A/N Whoops. Random two week hiatus was not my intention. Unfortunately, sickness and oncoming midterms and shitty laptops that crap out on me don't give a shit about my intentions. Eh. Enjoy! :) ~Sammy

marble hands, marble toes

Chapter Five

Sam was five and terrified of the thunder and lightning crackling and booming outside when his mama held him close and kissed his cheek and hummed a tune he'd only ever heard from her.

"I'm scared, Mama." He'd said, and his mama smiled.

"There's nothing to be scared of, baby. It's just the rain. The storm can't get you."

"I'm still scared."

She had laughed then, soft and tinkling like the bells above the door in Mr. Blanchett's store.

"Why don't you close your eyes, and try to sleep? I'll sing to you."

He hadn't wanted to, the thunder was loud and the lightning left scary flashes and shadows on his window, and his bed was cold and felt too big; but his mama looked tired, and there were circles under her eyes, and she had almost fallen asleep while they were watching Thunder Cats together after dinner.

So he said "okay mama" and got under his covers and she tucked him in and gave him his stuffed dinosaur and smoothed his hair back behind his ears.

"You'll be okay, baby" his mama said, "it'll all be better in the morning."

000

Sam wakes up to fuzzy thoughts and an ache in his right shoulder.

That was a really fucking weird dream he thinks, and he stretches his arms out and it hits him, sudden and swift, that he can't move.

He opens his eyes, blinks once, twice, thrice, and then swears, loud and vulgar enough to have a nun see stars, because of fucking course he can't see.

He's too busy cursing every goddamn single thing in the existence of damned things to notice the sudden dip in whatever he's lying on, but he definitely notices when there's a hand placed on his arm.

He also totally freaks out and comes close to pissing himself, but that's not important.

The important thing is that he freezes and snaps his mouth shut because he doesn't know much about kidnappers beyond what he saw in Taken, but he does know that cussing them out is not a smart move. Unless you're Liam Neeson, or have a Liam Neeson coming to rescue you. Which he's not, and he doesn't. So. Case in point.

There's a familiar voice shushing him, but all he can hear is the blood rushing in his ears, fast and pounding. His chest is tight and there's funny squiggly lines flashing across his vision, luminescent against the blackness that is all he can see.

He's having a panic attack, he knows, because he paid attention in first-year psych and knows all the signs, but that doesn't help him much because evidently the stopping of panic attacks is not worthy of being included in the syllabus, fucking idiot professors, and he doesn't realise he's laughing, hysterical and breathless, until a hand rubs across his chest, warm and steady.

"Hey, hey, it's okay. Just breathe. Come on Sammy, just breathe. I gotcha. Calm down."

And that voice is deep and reassuring, like a hot cup of tea on a rainy day, all gravel and masculine growl.

He tries to breathe, he really does, and it takes him a minute, but he finally gets air in his lungs, and it's not because that goddamn voice is so fucking soothing, okay? It's not.

"That's it, you got it Sammy. You're okay."

The hand on his chest is still moving, a firm touch pressing circles into him, and it's almost reassuring.

"I'm sorry for tying you up. I just couldn't have you freaking out on me just yet."

"The blindfold?" He asks, because he's an idiot with no brain to mouth filter, and because he's ninety percent sure he can't see because he's blindfolded. The other ten percent is still churning up worst-case-scenarios, so he ignores it.

The man behind the voice huffs, a sad sound, and he's softer when he speaks. "I- I made a bit of a mess of myself, and I didn't want you to see it. It's. It's not pretty."

"Oh. Um. You okay?" And wow did he really just ask that? Smart move, there. Sympathize with your fucking kidnapper. Genius.

Except for how he's still in shock and processing everything and his default in situations with sad people has always been sympathy and this is definitely why he got kidnapped, because he was too nice.

"Yeah. Yeah. I'm fine."

He doesn't sound fine, though, and maybe he should find out weaknesses while he can? For escape purposes, of course. Not because he's a bleeding heart and always has been since the first time he saw a kitten lying half-dead on the street and brought it back home when he was four and was missing two teeth. 'Compassion is for pussies and little girls, you gotta toughen up', says the voice inside his head that sounds like the Drill Sergeant from some TV show he used to watch when he was little. He never liked that character.

He flexes his hands, testing his restraints, and a hand folds over his own.

"Don't. Just, please. Don't." Says the voice. Something pinches at his wrist.

He thinks he should argue, should fight and struggle and bite and scratch and scream and tear his way away to freedom, but his eyes are slipping shut behind the blindfold, and there's a haze crawling into his consciousness.

"It's okay Sammy," says the voice, "it'll all be better in the morning."

A/N Let me know what you thought in a review! :)~Sammy