though you're coughing your way through the mouthful of food, you start laughing with her. It feels almost foreign, but it also feels genuine. It feels good, and the two of you keep laughing throughout the night, clicking through pages of polkadot blenders, impractical modern art bedframes, and weird leg shaped lamps.
self help might help when it makes us laugh
hold up did they get to be happy for a minute there
So I think I might do the whole Conversation Redux one shot thing with Sam's POV, but I'm not going to post it immediately, because I fucking love to backtrack and add little details in (comic books have taught me the art of the retcon). Might be a few details that would make more sense after a few more chapters of this. Maybe it'll end up being multiple chapters of Sam's POV throughout this.
Pointless story time, the zebra footstool was inspired by some curtains I have in my bedroom. I was at Walmart, I just wanted something cheap to block any light from ever entering my room, and now I have beautiful tri-tone zebra print curtains. They're white, bright blue, and really bright pink.
Coming soon: The Flushing